A Thousand Words...

We all know those lesbian couples who look like sisters…twins…or at least escapees from the same fashion-cult. They share a wardrobe, cut each others’ hair, and perhaps use the very same tube of heavy black eye-liner. They may be strikingly thin Shane-alikes, tiny Tegans and sister-Saras, preppie-Patties, leather-Lauras, or even twin granola-girls. I’ve known one or two American Eagle-ettes to pair up in a pair of coordinating plaid pants. Needless to say, when taken to extremes, this phenomenon can be quite disconcerting.

However, the flipside to this is also dangerous. When two parties are distinctly dissimilar, the dangerous inclination to divide them into a hierarchical dualism (that’s fancy talk for: one good one bad, one dark one light, one butch one fem. Etc.) lurks around every corner. In an age where we find ourselves in rebellion of the hetero-focused gender roles, those ancient rules of the patriarchy: one of us must be a strong, protective provider (with short hair); one must be a soft, feminine, nurturer (with long hair), we take on the unwieldy task of defining our own roles within the relationship. Herein the danger lies! Aside from the simple stuff, the nuts and bolts of who Swiffers and who sweeps, which one warms the leftovers and which one wipes the plates—we are further obliged to define our Selves: our manners of presentation, levels of sarcasm, affection, and even enthusiasm, to in order to understand the balance of the relationship.

I have an aesthetic. I have a style of dress, a love of decorating, and a passion for plates well-composed of beautiful foods. My partner, the professional designer, has a very different look—and equally strong opinions. The inclination here would be to push them in opposite directions—since they are superficially divergent to begin with. Mine is seemingly more conservative, but push me in that direction and I lose that tiny edge which makes my look fun. Hers is bright & poppy, but push it a step further and it’s equally boring. I try very hard not to minimize the complexity of her taste. I admire the subtle details in her bright, bold choices. And I cling to the happy detours off of my seemingly predictable path. No matter how it looks to the outside, I know my style, my taste, my limits—and she, in turn, hers. One style is not better than the other, one is not more womanly than the other, one is not more fashionable than the other. The two styles are just different. Very different. Sometimes I find it challenging to adjust my level of dress to coordinate with hers—not in a matchy-matchy ‘Same-sies--The Musical’ kind of way, but in ‘yes, she’s with me and we’re headed to the same place’ kind of way. I just feel better when we’re somewhat coordinated.

I suppose I feel obligated to communicate to the world that we are a couple—to say that she’s not my sister, she’s not my friend, she’s my lady. I think this is why it’s so important to me to make visual sense. As my first relationship where both parties are out of the closet, I want to shout it from the roof-tops that I’m in love with this woman and that she loves me too. I want the world to understand this kind of female-female relationship and treat us with the same respect they would a hetero couple. I want to do my part to spread love and understanding until hopefully we are seen as equals, and enjoy the same equal rights all over this great country of ours. And the way I see it, I could either walk around in a never-ending diatribe of the specific feelings I have for my girlfriend, or I could save myself a thousand words and do it visually...




Happy Holidays,
AN

"My Cat is a Person"

My girlfriend is funny, seriously...or perhaps seriously funny. She has a Siamese "daughter" whom I have now "adopted" as part of our living arrangement. This is a video the two of us made, asking for help, trying to solve a domestic dispute over whether or not her cat is indeed a person--we were trying to work it out before we moved in together (so this video is not exactly new, but the disagreement remains fresh...every damn day.) I asked if I could turn it over to the readers at PWA... to see if there are any other "mothers" out there who feel this way about their six-pound, furry kin.



Care to weigh in?

ADDICTionary

I may have an addictive personality.

Addiction (n.) --the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

Cleaning, cooking, laughing, writing, thinking, drinking, talking, caffeinating, over-debating, hyphenating, and great-dating are all PASSIONS of mine. Recently, I painted my entire apartment in 4 days, after work, by myself. 7 different kinds of paint, 15 walls, 1 ladder, and one crazy-pants writer made for a colorful, beautiful space where I could finally settle back into new/old New York life. Could I have stretched the move-in process out over a few weeks? Sure. Could I have consulted a decorator, hired a painter, and waited for a final product? Of course. But would I have had the crazy rush that comes with obsessing over a project, that getting addicted to a new venture—filling my every moment, my every thought with one solitary goal? Probs not. Hmmm. Maybe it’s not addictive so much as obsessive…

Obsess (v.)--to dominate or preoccupy the thoughts, feelings, or desires of (a person); beset, trouble, or haunt persistently or abnormally.

I’ve been known to write obsessively. When I've gone on a creative bender, I've needed my laptop with me at all times. I’ve written on the subway, in parks, on my coffee-break, every day, every hour, every moment. I can cook in the same fashion. There have been weekends when I don’t leave the house except for one big trip to the grocery store. I’ll make meal after meal and put them into the freezer for weeks to come. I’ll make pots of soup and freeze them in individual sized-baggies. It's as if I'm readying myself for hibernation, perhaps in preparation for a writing binge. I have been in exercise-phases of my life where I'd leave work after a long day, gone for runs in Central Park for an hour, then walked the 5 miles from my office to my home, only to change clothes and head out to a yoga class. Maybe I’m just crazy.

Crazy: mentally deranged; demented; insane; senseless; impractical; totally unsound: a crazy scheme; Informal. intensely enthusiastic; passionately excited

I’m prone to over-indulgence in almost any arena I enjoy. There are days when I think I’m an alcoholic, an overeater, an over-spender, an over-thinker. Sometimes a simple thought (like one I recently heard about the tornado of germs that explodes into your breathing space if you flush BEFORE you put the toilet seat down) will fester in my head for days at a time until it becomes a part of me like a new, unwanted limb and I force myself to amputate it and leave it by the side of the road. Literally, I’ll come to a street corner and I’ll think to myself, I should leave that thought here, otherwise, I’ll carry it the rest of my life. Maybe I’m addicted to obsessive, crazy thoughts. Or perhaps the diagnonsense is merely PASSION. I am, if nothing else, a passionate individual.

Passion (n.)--powerful or compelling emotion or feeling; a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything; strong sexual desire; lust

Now, speaking of PASSION--brace yourself kiddies, this next part is for grown-ups --something I like, a lot, is sex. But, and you can call me crazy (again, obviously I will own it), I hold sex apart from things like alcohol, drugs, etc. I keep hearing the term “sex addiction” in the media. I don’t see sex as a vice. I think sex is awesome. I think people should have tons of it! Be safe, be honest, and if you want to have multiple partners, be single!

Of course there may be a few out there who have a serious psychological issue, but by and large, I think most of these people headed into sex-rehab are addicted to being a-holes. Unfortunately, there’s no a-hole rehab (yet). So these idiots are blaming sex. I’d like to apologize to sex and say some of us love and respect you very much. Thanks for all the good times, keep ‘em comin!

sex-positive (or, alternately sex-affirmative) societal view of sexual expression as essentially good and healthy

Keepin' It Clean

My mom worked full time, over-time, all the time, from the time I was about 3 weeks old until I was 14 when she retired. As a result, my formative years were spent under the guidance and tutelage of many mothers. My friends’ moms, the neighbor ladies, the women my mother worked with—I called them my ‘fairy godmothers.’ Many of these wonderful wonderful women were…how we say…obsessive-compulsive, anal-retentive clean-freaks. I once saw a friend berated for leaving her shoes on the ground next to the closet door instead of tucking them inside the closet itself. “This place is a mess!” Her mother said as she entered the room. My eyes scanned the space to discover a perfectly made bed, neat drawers, closed, their contents concealed, and a desk where each paper was filed in folders placed perfectly at the top right corner. Finally, my eyes followed her mom’s to the carpeted floor where the two perfect squeaky-white sneakers awaited their final resting place in the closet. Huzzah.

I grew up in a mostly Italian neighborhood in South Jersey, where plastic furniture covers were not uncommon. As kids, we were often instructed not to “decorate the floor” with our toys and clothes. Before I even entered school, I could tell the difference between the fancy towels, and the towels I was allowed to dry my hands on. And God forbid a crumb found its way out of a kitchen. Many of us were not allowed to eat outside the kitchen. There were tons of rules about where and what was allowed to be consumed—not to mention by whom. For instance my dad was allowed to eat coffee-cake standing over the sink but my brother and I had to get a paper towel and sit at the counter. Popcorn was allowed in the living room but only on movie night, Sunday (and only because the cleaning lady came on Monday).

In the first years on my own I discovered that I’m a messy cook. I’ll confess I don’t always hang up my clothes right away. And some of my things land on the ground when I toss them at my hamper. But eventually, I always get around to cleaning…and cleaning…and cleaning… And herein the portal to crazytown lies. Recently, I’ve noticed an escalation in my obsessive behavior. I don’t know if it’s the recent move to cohabitate with my girlfriend, the nice new digs, or a severe case of creative deprivation (I’m going through an incredibly uninspired, uninspiring period right now)—but I have been obsessing. Crumbs give me rage. My own hair on the bathroom floor brings me to my knees with a Swiffer in hand. I’ve started emptying trash cans compulsively, re-washing ‘clean’ dishes, and Windexing EVERYTHING. I Windexed the floor last night. I washed base-boards last week. I scrubbed the tops of my cabinets with bleach and a scrub brush. And it never ends. Every single day, I track more and more dirt into the apartment. I cook all the time, so the stove is always in need of a wiping. And my lovely girlfriend came with a lovely cat—who, though lovely, sheds worse than I do. And so I clean.

Truthfully, the apartment looks fantastic. Every surface shines. The dishes sparkle. It smells like a little slice of citrus heaven. I should really take a chill pill and relax. I should direct this energy to something more productive, like my writing. And mellow out about the mess. This cool, calm point of view occurred to me recently, when I realized how serious my problem is. What awakened me from my phase of cleaning fury? Sheets. I put clean sheets on the bed. I’d rather not discuss what happened, or rather, what didn’t happen after that. And after 6 months of a long-distance relationship and only one month of cohabitating with my girlfriend, there’s no way my obsession with cleanliness should override my obsession with…well...dirtiness. Since then, I have of course made up for this horrible mix-up of priority, and I have of course been forgiven by my lady.

I have not yet forgiven myself though, for turning into a suburban, hetero, mother of 4 from the greater Cherry Hill area—all before I’ve seen my prime. I used to obsess over the minutia of my blogs. I used to pour over sentence structure for hours upon hours. Seriously, go back, take a look at some of the earlier work, it wreaks of OCD. My apartment, in those days, was a mess. Again, I think my priorities have skewed. I need to clean up my own act, and get my creative life in order. Maybe then I won’t feel the need to clean up my physical space so compulsively. Maybe I should teach all my fairy godmothers how to blog. I’d bet their husbands would thank me.

Zombie Love

I’ve never had much enthusiasm for the Halloween season. Frankly, I’m a big weenie. The last ‘scary’ movie I saw was Men in Black—and I couldn’t sleep for a week. Granted, I grew up in a household where I was mocked and tortured for this lack of courage, and when things got intense on any given Rosanne Halloween special, Casper rerun, or Scooby Doo episode, I’d politely excuse myself from Family TV time and cower in the bathroom. On one special occasion, I opened the door after what I deemed a reasonable period of time only to find that all the lights in the house had been turned off, in addition to the big screen TV, and my family was missing.

“Guys?” I said tentatively as I edged my way out into the hall. I kept one foot on the bathroom tile and my hand firmly stuck to the on-switched light in the room behind me. Gulp. “Guys???”

For the next ninety seconds, I screamed as each family member jumped out from behind a piece of furniture with flashlights under their faces.

Laughing hysterically, they turned on the main lights and proceeded to high-five each other as I tried some creative breathing techniques in order to reduce my sky-high blood-pressure at the ripe young age of 12.

This, among other horrifying experiences involving puppets, long hikes in the moonlit woods, and a family with a sick sense of humor have groomed me for disdain in this difficult time of year I must endure until the happy time of Turkeys and Santa rounds the calendar.

What could possibly change this? Love. Of course, sweet sadistic love.

A friend recently told this tale of her darling 2 year-old daughter. “On our way to the zoo the other day, my little one says to me ‘I’m so excited for Halloween…But I’m a little scared of Christmas…’” --This, I imagine, is the exact sentiment my girlfriend probably exhibited at a preschool age.

And because I expect we’ll be decking the halls and trimming the trees come December (when, I hope, my lady will return to NYC)—I am head to Chicago tonight to spook her properly when she arrives home from a business trip tomorrow. (She’s on a 22 hour flight right now, so this post won’t give it away).

After a week-long trip, and an epic flight, my lady friend will return home quite exhausted only to find a homicidal note taped to her door. The door will be slightly ajar, and furniture will be over-tuned. When she gets to the bedroom, my bloody ‘corpse’ will be waiting for her in a state of disarray. She will swoon.

Ah sweet zombie love--makin my family proud!

Happy Halloween friends!!!

Coming Clean

I have a confession to make, dear reader. I have been avoiding you. As I said to a friend recently, “I can’t lie to you. So, as long as I’m lying to myself, I have to avoid you.” I feel similarly about my dear sweet readers. I cannot lie to you. I want each entry to be filled with truths and tales of fun and fabulous places, big and brilliant ideas, and one wild, wonderful woman—all from a connected, inspired point of view.

There’s just one problem: I can do NONE of these things in Chicago.

Even my wild, wonderful woman is not herself in this frigid, Midwestern town. The sidewalks are as dead as the heart of this city. The people are as frigid as the temperature. The shops, the restaurants, the activities there are so lackluster, it makes one wonder how comedic geniuses like Alec Baldwin, Kathy Griffin, or Michael Ian Black came from such a place! But one must realize…they all left. I suppose if I had been raised anywhere close to the middle, Chicago might seem like a big fancy city to me…but I wasn’t. I grew up 15 minutes outside Philadelphia and then moved to New York City at age 19. Chicago was a hearty let-down after experiencing the best of the East coast.

I could spend the rest of this blog recounting the number of times my girlfriend and I were harassed for walking down the street holding hands (once you step out of the 4 block radiuses of Boystown/Andersonville it becomes apparent that these “big city” Mid-Westerners seem to have the tolerance of another “Middle” in our modern time—the Middle East). I could explain how we got yelled at by a cab driver at the airport for greeting each other with a kiss after a month apart. I could explain how a group of teenagers in a Borders Books on Michigan Avenue screamed “GROSS!!” when my girlfriend put her arm around my waist. I could explain how I spent more time staring down aggressive housewives with Kate Gosslin hair-cuts than I ever cared to—I could explain these things, but I won’t. Bottom line: Chicago has shown me its true self, and I have ended things. I mean honestly, if this couple is so alternative, so offensive that the average Chicagoan can’t stomach the sight of our held-hands, I have to retreat…

After tensions of my pending move mounted to an unbearable climax, I dropped everything to spend a week with my lady to try and smooth things over, try and set things right, and the result was quite a shock. I found the week-days even more depressing than the weekends out there. I took to drink by 3pm each afternoon and roamed around the apartment like Karen Walker, chain-smoking and arguing with the cat. I became unrecognizable to myself and to my girlfriend—it bled me dry. Is this an over-dramatic, overly-intense, over-reaction to a city that doesn’t suit my tastes? OF COURSE! It’s a NEW YORKER’S reaction!

So, after some rather intense discussions regarding my priorities—in no particular order: sanity, career, love, togetherness, family, friends, sanity, climate, restaurants, shopping, tolerance, sanity…I decided there was no possible way for me to find balance/happiness/SANITY in Chicago. I think my lady realized the same thing—and long-term, we know we’ll be living together in New York. It was a painful, awkward, embarrassing experience—the one week I lasted in the mid-west. I hope never to do it again…except for this weekend…my last trip to Chi-town…probably ever.

Looks like I won’t be needing to change the banner on this here website. Looks like I’ll be stickin’ around—feels good to get it all out there in the open. Thank God for the truth. And thank God for New York.

Pie Face

As far as I'm concerned, there are only 3 places to get a slice in Manhattan. I am no expert on the outer-boroughs, and there are definitely some neighborhoods on the island that are unfamiliar to me. But my search for THE slice ceased once my feet found their way into these fine establishments:

1.) Stromboli--As the dance of apartments in NYC often finds one unpaired, I spent a summer on a dear friend's futon. Though this was a long, hot couple of months filled with back-aches and a post-college sense of enveloping doom, the most glorious discovery lifted my spirits. The pizza-shop underneath our apartment on St. Mark's & 1st Ave provided evidence of God in an otherwise Godless world. Just one plain slice and an ice-cold coke was enough to lift my spirits out of that East Village malaise. Major Plus: it's super-cheap & open til 5:00am. Major Minus: there's only one table--grab a slice and hit the street!

2.) L'Asso--My first year as a full-time grown-up in NYC found me and my roomate living catty-corner to the most magical hidden treasure in all of lower-Manhattan. On the corner of Mott St. & Kenmare, down in the heart of Nolita, L'Asso pizzeria hides covertly on the corner. At night, you're likely to miss the subtle signage on the dimly lit street. One block up, NYC's oldest pizzeria, the local landmark Lombardi's stands over a hundred years old. There's always a line, and the pie is nothing short of lame, tasteless, and over-priced. Pie-makers are not marathon-runners; just because you're first, doesn't mean your best. It always shocked (and pleased) me that the masses didn't find their way a hop and a skip down the block where L'Asso's imaginative toppings, delicious salads, and fantastic service outshine the dinasaur across the street. The embiance in L'Asso is nothing special, but the pie is transcendental. The Tartufo is nothing short of sexy, the Patata will make you weep, and the Arugala salad is the perfect prelude to an otherwise sinful experience. Please enjoy. Upside: Best Fancy-Pie ever. Downside: uncomfortable and loud. For your enjoyment: Go on the early-side, or take out and RUN home before it cools. In this case: ALL like it hot.

3.) Rigoletto-- When I finally got my big-girl apartment all by myself on the Upper West side, I found my way over to Rigoletto Pizza on 69th and Columbus Ave. Here, the crust is always crispy, the sauce is always rich, and there are a miriad of gourmet, fresh vegetable toppings to choose from. The whole wheat crust is exceptional, and I highly recommend the tomato pie. Again, the atmosphere is nothing special, just a few tables and some wooden chairs. But for a stop on a stray Sunday or a quick slice on your lunch-hour--nothing beats Rigoletto. Downside: Cash-only. Upside: right next door to Magnolia Bakery. Pizza and Cupcakes? What could be better?