thefutureisred

In the Grand Tradition of Spiderpig, Spirited Away and Roald Dahl

This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.

 

“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”

 

I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.

 

But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.

 

At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.

 

The woman behind the counter asked me a question.  Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”

 

“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.

 

“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.

 

“Oh. Where is that?”

 

This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.

 

And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.

 

We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.

 

A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.

 

“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.

 

All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens

 

I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.

 

“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.

 

I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.

 

The Pink Pig is all of us. The Pink Pig is me.

 

(ps. We plan to go back for another turn on the ride. This time, Lila’s taking pictures.)

This afternoon was just Lila and me. I gave her first choice, anything she wanted to do.

 

“How about we go to the mall for lunch and then go shoe shopping.”

 

I kid you not. This is exactly what my child said to me.

 

But a promise is a promise, so that is exactly what we did.

 

At the Lindt store, where they often give free truffle samples – today they did not – we bought a couple gifts. Dark chocolate with pear for Ali. Dark chocolate with chili for Noah. Shh. Don’t tell. They’re meant to be a surprise.

 

The woman behind the counter asked me a question.  Her strong southern accent totally escaped me, and I found myself deep in a quandary, even deeper when I didn’t understand her the second or third time around. Finally, “What is that?” I said. “I’m new in town.”

 

“The pink pig,” she replied. Or at least that’s what I understood.

 

“What is that?” I asked her and again her words ran off in a jumble of twangy this and long vowel that.

 

“Oh. Where is that?”

 

This time, she thankfully asked the other woman in the store for specifics. Apparently she did say Pink Pig, and this Pink Pig was down by Abercrombie and Fitch. So that’s where we went.

 

And damned it all if it wasn’t exactly that. A Pink Pig. Really. We walked out the mall door into the parking lot where a curly pink tail path lead us into the tent. There were bright lights and people talking and all sorts of stuffed pink parts for sale. Snouts, masks and much more.

 

We continued along a pink path trailing its merry way toward the train. A Pink Pig Train. The front is the head, the back, a curly tail and in between sat us mom’s and our little piggy riders.

 

A little boy cried out loudly from deep inside the ride, but I couldn’t see him. “Is the ride that scary?” I joked with the man who strapped us onto our seats.

 

“Not scary at all,” he straight faced. “He just doesn’t’ want to leave.” And with that, we began the journey on our Pink Pig. We chugged through scenes of pigs baking cookies. Others playing in the snow. More of them opening presents and toasting each other with steaming hot chocolate.

 

All the while, a piggy voice chatted merrily in the background saying, well, I couldn’t quite catch it. It was unclear. Just as I thought I understood a word, I was distracted by the disembodied pig heads twirling around and around and around on large black screens

 

I turned to see another mom with her daughter in the front of the train smiling at her little girl. How adorable with her pink rounded cheeks and upturned nose. She looks just like her mother. Come to think of it she looks just like…. And again, the twirling bodiless pig heads.

 

“Why is this talking mommy? What is she saying?” Lila asked me.

 

I just don’t know. It suddenly struck me, that cheerful pig voice was talking about her mother, I think. Then I heard her say, “My great grandmother was the pink pig, and then my grandmother and my mother and finally….” The voice trailed off as the train ride slowed and finally emerged from the pinky piggy shadows. That’s when I realized.

 

The Pink Pig is all of us. The Pink Pig is me.

Now If You Could Just Release Your Grasp From My Pantleg

I went to NYC for Halloween weekend to finish the translation with Ali. It was a wonderful weekend.  The perfect mix between work, seeing old friends, parties, dinner or drinks, and time alone.  

It was odd not having two other people around all the time to consider before making plans, choices, thoughts. When I was ready, I went where I wanted and did what I desired.

It felt empty at first. Noah and Lila walked me to security, waved and waved as I walked beyond the point where they could go and two minutes later, I was alone. Well, I suppose as alone as one can be in an airport surrounded by thousands of people. But nonetheless, something was missing.

Soon enough, I began to enjoy the extra space, even as much as I loved my nightly calls with them. Lila took the phone, gave me an air hug, then rubbed her nose against the phone for our traditional nosey-nosey-nosey goodnight. “I love you because I miss you because I don’t want you to go and I want you to stay with me,” or some version of that she’d say.

Since I’m almost always with Lila, I rarely hear her on the phone. When I do, I’m struck with how much she sounds like Rebecca, Noah’s youngest sister. Rebecca and I used to spend a lot of time on the phone, mostly when she was in high school and college. Now that we don’t have those conversations anymore, it is difficult to hear Rebecca’s voice when I talk to Lila.

My weekend on 110^th and Broadway revived for me the days when Noah and I lived uptown our first year of marriage and the years before we got married. Halloween, I joined my mom friends in Brooklyn for a post trick-or-treating party. It was perfect. There, I saw all Lila’s old friends, all so grown up and mature, and met their little brothers and sisters, who are now the age Lila was when we left NY.

The same nostalgia poked at me as I walked through Morningside Heights. So much has changed. Grandma’s diner – where Noah and I ate grilled cheese with hot chocolate the night we got stuck downtown without money and had to walk 50 blocks in the freezing snow – is long gone.

Our last few trips to NY have been so unpleasant and exhausting, so it was nice to be reminded how lovely so much of my life had been. But it also made it all the more bittersweet knowing that in less than three weeks, we fly to Argentina and once again have no idea when we will return. If all goes as we hope, it could well be a very long, long time.  

I waded through a NY soup of memory until my friend Levy pointed out I was fighting with ghosts. “Why attach to things that no longer exist?” he asked me. Particularly, I thought to myself, when these memories fill my present with that slight sense of loss. Who needs it? And I tried to let go and enjoy my time.

Noah and Lila met me at the airport where. I saw Lila’s sweet smiling face first. She grabbed me and hugged me and didn’t let go for a long time.

Confessions of Raging Maniac

Few know this about me, but when I drive, I change into another person. I have no patience for stupidity and seem to find endless stupidity on these roads. People who are slow to go when the light turns green make me crazy. If you honk at me without good reason -- and you'll be hard pressed to find a good reason -- you'll hear me spew words that would turn a construction worker's head.

Noah met me in NY and didn't see me drive until a good four months into our relationship. Imagine his surprise to see this soft-voiced woman suddenly turn into Linda Blair. Lila, for her part, routinely tells me "Mommy, it's not nice to call people an idiot" when she's in the back seat.

"You're right, honey. I shouldn't say that."

"You really shouldn't," adds Noah quiety with fear in his eyes.

I am more than lucky that she has chosen not to repeat many of the other choice morsels she's heard (at least not yet).

Atlanta drivers, in particular, make me crazy.

Most of the day -- while people are at work -- traffic moves clearly and quickly. But then, then, the work day releases and thousands upon thousands of people scurry out of their offices into their cars and start navigating their vehicles on the streets with wild abandon.

They horrify me.

"But aren't NYC drivers so much worse?" you're probably asking. No.

See, people in NY drive like lunatics, too. They think nothing of leaning out the window to scream obscenties at a neighboring car. Or swerving from lane to lane just to meet their destination a few moments earlier. But at least with all that, you have this underlying feeling that these drivers know what they're doing.

In Atlanta, and indeed the south in general, somehow i'm not instilled with the same confidence. Example. The next time you drive on the highways here, notice all the skid marks. Now notice the roads are straight, not a curve in sight. There are very few cars on the road as compared to a NYC street any time of day. And the weather is rarely bad enough to warrant the skids and broken tire shards littering the highway.

What are these people doing?

Sigh.

I guess you can take me out of NY, put me on the beach, show me the beauty of Buffalo or the tastes of the south of France and Italy. I may be happy to have left the disjointed, moves-too-fast-to see life in NY, but a part of me will always be a New Yorker. A Brooklyn girl.

I'm kind of proud of that.

A New HIGH for Atlanta

Lila making her sneaky face at the High Museum in Atlanta. Ellsworth Kelly's "Blue, Green and Red" in the background. (Pun in title -- capital letters included -- not mine. ). I tell you, I look at this picture and I can't believe how grown up she looks.

I'm Rockin' the Suburbs

I'm having some trouble typing as my hands are still thawing. I just went running and it's damn cold outside. I hate the cold. My throat aches. My lungs burn, and every part of me cringes with unhappiness.

As I ran along Lavista tonight, I once again realized how much i hate anything below 60 degrees. I also realized that, much as I try to deny it, I hate running. Give me 80 degree weather and a 3 hour intense yoga class with a heater on any day. Not this hell.

It's boring, repetitive, painful to the joints and the only way I get through it is to distract myself with music.

Tonight, though, I could not be distracted. Curse I-pod shuffle. There is no way in hell it's truly random. Otherwise, how did it randomly present endless Johnny Cash, Wu-Tang Clan, Beck and Led Zepellin. I broke my shuffle running rule again today and moved ahead, moved ahead, next, not you, no.

Why do I do this?

I dunno. It gives me time to think? Although, I didn't do too much thinking tonight. The only topic to rise above my own whinging was the thought of a book called My Jesus Year recently published by the youngest son of my high school rabbi, Benyamin Cohen. This is not the son I dated in 8th grade. That was Ezra. Our dating consisted of peering longingly down the hall at each other and talking on the phone at night. In memory,we lasted a few months. In reality, I think it was a few weeks. Ezra ended it because his friends thought he should. I was devastated.

This, all while running painfully past Beth Jacob, the synagogue where I davened in high school. And by davening I mean I sat with my friends and talked about other people.

Benyamin's book, which I plan to read as soon as possible, interests me on many levels. First, how brave to so openly discuss his doubts and dislikes of Judaism. It's hard enough for most of us who grew up Orthodox. Is it that much more difficult when your father is a rabbi?

Myself, I've never considered for a moment turning to Christianity. Sure, I love visiting churches, adore the iconography, and enjoy the signs and symbols in literature and life. But I've got enough confusion in relation to my own religion. Why in God's name would I make my life more complicated by turning to a religion that separates me from my family?

Perhaps if I felt strongly about religion, any religion, but I don't. I have yet to figure out how and where it fits into my life. And I have no idea what it will look like when it does.

This, by the way, took approximately two minutes to flit through my head and then I was back to my running, forward, forward. Method Man again. Didn't that song come on already? More Johnny Cash. I tried to listen but the beat was too slow. I'm a creep? No thanks, not now.

Finally, I came across one song -- five minutes long -- that made me laugh and supplied just enough energy to keep me going. As I ran along that cold, car-riddled street, past Outback Steakhouse and Blockbuster, turning along the bend by Calibre Woods beyond Kroger, Pike's nursery and onto where just houses and darker streets grace the hard concrete sidewalk that breaks a runner's knees and back, I had to smile. I listened to it twice.

Ain't nothing like the suburbs, baby, to bring it all home.

I May Be Flexible, But....

We're back in Atlanta and I'm in search of a good yoga studio. My requirements?

It must be nearby. It must have drop in classes. And it must be real yoga, not the kind of power yoga that turns a relaxing, challenge for your mind and body into the equivalent of a stretching on a treadmill.

It's not too much to ask. I know this. There have been studios that fill these three requirements in every single place we've traveled. Be that a small yoga class on the dock in Bocas or the three excellent studios within ten minutes of my bed in Buffalo, they're easy to find.

Usually.

Not here. I'm having the damndest time.

Ok, well, there is one place, called Sattva Yoga & Healing within walking distance. It does fill all my requirements. The philosophy and the classes look solid. The studio is pleasant and comfortable.There's just this one, well, there's just this thing that makes me a bit hinky. You see, this place is not only a yoga studio, but doubles -- should you require it -- as a colonic irrigation center. As the sign says, Yoga and Healing (wink wink).

At first, this was a source of much jokery. Yeah, let's go to the yoga place for a root and toot.  Or Noah's favorite, "Hey, we could go on a date." Can they do two at the same time? But now that I'm actually here and ready to attend classes, I'm finding it difficult to be quite so flippant. I checked the website and what I saw truly traumatized me.

Basically, you lie on your back on machine that looks like a pinball game. This contraption is called the, ahem, Colenz. Next, you insert the nozzle and lay a drape sheet over your lower half. There's a sign clearly stating, though, that the FDA requires everyone insert his or her own nozzle. For whatever reason -- a reason I am only mildy curious to know -- the technician can't do it for you. My guess: this reduces the number of fetishists coming in their door. (Or perhaps that's just an insight into my thinking I didn't need to share?) I'll stop right there with this description, but I will say the rest involves low pressure warm water, a scoop and handi-wipes. 

For those of you who care to know more, you can see and read all about the ins and outs of colonic irrigation in full diagramatic detail right here. All I can say is that I've been somewhat traumatised by the whole thing since I read it late, late one night last week. And I am not generally faint at heart when it comes to discussing body functions. I mean, I have an ongoing discussion about bedsores with a nurse friend of mine, and after spending more than one night covered in my sick shivering child's vomit, well, you see what I'm saying.

Otherwise, I have found no other yoga studios within a 20 minute drive. They may be closer mile-wise, but Atlanta traffic could use a bit of time on the Colenz too. So I may have to bite the bullet and just partake of these classes even with the Colenz in such close proximity.

Hey, you never know. Maybe I'll get used to being around them. And then, who knows where things can lead. They do, after all, have TWO machines.

Rolling Down South

From here to there. This is out the window on our latest Cracker Barrel you of the south.

Sometimes This Traveling Is A Bore, When It's Not Driving You Nuts

I was just in NYC. I didn't like it much. Two days there, and I find myself slipping back into the same habits as before. I stop saying hello to people, never smile at anyone. I keep to myself.

 

How did I not notice this when we lived here?

 

We carried some of this New York as we drove south for what may well be the last time. It might not; it might. The first day was hellish. Imagine this. Noah and I in the front bickering for at least three of the seven hour drive our first day. Did I say bickering? No, fighting. Straight out, no purpose fighting. We brought back past grievances and hurled accusations. There was shouting, crying and long stretches of silence following statements like “Whatever.” Or “This conversation is over.” And begin again.

 

I considered jumping out of the car and just running. Where? To what? No idea. I just wanted to get away from just sitting there with all that negative energy (yes).

 

This, thankfully, was infinitely better than our first drive to Atlanta after the first time we left NY.

Amazing how things have changed and yet the same patterns are always there. Traveling is exciting at the beginning. Everything is always new. Now, after almost two years, constant change has become our norm.

 

I've learned a lot since we left NY. Learned how to adapt to whatever situation arises. Learned to let go of the things we can’t carry with us. And I feel like I’ve moved closer toward the type of person I’d ultimately like to be.

 

Clearly, we humans like our patterns. In NY, I took the same roads to the subway each day, most times forgetting myself and suddenly finding myself ast my destination. While the streets were the same, when pressed, I couldn’t have told you which actual route I took. Did I go up Henry? Or Clinton? I didn’t remember.

Now I can't remember which road we took each of the six times we've driven this route (3 times round trip).  

 

They say children need boundaries, stability and routine in order to feel secure. When Lila tantrums because we want her to go to bed or buy her a new doll, and we refuse to budge because of the tantrum, she seems happier when we hold true to those edges. A new toy won’t make her happier, but knowing she is safe within defined borders does. The tantrums are horrible and often occur when stuck in traffic on a highway somewhere. I’m talking screaming unintelligibly at the top of her lungs, kicking the back of my seat, heartwrenching cries too. But after, after things all calm down, Lila will then repeat happily, “I was screaming so I couldn’t have chocolate.”

 

She understands.

 

I think we say that children need boundaries, though, because we so desperately need them ourselves. We just don’t have someone forming them, often arbitrarily, for us.

 

I suspect that once again it is all about finding balance. Routine is comfortable and necessary, but it can also become too binding. Complete freedom is wonderful too albeit extremely rare.

So back to the car driving down Interstate 81 -- or is it 81, 84, 85 or 95?. We're in one place but moving. We fought all day one, but day two the cloud lifted and we calmed down, figured things out.

 

Because when all is said and done, what else are we going to do but work it out?

Ink Flows Across the Paper

Last year, I wrote a long involved post for this blog about the meaning of High Holidays. The perceived meanings. The actual meanings. The meaning to me.

When I read it to Noah, as I sometimes do before posting, he raised an eyebrow and asked. "You're really going to post that?"

I really was, but after a day or two of thought, decided against it. Why? It was angry. It was invective. And it goes against everything I want this blog to be.

This blog began as a semi-public journal of our travels meant for friends and family. As time passed, more people read it. Then a few more. Then a few more. Now, it seems there are hundreds reading and following along, which really is quite amazing to me.

My idea of what this thing should be has also changed. While the content, I think, does not yet reflect that quite yet, it will eventually, and if I've learned anything along the last year or two is that patience is your friend. As long as I keep moving forward, however slowly, it will happen.

The saying goes: May you be sealed in the book of life and sealed well.

Sealed? I don't like that idea of sealed. Who wants to be "sealed" into anything. That just strikes me as being stuck, laminated over with plastic and left with no room to breathe. No. Instead, I like to think of this as the inking of pen to paper, the continuation of a story -- a metaphor to which I can relate on many levels. Even better, it allows for forward movement.

My holy day post from last year reflected all that I saw wrong. Wrong with the world, my religion, my family. While it most certainly did not name names, and it came as straight arrow honesty, well, it wasn't the right thing to do. Believe it or not, I try my best to do the right thing with whatever information I have at that moment. What more is there to do?

There is also a custom of asking forgiveness from all those you may have hurt over the last year.

I am a big fan of honesty but sometimes convince myself it is alright to say or do something because it is honest. I have also been known to lose my temper and say or do things that were best left undone and unsaid. Over time, I have learned that silence is often a better choice even though silence is as easily misinterpreted as words.

It is not easy to apologize, because apologies mean you are wrong. Who among us embraces error? I rail against apologizing because I have also been hurt. Where are all the apologies owed to me?

Yes, yes, a silly, childish thought, but again, it is honest. An honesty, I believe echoed in the thoughts of others, even if you don't admit it. Then agian, even if I did hear the apologies I desire, I'm not sure I woudl believe them. Apologies mean nothing without follow up action.

So now.

Now as sundown approaches on this evening of Yom Kippur, I say thank you again. Thank for being a part of my life. I also apologize for anything I may have said or done that was hurtful. Some of it, I'm sure, was inadvertant. Some of it, because I chose not to pay attention. Some for other reasons altogether. Please know, though, that nothing I have said or done came from spite or the desire to hurt others. I have no desire to hurt anyone. It is just not worth it. On any level.

What is my action, here, though, that would lead you to believe my mea culpa. I'm not yet sure.

For now, I wish you all a good future. One of growth and potential. One of new experience and joy.

Gamar chatima tova.

The Inevitable Lightness of Dark (Or Some Such Nonsense)

It's the paradox of the move that does it. We're in one place but moving. Lila and I are baking cookies tomorrow for her teachers. Noah's picking up a package at DHL. It's our first day of dogsitting Cosby (who seems rather irate these days, although I'm mostly sure he wasn't offended by my last post.)

Everything slows down the week before we move. We don't go out as much. Don't see as much, and we don't seem to get as much done. Yet the days slip and slide forward so fast I don't know Monday from Friday. I suppose it's something like turning a corner. You're slowing down, slowing down, but really speeding up at the same time.

Does this make any sense at all?

I didn't make it to yoga and the abortion protest this week bc we went to Toronto again to see family. This coming weekend will be my last chance. I haven't started Lila's Halloween costume. We didn't go to Maid of the Mist or Cave of the Winds.

Between now and Monday morning, I plan to go through all our stuff, pick something up from DHL, launder and iron the cloth for Lila's costume, make cookies for Lila's teachers, give a donation to a couple charities around here, do laundry, mail some stuff back to Atlanta because it won't all fit in the car and plan the trip down to Atlanta. Also, go to four yoga classes so I can use up the rest of my ten-class pass (unless someone else wants it. If so, let me know. I'd be happy to ask Darcy if she'll transfer it to someone else), take pictures of the protesters. I have a list of questions in my head for them. Should probably write them down but whenever I try, I forget them.

Blah blah blah. Have you noticed that between moves I list all the things to do, to go, to be?

I've noticed. It's tedious as hell, but it's what in my head now. It's my process, so now those of you who have asked how we do this, this is it. To do lists and you just don't think about it too much more. You really can't think too much about it, because if you do, it's becomes more difficult to reach the ends of those lists.

Have I mentioned preparing Lila to go. We've already started the goodbyes, returned our library books, barbequed with the in-laws one last time. We go through our clothes and decide what to pack. Begin to talk about what we'll do next week, the week after, where we're going, who we'll see.

All this before Monday morning, when we start the decent from Move to Road Trip to Month in Atlanta to Deal with Last Details of Argentina to ARGENTINA.

It is evitable. A ball rolling down hill, and yet I still feel like I'm on the steep uphill of the next leg the journey.