Book Review: Jen Calonita's "Side Effects"

I was lucky enough to get a review copy of Jen Calonita's upcoming book "Side Effects." Full disclosure: I met Jen last year, when she came to the bookstore I worked at, to do a reading. She was so incredibly nice and friendly, and her YA books are fun to read, and well-written. "Side Effects" is about this 15 year old, Whitney, and her 4 siblings. Their mother died a year or two before, and their father disappeared a few months ago, which is when her brother came home from med school to help take care of his younger siblings. Whitney is on medication (as anyone would likely be, after that), but her medication has an odd side effect….it produces musical hallucinations, making a situation turn into a music video, almost. This got a little confusing in the beginning, and actually, I think the book would have been good without that. The storyline and characters were so well-developed that that element wasn't necessary. It added whimsy, but I think it would have worked regardless. The chapters are told from different viewpoints of the siblings, which gives the reader a really good idea of the environment and the dynamic in the family. I finished this in a day, because it was suspenseful, engrossing, and the characters were so real.

If you like this book, her other ones are just as great: the Belles series, and the Secrets of my Hollywood Life series are my favorites.

surgery plans

So we finally have a plan for surgery. I met with the doctor and the rest of the orthopedic team on Thursday. By far, this will be the worst one yet. The fusion didn't take. So they will be shortening the second and third metatarsals and putting in screws in those bones, to hold them in place. They will also be removing all the hardware that is currently in my foot - a plate and 6 (broken) screws. Because there's an excellent chance of not having much bone left after that, I will give consent for them to take bone from my left hip. The other option is a cadaver bone - which we did last time and it didn't work. It is much more likely to take, if it is my own cells and bone. After that, he will re-do the fusion, putting in a larger plate and "as many screws as he can fit," as he said (somewhat jokingly…I hope). I will then have a cast (my first one EVER) for 2 months, and absolutely no weight-bearing for that long. Which is significantly different than my last 3 foot surgeries. He wants to make sure this works, and works well. After 2 months, I guess I graduate to a boot. So the recovery process is going to be loooooong. He was straight with me; he said it will be painful, both the foot and the hip, but I will be given analgesics, obviously.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. Or upset. Or scared, a little. I know how bad the pain is with bunion surgeries. The last surgery was especially painful, and this one will be a lot worse. This will be challenging, to say the least.
The one bright spot is that at least I can work from home. I can write and edit anywhere I have an internet connection. That is the only bright spot right now.

white coat envy, again.

I went to the Strand last night to see Atul Gawande speak and read from his new book, Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End. Simply put, he single-handedly reignited my white coat envy. I have read all of his books, and like Jerome Groopman, he is one of those physician-writers whom I love, the kind of doctor I had envisioned I would be one day. Needless to say, my life took some detours and my path ended up different. Gawande has his MD and MPH, and is so down-to-earth. I got to ask him a question during the Q and A, and asked about his thoughts on the Death With Dignity Act. He gave a thoughtful, thorough answer, looking at me, making eye contact, and talking to me like it was just the two of us, he was that focused. I could see why patients would love him.

One thing gave me pause, though. Someone asked how he balanced everything - being a top surgeon, a nationally known writer, a New Yorker staff writer, public health, etc. He looked down, and said, "If you want to make a difference in the world, or be really really really good at something, you have to accept that it's going to suck up an incredible amount of time." He went on to say that he "steals" time to write, to plan, to do things. He also said he's probably not always the best husband, and that he's probably a "B" father, not an "A" father. "For instance, I'm missing my daughter's recital right now," he said. I appreciated his candor, and felt both admiration and sadness. I was glad to see he wasn't promoting the idea that yes! you can have it all! Because the sad thing is, you can't. Especially if you're a woman, it feels like. But I was sad because his book is about dying. He talked about how you want to live. And I wondered if, on his deathbed, he'll wish that he spent more time on book tours and writing, or that he went to more of his children's recitals. Will he wish he had sacrificed some media exposure to be an "A" dad, especially when his children are young? That's for him to decide. And maybe he won't, maybe he will be completely satisfied with his life decisions. That's not for me to judge. I know how important a career - especially one you love and are passionate about - can be a huge part of someone's life, someone's identity. But then I also wondered what would have happened if a woman had said what he said. What if a female physician had said to a crowd that she sacrifices part of her motherhood for her career, that she knows she's a "B" mother? I think she would be excoriated. She would be raked over the coals, torn down as a mother, seen as "cold" or unwomanly, bitchy, or unnatural.
I was told today that Helen Gurley Brown did not mention motherhood at all in her book "Having it All." Just something to ponder.

I am so thankful that I got the chance to see Dr. Gawande. His book is smartly written, the parts that I've read, and his storytelling draws you in because of his way of writing directly to the reader.

So many good books lately. I've been on a Virginia Woolf kick, and I'm trying to read the "classics" that I missed (and somehow, I've missed A LOT of them. Like, an embarrassing amount). But I haven't had much time to read, between writing for several websites, tutoring, and working for a writing/editing company. Which is good, but still. I guess when I'm recovering from foot surgery and still on pain meds (aka, not able to write coherently) I will get to read a lot. I'm being presented at Grand Rounds on thursday to the orthopedic team, since this surgery will be a doozy. Awesome.

Things I am Loving Lately

Life has been hectic. Between my internship ending, getting more freelance work, looking for a full-time position while juggling part-time jobs/projects….never enough time in the day. But I do have a few things I am loving right now, which help me relax and give me some much needed enjoyment.

1. The Rockabye Baby CD series. Lisa Roth, David Lee Roth's sister, created this group of CDs, a lullaby version of rock songs. I am listening to the Rolling Stones one as I write this, and am loving it. Other great ones are Michael Jackson, Eminem, and the White Stripes. I am jonesing for the Madonna one, Bob Marley, Nirvana, Journey, and of course, Van Halen (hey, they have Jamie's Cryin'!). Check out their website, and if you head on over to New York Family Magazine's website, I interviewed Lisa, who was fabulous and so great to chat with.

2. Virginia Woolf's "A Writer's Diary." Finally getting to this. I love reading that she also had doubts about her writing, and enjoying the glimpse I am getting into her life.

3. My Intuitive Doula training. It's going slow, but I am loving the reading and the Facebook student group page - great comments and discussions, and it's really making me happy. I'm glad I went with a distance option because I can do it on my own time, around my writing projects, while still getting support when needed.

4. My niece and nephew, of course.

5. CocoProtein coconut water with added protein. The vanilla and chocolate ones are fabulous, and for vegetarians, they have protein and vitamins.

I'm so glad the weather is turning cooler. Fall is my favorite season. Bring on the hot apple cider!

THREE YEARS

DUDE. Things have been crazy busy. BUT - thesis is turned in. And ironically, three years ago today, I got the phone call that I was accepted into Columbia's MFA program. OH THE IRONY. Job interviews are happening. Life is happening. Editing gigs are happening. So keep your fingers crossed that things are panning out. And if I happen to (gulp) happen to stay in the Empire State, so be it. But at least I will earn enough money to visit my peeps in Chapel Hill often. :) The weather has been completely shitty. My LLBean boots have been getting so much use, not to mention my pink Dora Docs. Last friday I found a pair of red shiny Doc Martens on sale at Harry's Shoes for $29!!! You can bet I scooped those babies up. It made me so so so happy.

I spent a large chunk of change on an online class through LitReactor to take a class with Lidia Yuknavitch, but I can honestly say it's been worth every penny so far. It's a 6 or 7 week class, and when I say I've never been challenged like this before, I mean NEVER. EVen at Columbia, I have never had such thought-provoking, soul-searching, earnest lectures like the ones Lidia gives, not to mention the homework she assigns us. It's a real challenge. You can't bullshit your way though it. And my peers in the class? I am astounded by their graciousness, their sensitivity, and their tact on critiquing when something needs work. No egos here. No bloodbath like in an MFA classroom. Makes me wonder if I could have saved thousands of dollars and just taken class after class on LitReactor for two years and put together my own reading list during that time. But, what's done is done. I don't regret spending the money. And If - when - I get a full time job - I want to continue taking these online writing classes to keep my writing sharp. I didn't get to take fiction and poetry classes at Columbia, so these are a great way to expose myself to them. I am a lucky girl. And very thankful. Of course, I'm hoping my tax refund covers what I spend (and then some, which would be nice).

I've been loving my tote bags lately. I got a Strand x Kate Spade one. But I often find them a little too small. Maybe because I carry a ton of shit with me. Especially since I decided to start the behemoth of a book Infinite Jest. I mean, 1079 pages? Come on, DFW. I need two bookmarks for this bitch of a book - one for the story, one for the footnotes. It better be good. I have stacks of books waiting to be read. PLus job searching and apps, getting my manuscript written and finished for Rhonda, figuring out what I want to do with my life, hoping I don't become infertile in the next few years, you know, the usual.

Latest obsessions: tote bags, Alex & Ani bangles, bullet earrings, scarves, Docs, Our Lady of Guadelupe bracelets (and I'm Jewish, go figure), Kanken backpacks, naps, bracelets, Reading Rainbow

New Year.

Wow, it's been a while. I've been busy and stressed. I managed to read 318 books in 2013, which could either mean I'm a really fast, amazing reader, or I have no life. You choose. Winter break was good, I got to spend time in North Carolina and Chapel Hill, and as usual, I'm missing it like crazy.

There's less than two months until my thesis is due, and I've been busy doing some freelance editing, tutoring, book reviewing, and applying for jobs. Oh yeah, and reading, of course. :)  Something tells me that with all the work I have to do, and all the anxiety I have, that I won't be getting much sleep in the next two months. Or really, until I get a job. But, in the wise words of Scarlett O'Hara, "I won't think of it now. I'll think of it when I can stand it."

I read The Goldfinch at the end of last year, and loved it - I don't think there's any way the story could have been shorter, and still be that amazing. I'm reading Lee Smith's "Guests on Earth" right now, and though she can basically do no wrong, this book is especially wonderful. Set at Highland Hospital in Asheville, NC in the 1930s and 40s, it is a historical fiction hybrid, telling the story of a girl named Evaline who befriends Zelda Fitzgerald, who later died in the fire at the hospital. She also examines how, even back then, women who didn't conform - who were just too MUCH of anything - were seen as ill and needing to be reformed. I'm really loving it. I've also been reading a lot of the classics I missed out on - Brave New World, Lord of the Flies, etc. And I'm pretty much loving everything on Hawthorne Books' website.

So yeah. I'm still alive, sluggin' it out in NYC.

fall = frustration?

It's been a while since I've posted....life's been busy. My beautiful niece was born in late July, and I've been doing a lot of reading and trying to write. And honestly, I've been trying not to let customers get to me as much as they were. It's hard though. The lack of basic manners never, ever fails to irk me. I get very irritated. It takes two seconds to say "please" or "thank you." You gain nothing by being demanding or demeaning to a shop worker. I just don't get it.

There was a woman today who was not only condescending while looking for books, but when she went to pay, didn't like the manufacturer's sticker on the back of the book. We cover the price with our sticker, but she didn't understand that we couldn't take off the manufacturer's sticker because it would rip the cover of the book. She started getting irate, her daughter was like, mom, calm down. I said that I doubt the child would mind, and she got all huffy and said SHE would mind. Come on. It is a sticker on the back of a book jacket. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing. Chill out. She even grabbed the book out of my co-worker's hands and I thought things were going to get physical. This woman was a trip. The daughter must have been used to this, because she hustled her mother out quickly.

Then - and I know I may get flack for this - there was the woman who came in wanting books on transgender issues for a second grader. My first thought was, hmmm, that's a bit young, no? I mean, we have "My Princess Boy" and all that, but my gut reaction is just, why bring this into childhood so young? Just let the kid do what they want and be a child for a bit longer. We had books for teens, but the mom voted them down. Okay, but if you're bringing that topic up, obviously you think your child is mature enough to talk about and grapple with this....so....I'm not sure what level you're looking for.

I just wish everything were simpler. Things seem like they were simpler when I was a kid. No "special topics" section, we read the classics, I went to a private school where everyone's parents wanted them to be successful but I don't remember anyone's parents pushing them like these parents do. And for Christ's sake, people, don't take yourselves so seriously! I mean, really. None of this is a life or death situation. I promise. Much of these are serious #firstworldproblems of the highest degree. I hate to break it to you, but no one outside Manhattan really cares about your child's 40k per year grade school. Most people probably think it's ridiculous. How did we get to this place?

the ugly side of smart.

(Identifying details have been changed, just so you know). Oh, you Manhatannites. Why do you make this so easy for me? Seriously. Tonight, at work, this older couple comes in. The woman looks high-maintenance, wears her sunglasses inside (maybe she doesn't know the sun's going down and um, we're inside), and they explain they came here this weekend and bought their 5-year old grandson 2 Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, but he already has them. And you know, the grandmother informs me, he's been reading since he's 2 -- self-taught, no less -- and he understands everything, so nothing is too hard for him. The grandfather was more realistic and realized that, hello, the kid is still five and not 15. As they're checking out, my coworker was talking with them, and the grandmother goes, "I just don't understand it. He got a 99 percent on standardized tests, not 100. His best friend -- who I don't think is really as smart as he is -- got a 98 and got into Collegiate, and he didn't. How could he not have gotten 100? Is that what they want?" My coworker explained that with standardized testing, a 99 percentile score means he did better than 99 percent of kids taking the same test, and it's not really feasible to get 100. Then the grandmother starts talking about how smart the grandson is -- did she mention he taught himself to read at only two years old -- and she just really wants to find out why he didn't get into Collegiate but got into Hunter, but of course they won't tell you, and she doesn't think they ask about reading because if they did, he would be in for sure. At this point, I believe my blood pressure was probably somewhere near 200/150 and I don't know what my face must have looked like. I couldn't actually believe what I was hearing. Remember -- THIS IS FOR KINDERGARTEN. They're talking about Kindergarten, and the gifted and talented programs for kindergarten. Can you imagine what these grandparents would be like about COLLEGE admissions? *shudder* I SO wanted to tell them that there's different kinds of intelligence, that the kid is only 5, for Christs' sake, that it's KINDERGARTEN, no one really cares where you go for it. And gifted and talented kindergarten? We've had this conversation before. Get over yourself. (The snark in me was all, yeah, well if he's so smart, why didn't he start kindergarten at 4, like me? BAM. kidding. I don't really care. Just being obnoxious to meet them at their level.). Eventually, they left the store, with the grandmother still talking her husband's ear off about how she really wants to find out why their grandson didn't get accepted to certain schools, and I'm sure he was tuning her out by then. I just turned and looked at my coworker, speechless. I literally could not believe what had just happened, that people like that actually exist. It was like The Devil Reads Scholastic. I hope this child has more supportive parents, healthier parents. My Lord.
She's going around dogging his best friend, saying he's not as smart as he is - when, clearly, he is - geez, woman. The kid is five. If someone ever disparaged my nephew over his struggles with reading, I would throw down in a hot minute.
This woman doesn't know the courage it can take for a kid to open a book.

I miss being with my nephew even more on days like this. When I talk to him on the phone and he tells me he wants me to come home so we can get another cat in the hat book, and then I have an interaction like this one -- such a stark contrast makes me so grateful for my life and my nephew. My nephew might not be reading fluently, but he has found a niche he enjoys, and I cannot tell you how happy it makes me when he asks if it's okay to read in bed. Or when he excitedly tells me he has a diary. Or when he wants to go to the "liberry." He has a heart of pure joy and happiness, and draws in everyone who meets him with his infectious lovingkindness. You can't learn that. And that's more important than any G&T program or standardized test.

Bram Stoker must have known Manhattan parents.

Today was Lindsay's memorial service. I didn't/couldn't go. I had work and didn't plan ahead to ask off and carpool up to Buffalo. Things have just been crazy insane, it feels like, between work, reading, writing, endless fatigue and daily life chores. It's hard to explain. It's been busy.

Manhattan parents, as always, have been a source of astonishment/frustration/disgust/and then some. Can someone, PLEASE tell me the point of smash cakes? They're exactly what they sound like. For a child's first birthday, it's a small cake the child SMASHES and mashes into their face and outfit, while everyone cooes over how cute they are. And people pay top dollar to have custom-made, expensive smash cakes. Then, a dad came into the store with a bag full of Eleni's cupcakes, all frosted and sparkly and personalized Happy Birthday-ed out -- at nearly $50 for a dozen, he had at least two dozen. And he picks up a picture book for the kid. I get that you want a memorable birthday. But if you're giving your daughter a picture book, do you think she gives a shit if her cupcakes are from Eleni's? Save yourself some money and go to Magnolia Bakery. Or - gasp - just get store-bought ones. Whole Foods actually has really nice ones. If you REALLY feel like roughing it, you could make them YOURSELF. Or have the nanny do it. Sigh. I just don't get it. And you - yeah, you, the mother who loads up on workbooks for her daughter so she "has an edge" on the other kids come September? Buying books that are a grade ahead to give her that "edge?" You keep going, and she's gonna fall off that edge. Take my word for it. Or not. But it won't be pretty.
And the babies and toddlers learning Mandarin. Another thing I don't get. Is this to trot them out as shoe ponies, showing how smart they are, that they are learning a super hard, culturally sophisticated language? Wouldn't, say, Spanish, be more useful? Hell, I wish I knew Spanish.
Then -- then -- I almost lost it this morning. This morning! Early! I hear banging and smearing on the front window - these kids are jumping and then smearing their hands down the front windows, and their parents are standing RIGHT THERE, looking at them, talking to them, seemingly having a normal conversation. Honestly, I was thisclose to walking outside and asking them to control their children. I just think that's complete disregard for other's property and outright disrespect. My parents would not have tolerated that behavior with my brother and I - we don't tolerate that behavior NOW, with Trey -- and he would never even think to DO that. I just am amazed at the entitled behavior of these little monsters sometimes. Really. It's like The Nanny Diaries, but multiplied a thousand times.

Then there are the sweet grandmothers who come in and I help them find books for their granddaughters, or we talk about the original Nancy Drew mysteries, and I tell them that I read them from my grandmother. Or the kids who are so genuinely mannerly and thankful for your help.....these are the rare ones. But it's nice when it happens.

I still really don't understand the need for multiple books about giving up pacifiers or diapers. I'm not sure how I feel about the AIDS books for kids in the "special topics" section. (when did we become a society that even needs a special topics section? My favorite title in this section is "No one wants a nuclear war." NO. SHIT.). Kid, you shouldn't even know what nuclear war IS.

But there are mixed messages. We do carry the Magic Fairies series, which is cute, I admit. There's a bunch - the Weather Fairy series, the Music Fairy series, the Sports Fairy series, the Color Fairy series. All is well and good until the fucking FASHION FAIRY series. Really? Do we really have to carry this? The Accessory Fairy? The BEAUTY Fairy? If you're going to tell me that it's so important to be progressive and have Meaningful Picture Books downstairs with Deep Messages, why do we have the Fashion Fairies? This causes way more anger than it really should.
Deep breath. I just figure my kid will get stuck with Madeline, Paddington, Corduroy, Dr. Seuss, PD Eastman, Berenstein Bears, Curious George, Eric Carle books, Beatrix Potter....classics. I don't need witty "word play" books or gender-neutral characters or whatever. If you do, more power to you.

They're kind of like vampires, Manhattan parents. They suck the life and energy right out of you. And most of my college classmates are these people. Lord help me.

it's wednesday.

So my tremor's gotten significantly worse, and I spoke to my movement d/o doctor today. She said that stress definitely can increase the tremors, but we need to see if the increase continues to determine whether this level of intensity is here to stay. She then told me that a colleague of hers told her about octanoic acid, or caprylic acid, which is thought to possibly mimic alcohol's effect on tremors (i.e., temporarily calm them). I found the study. It's a small study, like she told me. 19 people. The supplement started to work nearly three hours after taken. But it worked. For some. So I went to the Vitamin Shoppe and bought the stupid supplement. I don't even want to get my hopes up, because if it doesn't work, I'll be even more disappointed.

I thought I would be back in Chapel Hill. I thought that being down South would have a calming effect on my whole body, inside and out, my stress levels, my happiness, etc. -- which would translate into a reduction or disappearance of the tremors. I was kind of banking on North Carolina being the remedy. But obviously, I need to reframe. I'm trying to minimize my stress levels, but that hasn't really been working lately, obviously.

My grandparents bought me an air conditioner, which feels like a delicious luxury here in NYC. Makes me never want to leave the house even more.

again, people.

For the love of G-d. I just keep reminding myself to take deep breaths. Manhattan parents, I just cannot even. There was a father today with a little girl - she couldn't have been more more than four, five at the very, very most - and he asked for suggestions. So naturally, I suggested Fancy Nancy or Pinkalicious. Apparently she has all the Pinkalicious books already, and after looking at the glittery Fancy Nancy book, he said he doesn't want her to read more of "this stuff." Okay. I suggested Clifford, the big red dog. Nope, she has read ALL of those. How about Dr.Seuss? Yup, she's gone through those. All of them. Every single one. I suggested the Curious George series. The genius has read all of those. She's also read "The Velveteen Rabbit," every Madeline book, dad voted down "The Giant Dance Party" without even looking at it...get the hell out of here. If she's read every single one, get this girl a goddamn medal. He just wanted to get something so he could feel morally and intellectually superior so he wasn't buying a book about Caillou from Canada or a big red dog. The little girl would have been happy with anything. Although, really, she seemed pretty passive and didn't show attraction to anything but Pinkalicious when it was mentioned. What these parents don't seem to get is that no reading is in vain. You don't get  it, do you, people? Foster your child's interest. Make it fun. If they show an attraction to a book, take a look at it - don't dismiss it because it's not "intellectual" - if you show disdain, your kid will subconsciously pick up on that. Every time. Believe me. Even if they don't quite know what that feeling is.

There were maybe 3 or 4 kids who actually thanked their parents when they bought the books for them. It's sad when that's an anomaly. There were the few kids who were very sweet and said please and thank you and they were a joy, as were their parents. I wish there were more of them.

I know I sound crotchety and old, but seriously, the entitlement is just way too much. It's not even that - it's lack of basic manners and social skills. But what should I expect when parents actually don't even let the person in front of them put their change in their wallet before putting their own purchases in front of the person, practically forcing them out of the way. There are the parents who come up to the side of the desk while I am still helping the person in front of them - and they'll shove their stuff onto the table! Basic line etiquette, people. I thought we learned that in preschool, no? Or did we have to go to the gifted and talented preschool for that? Oh, snap. 

I also think maybe the whole competitive, driven academic thing is nagging me. I have been a gunner my entire life. Meaning I have been competitive in classes. Always doing the readings. Raising my hand. Honors classes. Honor Roll. Everything depended on it. And then in grad school, at UNC, everything depended on getting into a PhD program. And when I didn't, my entire world as I knew it dissolved. I had no idea who I was. I worked freelance and nannied for 2 years, and then applied to the MFA programs. At 30, I finally let go of the need to try and be the best. (and yes, I get the irony that I wound up at Columbia).  Maybe I've failed. Maybe I haven't. It's all in who's seeing the picture, I guess.

Another thing I don't get is this phenomenon of parents buying a gift for a child on the way to said child's birthday party. They have waited until they are en route to the party to get a gift. Making it essential that they get out of the store quickly. With the present wrapped. In the good ole' days, we used to go ahead of time and pick out a present, really take time with the decision, and then wrap it at home. I just don't understand this. Does this happen everywhere or just here? Is it a generational thing?

If I sound cranky, I am. I'm tired. I'm still not physically 100%. I have made absolutely no progress on my thesis because I'm always so tired or blah. My tremors are especially pronounced lately. My next appt is at the end of June, but what's the movement disorder dr going to do? There is no more medication to try. Klonopin dulls the tremors a little, but to see any real improvement, I have to take a full pill, which knocks me out, which does not bode well for taking it during the day. And it has a long half-life, so even if I take it at night, I have that "hung-over" and super tired feeling the next day, which is a bummer. And people, benzos are addictive substances. As Nancy Reagan taught me, "Just say no to drugs."

But parents, here's a gifted kid pro-tip: In the real world, people don't really give a shit if you're "gifted" or not. So along with buying whatever book you're buying, teach your child to say please and thank you. And I promise - promise - your child will not disintegrate if you tell her "no" to something. Hard as it may be to believe, it is, in fact, true. If you don't feel comfortable trying it at home, do it in a public place first, just in case.

what a day.

So.....staying in NY. Working (at a job I love, a kids/YA/teacher/parent bookstore), trying to write my thesis, reading a lot. My paternal grandmother passed away, making that three family members I have lost in less that a year and a half. Trying to find an angle into an essay on that. Still on one medication for tremors, at the lowest possible dose. I'm trying not to let the tremors interfere too much, but sometimes scanning things or in stressful situations they get bad. At least they did today.

Manhattan parenting....yeah. Getting an inside view. It's stressing me out, and I'm not even the kid. I don't know. I could never raise a child here. Parents are buying $50 books to get their children ready to take tests to get into Gifted and Talented Kindergarten. What could you possibly do in GAT kindergarten? Learn relaxation techniques during nap time? Meditate? And really, will that make a difference in your child's educational career path? I would wager a guess and say probably not. And honestly, if you keep pushing and pushing and pushing.....have you ever seen the movie "Little Man Tate?" Great example. A kid needs to know they're not *just* their achievements. They need to be allowed to screw up and read silly things and do messy projects and sometimes do things below their age level that they just love. A kid can only take so much pushing. Really. Because eventually, they'll internalize it and do it themselves, thankyouverymuch, and though this is good to an extent, if your self-esteem and identity is built around it, this can be not so great. Drive is wonderful, huge fear of failure is not.

Not every book has to Have a Message. Sometimes it can just be fun, like Pinkalicious. It's just important to instill a love of reading in the kid. Give the Intellectual Stimulation a break.
I read Madeline as a child and was not traumatized because she was an orphan.
I read Clifford the Big Red Dog and am not dumb because it's more "commercial."
I read the Berenstein Bears and am not morally deficient because they "don't always send the right message."
Christ, I read about Rainbow Brite and Strawberry Shortcake and My Little Ponies. I think I turned out okay. People are amazed at how much I read. This is why. Because I learned to love it at an early age. And, I happened to be good at it. It was/is My Thing.

If reading isn't your kid's thing or doesn't come easily, that's okay - my brother was/is an excellent artist and great with putting things back together. Not to mention he's much more logical than I am. Being smart manifests in all different kinds of ways. I wish I could remind some of these parents of that.

NY under water.

Water. New York City. Jaime. Which of these is not like the others and does not belong? That's right!!!! Jaime!!!!! I am especially bitter today because it has been a *very* rainy day, and I hate when it rains in the city. But I had been running errands/getting prescriptions filled/etc when it started to thunder, and I just had to pick up a few things at the market....I figured I'd beat the rain home. Now, West Side Market on a GOOD day makes me lose faith in humanity. Try getting stuck inside with a horde of other people, including people who have run in off the sidewalk to escape the apocalyptic rainstorm. After about 20 minutes, when it seemed to be easing up a little, I opened my umbrella, slid my bag of overpriced groceries onto my wrist, and held the umbrella directly in front of my chest, since that seemed to provide the most protection with this rain. The whole walk home you can imagine what I was muttering.

Then I decided to do laundry. I put my clothes in a washer, add soap, pay for it, and then a guy tells me he just washed his in that washer, but it didn't wring out all the water so he has to rewash them. Since I already paid for it, I was like, okay, I'll take my chances. Well, whaddaya know? Same thing. I have the brilliant idea of bringing it upstairs to dry on the drying rack. Do you KNOW how heavy a load of wet laundry is? So I'm hanging stuff on the rack, thinking, this might work, when I realize there is a small ocean under the drying rack, and my clothes are saturated. I grabbed towels, wiped the whole mess up, threw the clothes in the bag, and went back DOWN to the laundry room to rewash my clothes. I pay for this privilege.

You know, if I had been stuck somewhere down South, people would have started talking with each other. Here? Nope, everyone's glued to their iPhones, posting updates and texting and talking to people.  People are pushing each other aside to get a little more room for themselves and their bags. Everyone on their own little island. Sometimes in situations like that, I find myself almost starting a conversation with someone - and then I realize it would be weird here. Sigh.

wrinkles in time.

I am sitting here on my bed, listening to Birdy, Ke$ha, and James Taylor on my iPhone, surrounded by books - ARCs, school books for the make-up classes I have next week, and books on childhood literature. There's also one I bought today that I keep picking up, running my hands over the shiny cover, and hesitate to actually start reading. The book is the 50th anniversary edition of Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time. I vaguely remember reading this as a young girl, and loving it -- yet I hesitate to start it again, as if by opening its pages, I'll open up a tesseract of my own. What is it about these books we love from our childhood that stay with us all these years? I remember wanting to sleep over in the museum after reading From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I wasn't a huge fan of The Phantom Tollbooth, sad to say. I loved Scott O'Dell's Island of the Blue Dolphins. But what is it about L'Engle's book that is giving me such pause? It's just a book, Jaime, not a magical portal. I wonder if it will come back to me once I start reading it. This is the magic of books. This is why I want to be a writer.

faking it until I'm making it - again.

For as long as I can remember, I've laid my clothes out for the next day, the night before. It saves time in the morning, and in my half-sleep daze, I can just pull whatever on. For some reason, tomorrow I have the urge to wear the craziest thing -- black Under Armour nylon exercise pants, aqua Nike dri-fit v-neck, and my black Ironman thin lycra zip up that says "140.6 Miles of Awesome" on the back. That was my goal. I wanted to do a 70.3 before my 35th birthday. Maybe that's still possible, I don't know. Last year I let my Triathlete and Runner's World subscriptions expire. I just didn't have the time. I'm glad I did. Ever since the beginning of these tremors, I haven't picked up either of those magazines. No, that's a lie. I did flip through a Triathlete, and it made me too sad. I think getting out of the city will help. Once I'm back in Chapel Hill, I can go back to the Wellness Center, start swimming, biking, and walking again, and build my strength up in a place that is familiar and medically safe.

Right now, I feel like a phony even putting on a sports bra. It's hard to believe, to remember those days where I would voluntarily wake up at 4:30am, go swim laps, get dressed for the day, go to A&P lab, do freelance work, then go to class. I remember every day and night, that feeling of calm that swept over me the minute I entered the Wellness Center. Like I belonged. The smell of chlorine and sweat and muscle cream. I remember the first time hearing my knees crackle as I walked down my steps. I had to buy joint salve, the tingly kind. No one warned me that I shouldn't shave before I put it on. So not only did I smell like a pine foresty old man, but my knee areas were pretty much on fire that first night I used it.

I wore my rubber Ironman watch 24/7 - no need to take it off. My RoadID was right above it. The constant chlorine smell of my hair was comforting. Slowly, I forged tentative friendships with older people at the gym who were also in the tri club. They helped draw me out of my shyness. I had a place there.

All this is to say that wearing simple nylon sportswear is like, a big deal for me for some reason. I haven't worn any really, since the tremors started. But I miss the girl who did. I miss the girl who went running in the woods with her running group twice a week. I miss the girl who watched old Kona Ironman specials and got chills every single time. I miss the girl who, even when exercising or doing sports, coordinated her Nike outfits and preferred running skirts to shorts. I miss the sound of ground and leaves crunching under my feet as I run on the trails. I miss my running coach, Mimi, who made me think I was a runner. I miss the girl who actually, seriously considered entering the Kona lottery but didn't have the extra money to spare to sign up. I think she's still in there. I just have to find her and get her stronger. No, I know she's still in there. Because I haven't yet heard the words shouted over the loudspeaker, "Jaime, YOU are an Ironman!" But I will. If I have to crawl to and across the finish line like Julie Moss did in 1982, I will.

Great Expectations.

Before I start writing this, let me put a pre-emptive statement out there - especially for my anonymous friend who writes such heartfelt comments - I'd really love to address you by name one day. This is not a "poor me" pity post. Far from it. It's an "I'm kind of struggling right now with everyone else along in my cohort but that's where we're supposed to be maybe...." I'm not quite sure what it is, but it's not a pity party. That I know for sure.

Walking in the halls and sitting in the classrooms of the writing program, there are framed posters of collages of book covers of books published by graduates of the program. Seventies, eighties, nineties. Who knew that the Jennifer Aniston movie "The Object of My Affection" was based on a book from an alum? Not me. "Clockers?" Nope. Then there's the more literary ones, like the one about Rwanda, "We Wish to Inform you that Tomorrow We will Be Killed With Our Families." Then there are the quiet ones I've read and loved: "Ithaka," "The Cure for Grief," "Atmospheric Disturbances," and Alexandra Styron's book about her father. Depending on the mood I'm in, these can be either inspiring and reassuring, or they can be mocking and pressuring.
To whom much is given, much is expected. I know this well. And I usually don't disappoint. I have faith - ridiculous, blind, wondrous, childlike, full-fledged faith - that this decision was a good one. This was actually maybe the first decision in my entire life that I made completely on blind faith. And the first day I hold a review copy of my book in my hands, I'll run my fingers over the cover and remember the anguish and nervousness of finally accepting the ofer and the naysayers telling me it was a mistake. If it's a JK Rowling blockbuster, awesome. If it's a quieter, cult-like followed book, great. But no one can take it away from me. Even if one person reads it.

It's just hard to remember that when you're in the muck of reading 3 books this week that you haven't even looked at, critiquing workshop pieces and getting yours ready, figuring out what your thesis is really going to look like, applying for jobs and summer writing conferences, paying medical bills, and dealing with this damn tremor. I just have to *breathe.* In. Out. In. Out. Repeat on a continuous basis.

Shabbat musings

Today I had a visit at NYU's Multiple Sclerosis Center. I've been going for a few months, because of this tremor and associated symptoms. I have a clean MRI but was diagnosed with an Essential Tremor. But there are symptoms he can't explain, so he is sending me to a movement disorder/Parkinsons specialist, whom I see next month.
So I'm walking to the Shuttle to get back to Times Square, and I had just cried openly on the streets of NYC on the phone to both my mother and my father, because I'm hoping this med combo decreases them and because they are REALLY bad. It's noticeable. Anyway, I'm walking and I'm sure I didn't look super happy, and I saw the Chabad people and somehow got into a conversation with one. He asked if I was Jewish and I said yes - I'm not going to lie - and we got to talking. He asked me if I light the Sabbath (Shabbos) candles and I said no, so he pressed some into my hand and asked me to light them tonight, because it's a mitzvah. He also gave me the parsha of the week. For some reason, I am taking this as a sign. I usually ignore those people. but I cannot lie if I'm asked my religion - I can't, I won't - and somehow I was reminded today of the simple joy of lighting Shabbat candles. So at 4:46pm, I will be saying the Sabbath blessing and having some challah.

Sometimes I do miss being "more Jewish." I miss not going to synagogue, and I really should read the portion of the week. There are some Orthodox traditions that are beautiful. I went to an Orthodox kindergarten and Conservative day school until high school. We welcomed the Sabbath every friday at the end of the day. I understand the modesty traditions of the more Orthodox; when I was in Israel I didn't hesitate to pull on the long gauzy skirt I bought for the occasion over my shorts, and take one of the shawls to cover my shoulders and arms. That was at the Kotel.

For some reason, I am taking this as a sign. A sign to hold onto hope and faith, and not get too discouraged. And maybe stop and light she Shabbos candles every week.

Warm Whispers and Precious Things

I'm lying on my bed, trying to finish "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," because I've somehow managed to evade it all through my English classes. I love it; I'm almost at the end but it's one of those books that you don't want to end, you want to stay with the characters a little longer.
I'm listening to a playlist on Spotify, and what should come on is Missy Higgins's "Warm Whispers." I love this song. I found it while at UNC and I can't tell you how many times I sat at my desk, trying to figure out biostatistics while listening to music that kept my spirit intact. The song reminds me of my running group, who, to this day, I think about often - the runs on the concrete, the trail runs, the sprints, everything. How veneers slowly came off as we sweated and pushed out bodies to keep going.
The next song is "Precious Things," one of my very favorite Tori Amos songs (but let's be real, I kind of like all of them). I love the angry pounding of the piano, the righteous anger in the song. There is a force to that song.

Music has always been a part of my life. It's been there when I felt hopeless and my family was turned upside down. It was there when, in high school, I listened to Sarah McLachlan's "Angel" at Lilith Fair, and decided I wanted to live, and made up my mind to agree to try antidepressants. It's been there during frat parties where we drank semi-warm beer from cups and thought that these were the days we'll remember, these are the days  - singing "Livin' on a Prayer," "Glory Days," and so forth. I can't help but smile when I hear those songs. Study sessions with Manda, with Ani DiFranco or Sarah McLachlan in the background. "Build Me up Buttercup" was our unofficial sorority song. Norah Jones got me through the move to Florida and the confusion I felt that I made the wrong choice. Guster was a big deal in college. Phish - man, I saw them in concerts a lot. Now those are great memories.

lately, this is my life soundtrack:
"Dirty Love" by Ke$ha
versions of "Hallelujah"
"Hot Topic" by Le Tigre
"Napoleon" by Ani DiFranco
"Carolina in my Mind" by James Taylor
"Skinny love" by Birdy
"Come Alive" by Jes Hudak
"Let it Be" by the Beatles

What are the songs that define us? Or add color to the mosaic that is yourself? What songs do we turn to in moments of sadness, or joy, or anger? How does our personal soundtrack change over time? Interesting thought.
Here's Missy Higgins, with "Warm Whispers." The video is just a picture with the song going - all the live videos I saw weren't that great.

Art School Semester #3: Check.

This is it. I leave the city early tomorrow morning. I only have one semester of art school left. (Of courses, anyway - we have another 3 years to do our thesis, I plan on only taking one). I cannot believe the semester is over. In some ways this has trudged by - I remember the first day of school and thinking, "why are there so many first years in my classes?" because I didn't recognize anyone. And now we're making plans to workshop pieces, send book lists, hang out, etc. I had two amazing professors this semester, Eileen Myles (whom BUST magazine called "the rock star of modern poetry") and Rebecca Godfrey. Both had syllabi that introduced me to compelling new writers that broke the mold of the "literary canon" that's been full of dead white men. And the occasional mention of Virginia Woolf. And I felt more like an "artist" this semester than I have....ever, I think.

High Points of the Semester:
1. Having Eileen Myles as a prof and actually like, having conversations with her.
2. Meeting author Laurie Weeks (also mentioned in Hot Topic song and was a screenwriter for "Boys Don't Cry") and having her tell me to *trust myself*, even though you'll be told not to.
3. Reading. In public. With the rest of Eileen's class. We put it together at a gallery, had Bob Gluck come, Cecelia Dougherty was there (another Hot Topic mention), and we had a pretty big turnout, if I do say so myself. I was terrified, but I did it.
4. Becoming facebook friends and email buds with Lidia Yuknavitch, whose memoir is just so kick-ass-tastic and called Holden Caulfield a "whiny little bitch." ha!
5. Visits to the Strand.
6. Getting to know more first-years, who are a pretty great bunch.
7. Having two Australian roommates who are normal and not crazy and actually eat Vegimite.
8. My discovery of Old Navy performance fleece. Why did no one tell me about this before? Why wear anything else?

Low Points of the Semester:
1. Still trying to figure out thesis....illness/death memoir of aunt, Southern lit's influence on me.....we shall see. Maybe I will just write ALL THE THINGS.
2. All this medical stuff which has, as of right now, been diagnosed as Essential Tremor. It used to be called Benign Essential Tremor, but it is far from benign. It's a progressive neurological condition that causes, you guessed it, tremors. I have bad ones in my hands, legs, and a slight one in my head, that the neuro picked up. But my doctor is wonderful - he is one of those doctors that you really just want to thank for being who he is - never rushed, thoughtful, personable, treats you as a person.....too bad he's married. Cause I think he's Jewish, too. :(
3. Financial cost of living in NYC.
4. Dropping the famous J-school book seminar I earned my way into.
5. Having one of the meds my doc put me on have the same effect as Ambien does on me - I woke up the next day to a "thank you for your order" email from Old Navy that I had no recollection of. Thankfully, my medicated me simply did holiday shopping for other people's gifts. Practical, even when drugged.
6. My pre-Thanksgiving subway/cab/running adventure with a first year, Hal. It was like a bad holiday movie. The subway was held up, we got out and tried to get a cab, no luck, we're running through Penn Station.......yeah. He offered to hold my bag. He's quite the gentleman. But he's like, 22. A fetus.

I'm actually surprised there are more high points, because it's been a rough semester emotionally and physically, but I think the ET has had a lot to do with it. When you have a chronic condition but it's invisible, people think you're fine. No one would ever give up a seat on the subway for me, even though sometimes my legs shake very badly. (But I'd give it to an old person first). When I bail on events because I have to come home after class and nap because a two hour period of being "on" is exhausting, it's hard to explain that to people. Since we thought maybe it was MS in the beginning, I found a pretty cool group of young people on Instagram, Twitter, etc, who have MS. They completely understand when I feel like people think I have the DTs because I shake - because sometimes people think they're drunk if they slur or off balance. They understand the sheer fatigue that really no sleep can make better. And they have a wicked sense of black humor.

I have a lot to do over break. Write. Read. A lot. More. It was my goal to read 200 books this year; I've surpassed that and now am trying to hit 300, but I'm not sure it will happen. got some catching up to do.
good times.

gift to myself.

By the time I post this, it will be my birthday. My 32nd birthday. It almost doesn't seem real. Like, this means I am actually an adult. I am in my early 30's. Has life turned out the way I planned? Hell no. Am I happy with this life? Most of the time. I am happy that I am privileged enough to have these two years of writing, I am happy that I found a home in Chapel Hill, and I am lucky to have wonderful friends and family. I never thought I'd be an aunt by now, and for that, I am immeasurably grateful. But I've been thinking a lot about life, and I figured now's a good a time as any to make this announcement.

In three years, I will be 35. Or as OB/GYNs like to call it, "advanced maternal age." Having worked in maternal-child health, I know my fertility has already probably taken a nosedive before I turned 30. In fact, I like to envision my eggs bouncing around my ovaries with bifocals on, Depends, pushing walkers, and using canes. Some cracks here and there, but they're mine. I know women have had babies later in life. My own doctor had her daughter as a single mother at the age of 42. Sandra Bullock adopted in her 40s. So here it is: If I do not meet THE GUY before I turn 35, I am wholeheartedly pursuing single motherhood by choice. (SMBC). Lots of women do it. I know I would be an excellent mother. Without a doubt. I know it's hard work. But I am not willing to forgo the experience of being a mother just because I don't meet the right guy in time. If I have to have IVF, IUI, adopt - I don't care. I'd freeze my eggs now, if I had the money. My child does not have to look like me to be mine. Whether it comes to me or through me, whether it grows in my uterus or my heart, it really doesn't matter. My child(ren) are out there somewhere, and when the time is right, it will happen.

I've been thinking about this for a while, because there's almost nothing more that I want than to become a mother. Being with kids and taking care of them is one of the few things that comes naturally to me, that I don't second-guess myself at. It's a no-brainer. But it's not like you can really post this on your Facebook page or make an announcement at Thanksgiving dinner - hey, if I don't meet the right guy, I'm knocking myself up! Not quite. But knowing that I have a plan in mind, knowing that I do not have to give up being a mother if I don't find the right guy, makes me very happy. It makes my heart settle. And maybe things don't have to follow the order of that childhood rhyme we were all taught - maybe a baby can come first, then love, then marriage. In the end, does it really matter, anyway?