Sandy: A lot like grief

In New York, tired is a way of living. But it's usually a weariness of mind that you come to accept and shake off every few months with a trip to the suburbs or a less frenetic city.

The tiredness I have now is nothing like that. It feels a lot like grief. My city's buses and trains are moving, but so much else is still on the outside edges -- in tatters and hurting. Things here will not be a type of normal for many people for a very long time. And I know it, but sometimes I forget for a while, and then it washes over me again. Grief. 

I feel blessed to know what my neighbors in Staten Island and Far Rockaway and New Jersey are going through from my work experience over the past week, but guilty for dusting off my boots, taking a shower and settling into clean sheets in a warm bed to watch "South Park."

I have nothing to grieve for. Rich and I were so lucky in so many ways. Lucky we lived in a high place, unaffected by the storm. Lucky we have electricity. Lucky we have heat. Lucky we have employers that accommodated us. Lucky we had each other. Lucky we're alive.

I want to stress this. So many others were not so lucky. So many. I've been in the news business long enough to know how quickly the images become a blur. The houses. The garbage. The crying children and mothers and wandering, lost pets. The stacks of supplies. You've probably seen it all, and you're already sick of hearing about it.

But let me tell you something now. This is Amanda, your friend or relative or casual acquaintance. I've never seen anything like what I saw on Staten Island in the United States. It looked like a Third World country on the brink of breaking down. Have you seen this? The news coverage is beginning to turn away from this reality. It's the way of things, I know. Other things. The election. Back to the Upper West Side toddler murders. Remember those? You'll be swayed to turn away from the devastation. "Anything but Sandy." I get it.

But let me assure you, people will still be in need. I thank everyone who offered us assistance (there were many people!) Thank God I didn't need it. But there are so many that do. I was in a young couple's basement tearing out their walls. Their home was less than 15 years old. An elderly couple was too frail to come down and help our team as we hacked away at the saturated drywall in their basement bathroom they renovated just last year. Through it all, I thought over and over how easily the young couple could have been Rich and I, the other residents there -- my grandparents. What toll would that take on me? Would I be on the next plane to help my family? People are reacting as I hope I would, working to exhaustion on their homes and driving through garbage piles to help their loved ones.

But really, things aren't going to be all right for quite a while. Think about donating to someone.

And just a little P.S. -- A couple of things I learned about my city in the storm's aftermath:

1.  There are good people here. 

My cabbie picked me up and drove me through a maze of dead skyscrapers to get me to work. He nursed his cab to my workplace, running on fumes to get me to my destination. He has regularly waited hours on line to get gas. He has three kids and is currently looking into getting his mortgage payment adjusted because he couldn't work when his cab ran out of gas. He apologized profusely that he couldn't take me to work every day after Sandy. 

       

      2. This is a dramatic, beautiful place. 

NYC is lacking a mountain, in my opinion. It can be loud. It's manic. But it can be other things, too. It's devastating in its beauty -- and its quiet. I took the East River Ferry one day home from work. For two hours, I took in the gray skies and gray tides and iron skyline. I couldn't stop watching. Another day, I walked across the cold Manhattan Bridge in the light rain and stared between the fences and concrete slats at the rushing brown water below. I didn't breathe. It's not my typical standard of beauty. That's usually green and blue and bright. But New York's dark and melancholy and beaten look has its draw. Lucky that, because most of us are taking on that allure these days. 

At the sole of my consumer manipulation

I don't know if this is as insidious as I'm thinking, but I think I'm thinking right.

I wouldn't put this complete distraction past retailers as utter boots manipulation. And I'm slowly giving in, putting the boots in my shopping cart and then, realizing my insanity, yanking them out and chastising myself by repeating the ridiculous price point over and over again.

The boots. The BOOTS! They're everywhere. And I want them. But the ones I want are upwards of $200 in nearly every shop and website I've been to. 

You probably know what ones I'm talking about already. You want them, too. They're real leather brown calf-high riding boots. (Because I have athletic calves - they're of the wide-calf variety. So special attention that they'll actually zip up must be paid - and often paid, unfortunately, in dollars and extra leather cents.)

And look at you, my reader friend, you are already thinking of the boots you have or the ones you want. Or, if you're looking out the window, you're beginning to feel something is missing in the outfit you're wearing as the 15 women on the street walking by are wearing brown in various states of brown bootness, sporting buckles and bows and ties and clamps of varying intensity based on their style preference. Or, in most cases, they're wearing whatever is available in the store that won't set you back an arm and a leg -- that would, figuratively if literally taken, make the boots useless. Apparently, after looking at that last sentence, I've been thinking about this too much.

I'm strong in my no-boots policy. And in my no-trench coat policy. I been pining for a specific trench coat that's just not in my budget right now, but the self-convincing isn't working so well these days as I confuse L.L. Bean by being the most indecisive customer ever, going through almost all the steps of online purchasing, but stopping just short of the submit order button.

Why do I care so much about this stuff? About quality clothing and getting the particular brand I want?

I have partially been brainwashed by companies and my environment. I live in New York City where everyone dresses like they have Edith Head and Louis Vuitton making out in their micro-closet in Fort Greene. It's easy to feel daunted here by the lushness of the fashion.

But I realize my boots and trench coat are staples. They're not the flirty blouse of the moment. These would seriously have some staying power in my wardrobe. Or so I think. I sometimes buy so-called staple items and often get sick of them after a few years. But I never pay as much as I would pay for these items and would likely keep them around and wear them just because I invested in them. 

Right now, I have a trench coat that I bought for $3 at a thrift store in Pennsylvania. It's a badge of honor to wear such thrift store finds, but it's thin and I want something that I can wear into the colder months ahead. I also want boots that really fit and I don't have to think about when I'm getting dressed. Just kind of like, "OK, brown boots. That'll be great with jeans." 

These days I hate thinking about clothes and putting in the time to dress like a put-together human being. I want to just be put-together.

The boots are torturing me with promises of brown neutrality, and the trench coat with the illusive wool lining wrapping me up in promises of warm mornings and crisp fall air.

_______________

Since writing the above, I have remembered that I purchased a pair of black boots that will be both neutral and amazing. And I've lost some leg since I purchased them, so they don't pinch as much when I'm zipping them up. As for the trench coat, I'm still, daily, visiting the site and checking out the coat. I need more hobbies.

Dear friends and family who live far away....

I miss you all in an aching kind of way today.

I realize that I have hurt some of you the last time I saw you and I want to apologize for that. I imagine the distance and quiet has made things sorer. I want to say, more than ever, that I'm often shuffling through the madness of life in some state of loss and hurt and I say things because I am frustrated by that -- that I don't have the answers I think everyone expects of me. I want, more than anything, for the air to be clear and for the hurts to be forgiven. I understand if you feel the same way.

I want you to know that I still love you all, that I always will. I also want you all to know that I may be different from the person you once knew (depending on when we met) and that you may not accept everything about me.  That's OK. Really. That's OK. But please don't intentionally try to hurt me or talk politics with me if you know we disagree.  This creates division and makes it hard when we do finally see each other. If you'd like to get to know me better, keep reading (this blog and others).

If we didn't live far apart, I would have dinner and hot cider at your house tonight. Or you, of course, would be welcome at mine. I would tell you over meatloaf and mashed potatoes that I have finally reached a place of calm about my choice of life, from the man I love to the place I worship -- and that it may not be what you thought it would be, but that it's finally where I'm finding a fit. Aren't you happy for me? I hope you are. Because it is what I wish for you. Really. 

I want you to be happy and if I have somehow made you think I am judging you, I am sorry. I may have judged you (it's something I'm working on, trying to be kinder). But please don't read between the lines of my Facebook posts. There's likely nothing there. I love you as you are and I hope the best things in life for you. Let's be close even as the distance stretches between us. 

My phone call voice is awkward and Skype gives me an extra chin. I am not pretty trying to bridge these distances. My efforts are sadly few. But I'm trying today to move beyond them and the hurts I know I have inflicted. I welcome your presence wherever you are. And I miss you. I really do. I grew up with you, went to college with you, sang with you, drank with you, laughed with you, traveled with you, ate with you, share blood and often tears with you. Don't leave me now when I'm finally becoming the person I think I'm supposed to be. And if I'm not doing this right -- and especially if I am -- I'm going to need every one of you to help me continue to find my way. 

It isn't easy being so far away from you, beloved friends and family everywhere. Waves of homesickness and loneliness wash over me in equal measure with accomplishment and joy at the life I've wrought here. But there are no easy fixes. Only voicemails and phone tag and work. 

I'm calling. Will you call, too? I'll pick up if my phone isn't on vibrate. I promise. Let's not just "Skype sometime" -- let's make a date. Don't worry, this way you don't have to buy drinks for the gal with the extra chin.

The abused borrower

My loan company is aggressive. They're particularly so about not giving access to the Income-Based Repayment Plan. I don't know about yours, but mine is extremely adamant about making documents as hard to find as possible, and the process as difficult as picking a lock with a dead fish. The issue is the IBR allots the amount you pay based on your income - and not on the loan company's crazy schedule of "projected income." Yeah, I should be making more. Rub. It. In. 

I hesitate to give the name of my loan company because I'm afraid they will one day read this and make an even bigger effort to screw with my mind, writing notes in the margins of my "file" about how chatty I am online.

My fears are founded though. I'm not just some paranoid borrower, sitting in a corner with badly non-brushed hair eating leaves. This is serious.

I received a letter the other day that dashed hopes of holiday gifts, any travel that extended beyond the subway and made the prospect of the occasional ice cream cone an expense to be seriously considered. That's how big a number I was quoted to give them. This is a very different number from what I was quoted when I filed my IBR months ago.

These mailings always result with me showing my teeth on the phone to some poor customer service representative. The number changes on my bill and I go on auto-debiting until they quote me another incredibly crazy number a couple of months later.

This is what I would like to say:

"Folks at the LoanCompanyThatShallNotBeNamed, I'm not getting a raise every month so you can fix the amount. And by the way, I needed the loan to go to school, so it's likely that I'm sitting on a "Breaking Bad" stash of cash.

So stop giving me convulsions every time I get an envelope from you. Set the reasonable price that the government says I am OK to pay according to my income and I will pay it. For real. I'm not trying to dodge what I owe. I really do not want to dodge these payments because I know I can't escape them through bankruptcy, running from the country, changing jobs, etc. We are stuck together and I am willing to pay. I got a wonderful education at two amazing universities and I thank God that you were there when I needed you, OhMoneythatisnotMine from LoanCompanyThatShallNotBeNamed. Please lengthen my life with fewer, accurate mailings. It'll be equally beneficial. I promise."

But instead I say things like:

1. Tell me what I owe in the next three months, payment by payment.

2. Why is this number changing so often? 

3. Why is my account still on standard billing and not auto-debit like I asked for three convulsions ago?

4.  May I speak with a manager?

5.  Why don't the IBR people have a phone to answer customer service questions? Isn't that a little stupid? They're the ones EVERYONE wants to talk to.

6.  I hope you got a degree and it's all paid off. Do you get a discount because you work at LoanCompanyThatShallNotBeNamed? No? I thought so. I'm sorry for being such an awful lady.

OK, so I made the last one up. But I'm torn between getting my information through passive aggressive abuse and being an OK human being. Why does it have to be this way?

Loans are an important part of where I am today and I feel good when I can pay my loans every month. Like, I'm doing this the way it should be! I got a job! I can pay it back! Gosh this sucks! But it's an OK kind of 'this sucks'! Sure, take my money!

But loans continue to be a headache for me three years out of school when many other things - such as clogging up my bookshelves with textbooks, dreaming of final term papers erasing, and naming my staplers - has abated. I ask myself every year how this could be easier, so I make copies and file paperwork and write neatly. And the same mess with half-answered questions and sweat-beading stress reminiscent of remembering the differences between British female romantic poets for Brit Lit class always results. 

I'm a FREAKING ADULT NOW. I CAN HANDLE THIS with pens and papers and calm and filing and chamomile tea and ... WHAT THE HELL? YOU LOST MY PAPERWORK AND YOU WANT ME TO SEND THIS 14-page rundown of my income AGAIN?

I hate you Sallie Mae.

Running it in, thank-you-very-much

I hit a milestone last night, me and Mr. Treadmill.

A full 5K running at 11 minutes a mile. I'm not a pro, folks, and I know that's a pathetic time, but I finished it.

Swimming has always been my thing, but lately, I've been happier without my head full of chlorine. The treadmill and the Prospect Park loop have been where I've sweated out my afternoons this summer, trailing behind my guy who is training for his first full marathon.

I'm a run/walker - always have been. Running is fine, but I always savored the word "walk" in the President's Physical Fitness run/walk mile challenge in elementary and high school. It was a torturous endeavor to run a mile in a time allotted by a president (Bill Clinton or George W. Bush) who I knew had his share of sitting behind a desk and eating cheeseburgers.

In fifth grade, I remember distinctly that I couldn't finish the mile in less than 10 minutes. I was one of the last red-faced kids the gym teacher shamed with a "Run it in!" as we pumped our way across the finish line two or three minutes longer than expected.

But things have changed. It's not all woe-is-me. In high school, I was forced to run with my swim team for pre-season conditioning and tried to run and keep up with my athletic cousin during summers. I was slow then and often had to stop and walk. I was a beast in the pool, but, it seemed, I didn't have the lungs for land. And then I twisted my knee skiing and swore off running for more than a year.

Then I met Rich. A runner who has several triathlons under his belt and years of training, he suggested I start with the elliptical trainer and I did. Smooth and steady. And then he said I should try out the treadmill because it has shocks to absorb some of the pounding. And so I did - for about five minutes. I hated it. My knee - screwed up from my ill-advised Shackleton adventure at Seven Springs - literally crunched with every step. But I eventually worked through the pain and began extending my runs to 10 minutes and then 15 and then 20.

Now I'm up to running a 5K in 35 minutes. It may not seem like much to all you runner folk out there, but it's a big deal to someone who thought she would fall on the treadmill and get her hair stuck in the mechanisms if she tried such a feat.

The best part? I wasn't dead by the end of the run. My legs felt a little jelly-fied, but not insanely so. I think next time I'll push a little farther and go four or five miles. Who knows - maybe I'll do my own half marathon or marathon someday.  

And, just in case you're wondering, I have a feeling I can meet the President's Challenge these days.

Improvised maracas

Have you ever run with a bottle of pills stuffed down the back of your sports bra? I have.

 I know how that sounds like I've joined the cast of "Breaking Bad." I haven't.

It's New Yorker improvisation. You see it a lot here: A guy with a full-size ficus tree strapped to his back on the train. A lady with her plastic Target bags knotted at the top and slung over the shoulder like a hobo bag. A musician strumming a guitar, keeping time with cymbals latched to his knees.

I'm one of these improvisers. But it doesn't usually work so well for me. One time I was moving apartments probably the fifth time out of 8 when I needed to move a small cabinet with wheels. My back was already laden with bags, so I decided to push the cabinet ahead of me with one hand down the street. This worked for a block and half. Then the first wheel clunked off.

And then the second.

By the next block I was wheel-less and laughing my head off at my misfortune. It was right there on Fulton Mall, people walked past probably wondering why anyone would pile all of her worldly goods on her back and expect such a cheap set of Tupperware-esque drawers to stay wheeled.

But I have to say, I've gotten better at this stuff. I once carried three full-size kitchen chairs home from Columbus Circle. I sat on one in the subway and thought I looked very smart staring at the tourists like, "What? You forgot to bring your own seating? Amateurs!"

So I thought pills wouldn't be too tough to deal with. My pharmacy couldn't take my prescription card information over the phone, so I had to stop at the pharmacy, give them my card, and then, running short on time because of all of their checking that I was actually due the benefit that I had the card for, had to rush off to the park to run. My migraine pills were coming with me. With no bag, I was kind of in a tight spot, but I'd figure something out.

And I did. Down my back the bottle went. I felt a little illegal, but it was all legally prescribed, so I promptly forgot about it. I usually walk briskly to start my workout. I forgot about the prescription, and the fact that I probably looked like I had some kind of bulbous growth on my spine, and got into the zone of sweet workout pain.

I decided to start running by taking a hill.

I turned around, looking for the man with the maracas. No one was there.  Then I remembered. I improvise.

The pills shaking in their little bottle actually turned out to be a comforting tune that helped me keep tabs on my breathing. Shake, shake, shake. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Shake, shake, shake. Breathe. Breathe Breathe. I ended up running almost a full 5K complete with a momentous hill that any Prospect Park runner knows and dreads, pills shaking audibly the whole way. I imagine the people passing me (without headphones) thought I was a nutter transporting prescription drugs across the park. Or, if I'm being generous, I thought they thought I was trying out some new runner gadgetry that helped me manage my stride. 

To keep up the facade of the last idea, I looked intense and kept on sweating. Improvisation.

Baby pictures thwarted with new Chrome plug-in

I love your kids. I really do. I especially love that they're yours.

But really, who doesn't love a baby photo? I do. It's the perfect way to share in the cuteness of a child, but not actually clean up after one. I've followed the lives of some of my relatives' kids solely through Facebook.

But when I'm inundated with baby photos, as I sometimes do, it tends to get a little tiresome and...weird. I risk alienating myself from nearly every friend and family member with a child by saying this, but when it comes to babies - and especially newborns - I'm usually with George Carlin.

So I had to laugh when I heard about this plug-in for Chrome called Unbaby.me. It works like this: The extension replaces any and all baby pictures on Facebook with other content that you get to choose (i.e. cats, baby sloths or squirrels). After installing the program, users refresh their Facebook feed, and the babies are replaced by something else that you specify like "squirrels" or "baby sloths" or a Flickr feed.

In the spirit of research, I decided to try it out for a time on Chrome. This is the message you get when you're setting up the plug-in: "These are the words and phrases which power the extension. If your pal Debbie just had a kid, it might be wise to add her name here. That'll ensure maximum protection.

year old, so adorable, our family, just learned to walk, years old, month old, months old, so adorable, pajamas, eating solid foods, crawling, so cute, is precious, is too cute, look at those cheeks, cutest baby ever, newborn, and mommy, looks like dad, toesies, just like mom, looks like mom, mother and, father and, cute baby, can't wait to meet, gorgeous baby, infant, new addition to the family, first ballgame, day old, bundle of joy, birth, ultrasound, baby feet, lbs oz, toddler, carriage, cradle, gave birth, little one, baby boy, baby girl, 1st birthday, is growing up, diaper, diapers, tiny toes, all snuggly, binky, pacifier, bib, onesie, sockies, gerber, such an angel, what an angel, little angel, little princess, daycare, tantrum, won't stop crying, is finally napping, first steps, carseat,"

The creator of the code told the Huffington Post, "On Twitter, people were saying we just fixed the Internet."

I'm trying it out now with baby sloths. We'll see if I like it or just get annoyed with it. Or even lonesome for the human babies - which may happen.

Babies are interesting and also scary to talk about. It's so personal. And pictures of those babies mean so much to mothers and fathers. Pictures are a way parents show they care about their kids. Pictures document kids growing up for family members and friends who live far away.

But people are obviously annoyed. I think even moms and dads sometimes even get irritated by having to upload those pictures of every family outing-turned-photo shoot.

I know I get irritated by this pressure while on vacation. And, I have to admit, I wonder if people care so much to see me sprawled out like a whale on some beach that they didn't get to visit. Do they? Maybe we should all be more selective in what we post online. Or filter photos to the people we know will care - like Grandma in Boca Raton (baby pics) or a boyfriend who doesn't mind wobbly bits.

Respectful thoughts welcomed.