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.

When the private turns public

I've been thinking a lot about life in the public eye. I watch celebrities and public figures from all walks of life every day, from the CEO of the world's biggest computer company to the bombshell actress who is still rockin' it out at 65.

Many have drive, some luck and looks, and still others, simple genius that would not be granted obscurity. The latter seems to be the case for the subject of the latest book I'm reading: John Kennedy Toole. If you haven't heard of him, you're not alone. I had no idea what he was about, but the synopsis for "Butterfly in the Typewriter: The Tragic Life of John Kennedy Toole and the Remarkable Story of 'A Confederacy of Dunces'" certainly got me interested in him.

Toole was a pretty extraordinary academic who, depressed with the editing of his writing career gives up on a novel, and eventually commits suicide. His mom finds his manuscript in a box, pushes someone to read it and eventually publish it. The book became a Pulitzer Prize winner.

While reading of this man's early achievements and ongoing struggles with identity, the reader always has the knowledge that overshadows it all: He's going to kill himself.

I'm currently in a section in which Toole decides to go to New York City's Columbia University and discovers it's not the idealized place he'd visited as a tourist. It's a cold, unforgiving place for the outspoken southerner.

I don't associate with the suicidal stuff -so don't call me asking me if I do - but I do associate with Toole's feelings about New York in contrast to his hometown and conflict about achievement and what it means to a person. This city has a way of sapping your will to buy toilet paper and garlic, so how do you find the sliver of strength to start another documentary? (I'm really trying to be OK with chilling out and slowly moving forward with my next project.)

Toole eventually went back to Louisiana. I'm staying in New York, so I guess I'll have to deal with these distractions and sometimes soul-sapping conditions - and just frickin' produce something. Warning: It may not be a Pulitzer.

So here I am. I don't want to be a celebrity, but I do want to be more of a producer than a constant consumer. (Do you realize, really, how much you consume? I keep my receipts and by the end of the month, there's a pile that won't stay 'stuck' to my bulletin board.)

And I don't want to hide my work in diaries tucked away in my bureau anymore. So I'm back. My previous blog, Girl Meets World, is officially defunct. This is where I - and all the thoughts that escape the confines of a subway car - will now live.

It's a big step to come back into the public eye, especially at a time when there's so much to lose. But I'll have my rules. I hope what I can filter out from behind those restrictions will keep you, dear reader(s), coming back for a little more CityGab.

Finding my running legs

My earliest memory of competitive athletics includes my mother sitting in the grass beside a bubbling blacktop track, kneading her calves and picking at enormous blisters on her feet. She'd done a walk-a-thon, raising money for a cause that I think included Jesus. She completed nearly 20 miles. And then she was in pain for Jesus.

And now I will be in pain for a friend. I'm planning to run a 5K this November with a friend in New York's Central Park. I'm not really a runner. I have a body that has stayed pretty much one hulking shape since age 16 that can only be toned, not reduced. And this arse is pretty heavy to carry around, particularly when you're trying to haul your it over a finish line. 

But I shouldn't be complaining. It's kind of an easy run compared to the torture my boyfriend has signed up for the following day - the New York City Marathon. (Donate here.) Yeah. He's been training for months and I've been running with him on his "recovery" days. Yeah. I'm that lazy.

And I've come pretty far, actually. I began running only when urged. I'd crunched my knee on a particularly crowded ski slope in Pennsylvania and thought I'd never walk again, much less run. But here I am. I'm still a 10-minute mile, but it's not so pathetic anymore. I can run a 5K.

Really, though, my heart is in the pool. I've always secretly wanted to swim the English Channel a la "Dangerous When Wet":

But maybe I should leave that to Esther Williams...I'll just buy swimsuits that look like hers. And run 5Ks.