Works in progress

The day of my big move was last Saturday, with the help of the Sensitive Bostonian, the Sensitive Bostonian's Brother, and of course my sister Ms. Swamp. A little more than 24 hours later, when Dreamy called to check in, all but 8 of my boxes had been unpacked and I was hanging paintings on my wall. Now, 9 days in, I've bought the missing furnishings and kitchen and bath implements during an epic Ikea visit, unpacked all but 4 of my boxes, and assembled my futon. It's beginning to look pretty good in here.

When Dreamy first saw my house, he exclaimed, "Wow, this is like a real, grown-up place to live." I am gradually coming to realize that, while I am a fully formed adult, Dreamy is in some ways lagging behind. Just like my house, he needs a bit of fixing up and assembling. And luckily, I have just enough energy to work on my house and dedicate some to working on Dreamy, too. Moreover, he seems more than happy to have me do it; in fact, he almost begged me this weekend to become his life coach.

I have been living independently for about 13 years, cooking for myself, doing my own shopping, paying my bills. Even as an undergrad, I lived for only 4 months in a dorm, and the rest of the time my lifestyle wasn't so different from what it is now. Dreamy, in the meantime, has spent most of those years as a student living in a dorm, and still eats his meals in a dining hall. He spent the first year after college living abroad and teaching at an international school, where he lived on campus. In total, he's only lived independently for a couple of years. And sometimes it strikes me that his life is a bit too similar to that of an undergrad's.

For instance, take Friday night. Dreamy passed an important professional test, and we went out with his friends to celebrate. After a few beers, Dreamy had the brilliant idea of ordering two gigantic drinks that came in bowls that were meant to be shared by several people. The cost came to $60 for the two of them, and these things were REVOLTING. One of them was gummy worm flavored; I don't even want to know what the other one was. They were stomach-churningly awful, and something an 18-year old would no doubt down happily. Being well past the age of 18, I was only able to down a couple of sips. I mean, seriously, what kind of a 30-year-old orders these drinks? In my normal life, I don't even go anywhere near bars that SERVE drinks like that, let alone actually order them.

Then, on Saturday, I was getting out some winter clothes from my boxes and casually asked Dreamy if he does the summer-to-winter changeover, or if he's the kind of person who doesn't have a lot of clothes and keeps them all out year-round. (I am most definitely NOT that kind of person. Even with the changeover my drawers are overflowing, and I have a lot of drawers.) In my mind, this was a perfectly normal question, but Dreamy looked at me like a child who just saw a television for the first time. "Wow, that's an amazing idea!" he exclaimed. "You mean I should take out all those t-shirts that I never wear in the wintertime and put them in my closet?"

So, Dreamy needs a bit of work -- a little painting here, some sanding there. Really, very few men come ready for use. My first suggestion as his life coach was that he get a murse. I know what you're thinking; he'll look ridiculous, kind of like this guy (the one at the top). But I firmly believe that there are manly, messenger-style murses out there to be found, and if Dreamy got used to carrying one around, he would be far less likely to forget the myriad necessities he is constantly leaving behind -- his keys, his wallet, his Tylenol, etc. To that end, we went to the bookstore this weekend and I bought Manhood for Amateurs by Michael Chabon so that I could direct him to the chapter, "I feel good about my murse."

After we get Dreamy a murse, I'll have to figure out where to turn my attention to next. I suspect there will be plenty more work to come. Stay tuned for updates.

On the radio

I heard an interview with Ayelet Waldman on the radio today that filled my head almost to bursting with things I wanted to blog about. I started listening mid-broadcast, and before I even knew who I was listening to, I was thinking, "I hope I have a relationship someday with the same level of emotional intimacy that she has with her husband." Also, "It's possible that none of the men I've dated in my whole history of dating have been capable of having that kind of relationship." Then I realized that I was listening to Ayelet Waldman and that not only is she wonderful and talented, but she is married to the amazing Michael Chabon, possibly my favorite author ever. (There are probably a few other people I'd say that about too, but it doesn't make it any less true.) No wonder they have a great marriage.

Waldman got in trouble a few years back by writing in the New York Times that she loves her husband more than she loves her children, which led to quite a hue and cry. She also mentioned the hot sex she has with her husband in the article, and I have to say that it kind of pissed me off back in the fall when I was recently heartbroken. Now I'm less bitter, and while I agree with her criticism of herself that she was probably oversharing when she wrote that, I find it kind of endearing. I love the fact that Chabon and Waldman are so open about their imperfections.

Other thoughts that I had during the interview:

• Am I manic depressive? Apparently Waldman is, and she says that manic depressives are oversharers and are responsible for many of the oversharing-but-fascinating blogs and memoirs out there. I can't necessarily claim to be fascinating, but I am definitely an oversharer, or as my friend Miami Nice puts it, I'm afflicted with diarrhea of the mouth. Is it possible to be manic depressive minus the depressive part of it?
• Am I Jewish? She mentioned spending hours worrying about things she had no control over, like which of her parents could handle being left alone if the other one died, and chalked her worrying up to being Jewish. Well, Ayelet, call me a shiksa, but I worry about things like that, too.
  
• Am I going to have to have a horrible, traumatic abortion because I'm getting old and my fetus will be faulty? This happened to Ayelet when she had just turned 35, and she chalked it up to her age. It wasn't clear if the fetus would have problems, but it had a genetic defect and there was a good chance; she wanted to abort, her husband didn't. She won, and described the awful details of having an abortion at 16 weeks and then plunging into a deep depression that lasted for months. It was especially disheartening because I am turning 31 soon and will be lucky to be pregnant by 35, given the lack of a baby daddy in my life at the moment. The good news is that she went on to have two more babies, for a total of four.
• Are there any other men out there who are as great as Michael Chabon?
  

She has a new book out entitled "Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace." Check it out.

"The Classic Dip'n Run"

I was introduced to a new term by my friend Slinky last week: “the classic dip'n run.” This is apparently what has happened to me with the Brazilian.

The first thing that comes to mind when I hear the term is a similar expression from Michael Chabon's amazing book, The Yiddish Policemen's Union. The expression is “dip his beak into him/her,” and it refers to sex (yes, it's totally gross and I love it because it aptly conveys the sleaziness of many of the male characters in the book). Dip'n run could be interpreted as a reference to a man who disappears after sex. However, I choose to interpret it in a nonsexual way: my personal definition is that it refers to a situation in which a member of the male species tries out a relationship with a female for a short time, dipping into relationship territory, then flees out of fear of commitment, weird personal issues, or other mysterious reasons. (Who knows what they're thinking; when I asked my friend Li'l JC this question, she responded, "They're not.")

Presumably, the Brazilian made it back to the U.S. after his extended, volcano-induced stay in Europe. However, he has neglected to contact me, and I have not received a response since sending him a questionnaire several days ago inquiring if he a) is too busy to have a social life, b) doesn't want to see me again, or c) eloped in Europe and is no longer single. This is frustrating for a number of reasons, number one being that I left a pair of cherished earrings at his house, and number two being that I haven't seen him in a month but have spent much of that time thinking that he was excited to see me again. I didn't just think that because he offered to bring me back a gift from Italy or talked about going to the Cape together this summer, I also thought it because when I told him to let me know if he didn't feel excited about going out with me again he replied, “Still very excited!! [Please note the two exclamation points] I just haven't slept very well lately and spent way too much time in a windowless shop. Sorry about that!”

Another reason that I feel frustrated is that, in my humble opinion, he is significantly less attractive than me. This is a first for me; usually I have boyfriends who I consider to be my equals in attractiveness, but I liked the idea of being the more good-looking person in the couple, and plus I did feel attracted to him. If I were the Brazilian, I would be very excited to date me, and I would certainly not play with my emotions in this inconsiderate way.

I do feel a bit disappointed that I won't get to see the Brazilian's futuristic machines or taste the allegedly delicious chocolate that they emit, but in the end, I got few fun days with him and a whole lot of anxiety and annoyance. Not worth it. And if anyone thinks I'm going to mope around about this minor setback, think again! After my ordeal with La Moustache, this is child's play. As my friend Li'l JC put it, “You are more seasoned than a good wok.”

How the Other Half Lives

I moved to Brooklyn six and a half years ago after I graduated from college. I chose Brooklyn because my Canadian visa had expired and I couldn't stay in Montreal, the town I had been living in for the past few years, and because a friend in Brooklyn had an apartment available for sublet. I've loved living there, but sometimes I've wondered if perhaps I should be making life decisions more deliberately, not just letting myself be pulled along by the current. I'm laidback and content by nature, and while these are generally good qualities, they can lead to some laziness in the life decisions department. I heard Michael Chabon on the radio recently say that he's a lazy, happy person, and everything interesting he's ever done in his life he did because his wife pushed him to. I could relate, and it made me think that in the absence of such a partner I need to challenge myself and not let myself to fall into a rut.

I moved to Boston with this in mind, knowing that I could move back to New York if I want to, and that trying out life in a new city could only broaden my horizons. Lately, a cohort of my family has been pushing me to move in the opposite direction, toward the great wild western state of Idaho. My grandmother moved from the Camas Prairie to upstate New York in her late teens, and fled back west some 30 years later at the earliest opportunity; she succeeded in convincing two of her three children to move back with her, and has never quite accepted that her oldest son, my father, is an East Coaster. Only one of her seven brothers and sisters died outside the state, and he died in Utah, which is basically an outlying suburb of Boise. My family there are devoted to the Idaho way of life, and my grandmother told me that if I move out there, I would never come back. My cousin Hunter told me I am welcome to move in with him rent-free, and I'm sure he'd be willing to lend me a pickup truck if I need transportation.

With this generous invitation in the back of my mind, I traveled to Boise last week, where my affable uncle picked me up at the airport and brought me to a hot dog restaurant, remembering that when I was twelve I loved hot dogs. Everyone there kept telling me how easy and comfortable life in Idaho is, and it's true. For much of my visit the temperature hovered barely above 0º fahrenheit, but you could go for days without noticing. One travels from the house to the SUV in the garage without having to suffer a single shiver. My uncle's family has an enviably congenial rapport and spend much of their free time together; I easily joined in their activities. We spent the day last Saturday tailgating a football game (a new pastime for me). My uncle purchased a used bread truck a couple of years ago with some friends and outfitted it with a flatscreen TV, my cousin Hunter pieced together a firepit to keep us warm, and my older cousin grilled chicken wings. Friends dropped by to partake of the hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps. I could care less about football, but it didn't matter; watching the game was secondary to the socializing. It's a cultural experience everyone should have at least once. (If you're interested, let me know and I'll hook you up.)

The following day, Hunter, Grandma and I headed East to the family's ancestral home on the Camas Prairie to visit my 89-year-old great uncle Perry, who continues to singlehandedly run a wheat farm. When we asked him how he's passing his time these days, during the off season, he said he's waiting for the snow to arrive so he can shovel it. However, he's also using his free time to catch up on current events: he has a map of the Middle East hanging prominently in his living room. Hunter brought along an elk liver he had shot and wanted to share with our uncle, who has lived in the same house since the 1940s; he built it with his brothers after they returned from World War II, and his mother lived there too until she passed away in the 70s. Next door to his house is the crumbling remains of the house where he and my grandmother were raised by their stoic single mother. Hunter checked the ads in the Camas News and informed me that there are several teaching positions available in the area, as well as a pig-kissing contest, and everyone told me that Perry would be happy to have me move in (I like kissing pigs almost as much as teaching.). On the way home we stopped for a visit with my cousin Clem, who showed off his most recently restored '56 T-bird and posed for a picture with it. He's a retired principal, and he listened attentively to the sad tale of my teaching woes. I almost forgot while looking into his understanding eyes that he voted for John McCain, opposes abortion rights, and may have more in common with Todd Palin than he does with me.

I ate more fried chicken and gravy in Idaho than you could possibly imagine, along with a whole lot of other food. (And yes, I ate a hot dog too – my first in about 18 years.) I have to say that I enjoyed it, and I could imagine spending my Saturdays tailgating with my cousins, joining them for brunch on Sundays, and probably putting on a few pounds in the process. Life is pretty good in Idaho, although I'm not sure it's the life I will choose for myself. I'm beginning to suspect that you can take the girl out of Brooklyn, but it's harder to take Brooklyn out of the girl.

Next stop after Idaho was Victoria, British Columbia, home to my college friend, her Japanese husband, and their baby. I wasn't even thinking about moving there, but I couldn't help but reflect that I could probably get used to afternoon high tea and shopping at Mountain Equipment Co-op pretty easily, too.