Dreamy took off for New York last week. Since then, during phone conversations in the evening after work and a weekend visit involving an epic trip to IKEA, I've had several moments in which I've asked myself, "Who is this person??" and, "Did aliens abduct Dreamy and replace him with Martha Stewart?" Here are a few examples:
Me: Hey hon, what's up? I just finished cooking and eating dinner. Dreamy: Oh, me too! Me: What did you have? Dreamy: Pasta made from quinoa, with sauteed veggies like bell peppers, onions, kale [I didn't even think Dreamy was aware of kale's existence], and garlic. I started with the garlic and onions just like you taught me!
Dreamy: What do you think I should do about getting internet at home? Me: Why don't you ask your neighbors if anyone wants to share? Dreamy: How do I get in touch with them? Me: Just knock on their door and introduce yourself. Or wait until you meet them in the hall. Dreamy: Or maybe I could bake something and bring it to them as a little gift! It could be a fun project for us to do together this weekend.
[Late night text message from Dreamy:] These heirloom tomatoes from the farmers market are so delicious!!! I can't wait to get more next week.
Dreamy [repeated about 10 times throughout the weekend]: I'm just so excited about that kitchen island. I think it'll work really well in my kitchen. The blue is the right shade to go with my blue color theme in the kitchen, it's the right size, my silverware tray fits in the drawer, and I think it'll make cooking a lot easier. It's been so hard to cook without much counter space! I can't wait to assemble it. Me: I know. You really love your kitchen island. I'm so happy for you.
Is this the same guy who needed detailed instructions for how to wash and chop carrots? Who needed constant reminders to wash his dishes and take out the garbage? And is his next request of me going to be to teach him how to knit so he can make an afghan for his new IKEA couch?? All of this is making me reflect that, much as I miss him, in the long run it is a very good thing for him to be living on his own for a while. Turns out he's got his own inner Martha Stewart just like the rest of us. He just never got the chance before to let her shine.
In a few days, Dreamy is taking off for New York for his year-long job. This leaves me pondering the same question I've been trying to get to the bottom of for months: Is he my future husband? Because if he is, then a year of long-distance is just a blip on the screen. And if not, it's a colossal waste of time.
I was hoping that things would become clearer over the past three months, since we started co-habiting in June. The problem is, my feelings about Dreamy have fluctuated crazily during that time. A trip to Italy involving a visit with my ex, l'Artista, made me feel for weeks afterward that I don't feel as connected to Dreamy as I once did to l'Artista. But then Dreamy was sweet, supportive and an amazing dancer during my sister's wedding, even though I had told him two days before it that I didn't see our relationship lasting past the summer. We bonded while ziplining and feeding hummingbirds during our Costa Rican vacation. Nose surgery in July that involved four days of nostril tampons made me feel a strange mixture of tenderness and revulsion. And last Sunday, as he stroked my hair while I puked following a few too many vodka shots, I felt sure he was the one.
Somehow, even though I may have felt totally differently five minutes earlier, I always feel convinced that what I'm feeling in that particular moment is a true reflection of how I really feel deep down about Dreamy. I've finally decided that to get to the bottom of this I need to start keeping records, à la my Man List. So I'm starting a new document on my computer (top-secret with a fake, boring name, of course) in which I'll keep track of how I'm feeling about Dreamy every day. I'll write a few notes as well as rate my feelings on a score from 1 to 10. I'm calling it the Fickle-o-meter because I've never felt so fickle in all my life, even when I was two and got kicked out of the candy store because I couldn't choose which candy to buy.
The crazy thing is that between when I first came up with the idea during my bike ride home and now, two hours later, Dreamy's score for today has somehow skyrocketed from a 6 to an 8, even though I haven't seen him during that time or had any communication with him. Talk about fickle! I guess I'll have to wait until after our date tonight to finalize his score for the day.
Over the past five days, as Hurricane Irene wended its way slowly but surely toward the Northeast, I have gotten a total of 8 phone calls from the City of New York, directed toward its city workers:
Your city needs you in this time of crisis! You have been called upon to work at a hurricane evacuation center. You will be expected to report for duty tomorrow. Press 1 if you would like to work the first shift, from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. Press 2 if you would like to work the second shift, from 10 p.m. to 10 a.m. On behalf of the city of New York, thank you!
Hey, New York! I think you're having a little memory lapse. Remember how you fired me two years ago? Remember how I had to move to a new city because a mysterious lawyer called every public school that tried to hire me within the 5 boroughs?
So, which button should I press for "Screw you, New York"?
I'm in New York for a couple of days to celebrate my dear friend Miami Nice's bachelorette party. I couldn't be happier for her or more excited for her wedding in Vermont in a few short weeks. After 12 years together, it is definitely time for them to tie the knot! When I broke up with La Moustache in a series of text messages from a beach in Queens where I was sunbathing with his aunt and uncle last September, I fled immediately to Miami and her fiance's apartment. The three of us sat on their slouchy beige couch that evening and wrote my first online dating profile together. They are amazing friends, and I feel so lucky to have them in my life, even if it's a bit harder these days to drop by for a bowl of ice cream and an hour or two of junky television like I used to do in the past.
Yesterday Miami and I decided to indulge ourselves, and we made appointments at Bumble and bumble for the most expensive haircut I've ever gotten (we do look great, though). As we were leaving the salon, a call came in from another dear friend of mine, Checkered Girl. She was in tears, calling to let me know that she wouldn't be making it to the bachelorette party after all. Her boyfriend of two years who she's living with broke up with her the night before.
This is not the first time it's felt that Checkered Girl and I are living parallel lives, except she's a year behind me. We both had l'Artista-type boyfriends, handsome and sexy and utterly commitment-phobic, that went on for WAY longer than they should have (mine was much nicer than hers, though). We both found inner reserves of strength and moved on. Then we both found boyfriends who seemed ready to take the next step with us. They wooed us, convincing us to be with them by telling us how dedicated they were to making a relationship work long-term. We both moved in with them fairly quickly, after 7 or 8 months. And then they both fell through. It is so sad and painful to watch it happen to a friend of mine, to know exactly what she's going through and not be able to do anything to help.
Her story may have a different ending than mine. In this case, her boyfriend is much nicer than La Moustache. I like him a lot, and I hope he will wake up and realize that he will never, ever find a better girlfriend, and do whatever it takes to get past his issues and work it out.
The bachelorette was great. There were 8 of us, and I ended up sitting next to a tiny girl who probably weights ten pounds less than I do (and I weigh under 100), across from two vegetarians. We ordered the Meat Lover's Meal for 6 at a delicious Korean/Japanese barbeque joint. The plates arrived two by two, one going to the side of the table where 4 hungry meat eaters sat (including one who's pregnant with twins), the other going to me and the tiny girl. Well, guess who ravenously managed to devour half of the beef -- that's right, the two girls who look like they're twelve! The other side of the table still had a number of beef chunks left by the time dinner was over, but our plates were empty except for little bloody pools.
It was a great time, and totally worth the hangover this morning (including the multiple times I had to run to the bathroom to puke -- not sure if it was the beef or the lychee martinis that didn't agree with me). Still, as I was out with Miami and her friends drinking girly drinks and painting the town red, I thought often of how Checkered Girl must be feeling now, and my eyes teared up a bit. At the same time, I feel so, so thankful that I am a year past that feeling myself. I know she'll get past it, too.
I'm heading to New York City later this week, and am faced with the same dilemma I've been wrestling with for years: whether to go see my Wise Woman or get my nails done on.
My Wise Woman is only available to see me on Thursdays, and late -- when we don't run over our prescribed hour together (which is a rare occurrence) I get out after 8. But Thursday is also the evening that Dashing Diva offers their amazing mani and pedi with unlimited Cosmpolitans deal. That's right, you get as many cosmos as you can fit in while getting your nails done, for free! (Well, free with your ridiculously overpriced mani or pedi.) My record is 2, but if I ever get another opportunity I'd like to try for 3. It really doesn't get any better -- all other manis and pedis pale by comparison. And Dashing Diva closes at 9. I could go get my mani/pedi done early, but it's not really socially acceptable to drink before seeing one's Wise Woman. (Or is it? Maybe I should think more about this possibility.)
Anyway, it's not really that hard of a decision -- of COURSE I always choose my Wise Woman. But I really, really wish I didn't have to choose. A solution to all my woes would be if Dashing Diva would open a Boston store. Or perhaps my Wise Woman could be convinced to move to Boston.
I clambered onto the Boston-to-New York bus last Tuesday with a scant three minutes to spare, sweating and with multiple bags hanging off my limbs. As I was in the process of asking a passenger to move her bags out of the seat next to her so I could sit there, I saw a hand wave and a voice call my name from the back of the bus. It was Abbi, a 3rd grade teacher at the Cambridge school I work at. I greeted her warmly and settled in next to her.
The first day I worked in Abbi's classroom her students announced to me that they were the worst class in the school. I politely responded, “Oh really?”, but inside I was scoffing and thinking, “Ha! You think THIS is bad? You don't know what bad is.” Still, the class does have a reputation in the school; usually when it is mentioned people respond, “Oh, they're a challenging group, that class.” And there are some challenging behaviors, just not compared to what I dealt with last year. On the other hand, they also happen to be a very likable, engaging bunch. (On my first day back after vacation, it was reported to me that a darling, extremely ADHD little boy who never responds when I say hi to him because he can't stop moving long enough to say hi back had told a classmate that I am “very nice and very pretty.” I was awfully flattered.)
Abbi appreciates their positive qualities, but still, she was ready for spring break. She told me that she feels like she works all the time, and when not working she feels guilty for not working. It brought back a flood of memories for me: counting down how many days were left of school, feeling like I couldn't wait for spring break to arrive but as soon as it did dreading its end, working until 10 pm each evening and then dreaming about my students after I went to bed.
This year, by contrast, spring break arrived like an unexpected strawberry on top of a slice of chocolate cake: delicious and fun, but by no means necessary. I didn't even think much about it before it arrived. So while I commiserated with Abbi, I felt relieved and glad to not be in her shoes. (I also noted mentally that she has five less kids than I had last year, less difficult behaviors, an hour less of school per day, and one more prep than I did, so I didn't feel TOO bad for her.) I am getting to know the kids better at both my jobs, and the sheer joy I get from spending time with them underscores for me that I am in the right profession. However, the feeling of being burned out that my sister and many other talented teachers I know who have taught for a few years are experiencing is a red flag I feel I should heed. It goes without saying that I don't ever want to have another year like last year, but more than that, I hope to find a job that allows for a healthy work-life balance (at least after a year or two). From my observations so far, the place to look for that job might just be Cambridge, the land of utopian public schools with abundant resources and support.
When I saw my Wise Woman later in the week, she was thrilled to hear my job news. I've known her now for 4 ½ years, and it feels like she's become a friend, albeit one who I have to pay $95 an hour to talk to. (Luckily my other friends are less pricey.) At this point, visits with her have become a bit of an ego trip for me: when she's not listening to me, she spends much of the time talking about how impressed she is with me, and telling me what a strong, healthy person I am. She did, however, mention one little nugget that she had never shared with me before, an observation about La Moustache, who she met last September. “You know who he reminds me of?” she asked. “Someone pretending to be Jean-Paul Belmondo.”
OUCH. I've certainly flung a number of insults Moustache's way over the past few months, but I think she may have topped me with that one.
I have a lot of things to be excited about today. It's the first day of spring break, for starters, and despite the rainy, 40 degree weather, in my mind it's sunny and in the 70s. I launched Spring Break by attending a champagne tasting last night with a fellow refugee from NYC, and we got happily drunk, criticized the fashion sense of Bostonians and the orange-pantalooned Frenchman who gave us a talk about sparkling red wines, and got temporary wine tattoos which made me feel surprisingly sexy. I'll be heading to New York for vacation in a few days, and have lots of exciting plans like shopping, going to the Bronx Zoo, visiting my Wise Woman (isn't that part of everyone's vacation plans?), and of course catching up with friends.
I also received a gigantic box in the mail this morning containing my spring wardrobe from my friend Style Mummy. She's a fashionista who is a few years my senior and owns a trendy boutique in Park Slope, and since we happen to be the same exact size, she gives me her copious hand-me-downs (including shoes & the occasional bra). I know not everyone is as excited about clothes as I am, so I won't go into the details, but I'll just say that I'm super excited about the contents, especially a few Velvet items and a Diane von Furstenburg skirt. She's now been outfitting me for five and a half years!
Another source of excitement is the Brazilian's imminent return from Italy tomorrow, as long as Icelandic ash doesn't deter his travel plans. Of course, this also means a renewal of my anxiety. He was in Italy receiving an award for which he has to create a project, and before his trip he was busy day and night working on its design, so I haven't seen him in a while or heard from him since he's been gone. At one point I wondered about his silence and asked him to let me know if he didn't feel excited about seeing me again, and he assured me that he is still very excited, but also sleep-deprived and overworked. This will probably still be the case after he gets back, and I hope he doesn't tarry too long in getting in touch, not just because I'm anxious to get my hands on the bottle of grappa he promised to bring back for me. The “Red Flags” section next to his name on my Man List remains empty, and the “Questions” category has just two entries: Might be too busy and Not sure if he wants children (though Pro #12 is Seems to like kids, which I added after noticing him smile and wink at toddlers while we were having breakfast at a coffee shop a couple of weeks ago). He told me I was welcome to come to Italy with him; thank goodness spring break didn't coincide with his trip or I would have been seriously tempted. This afternoon I was discussing my situation with my sister, Ms. Swamp, as she scrubbed her toaster oven, and she recommended, “You should tell him you really like him and see how he responds.” “Oh, I told him that already on our third date,” I said. “Was I not supposed to say it so soon?” (He responded well.)
I'm also excited about the paycheck I received last week; I never asked how much my pay in Cambridge would be because I wanted it to be a surprise, and it turned out to be quite a pleasant one. I'll still need to figure out what I am doing over the summer and next year, but for the next couple of months at least I'll be quite comfortable (much more so than I was as a NYC public school teacher). And the best thing is I'm working exactly 40 hours a week and rarely have to spend a single moment thinking about my jobs when I'm not at them, let alone work until 10 pm and then dream about work as I did last year. The resources available in Cambridge amaze me on a daily basis; feels like the Paradise of Public Schools.
And finally, I'm excited because Monday is Marathon Monday in Boston, and since I moved shortly after Marathon Sunday in NY, I get two marathons this year. I have absolutely no interest in running myself, but watching other people run is very satisfying. Hopefully by then the rain will stop and the temperature will rise to match my mood.
Today, of course, is Valentine's Day, the traditional archnemesis of the newly single. As much as I hate to admit it, it has caused me to think a bit wistfully of La Moustache once or twice this week. Not that I'm sad that we broke up, just sad that I turned out to be so woefully wrong about his character (or lack thereof).
Three years ago today we celebrated our first Valentine's Day together. Moustache had had a visit from a French friend not long before who brought him a gift of a Raclette grill, and on V-day 2007 he started a tradition of having a Valentine's Raclette dinner. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of enjoying a Raclette dinner, the grill is an electrical appliance with what looks like four miniature frying pans that heat up when it is plugged in. To make the dinner, one places slices of Raclette cheese – a delicious cheese that uncannily smells exactly like the dirtiest, sweatiest feet you could possibly imagine – on these mini frying pans, where they melt. Then, one empties the melty contents of the pans onto boiled potatoes, broccoli and charcuterie, and finally one gobbles them up.
That first year, I was still in graduate school, and when I got out at 9 pm he was waiting for me outside the school, his arms overflowing with gifts and flowers. We headed to his studio apartment on 10th Avenue, where we consumed our dinner and gazed into each others' eyes, and despite how tired I was it was all very romantic.
On V-day 2008, we continued this tradition, and again had a very scrumptious dinner. It was my first year as a full-time teacher, and midway through dinner, abetted by the champagne we were drinking, I was hit by a wave of exhaustion. We headed to bed early, and as I lay curled up in bed beside him, I began to feel very strange. It wasn't exactly nausea or coldy-feeling; I had never felt quite like this before, and was unsure how to describe it. Nonetheless, I reported this strange feeling to La Moustache, and then asked, “Do you think I'm getting sick?” “Oh, no,” he responded, “You'll be fine. Just go to sleep.” Reassured, I put my arms around him and snuggled up against his back. Approximately ten seconds later was when the wave hit, completely out of the blue, like a tsunami. Before I had any time to react or turn aside, vomit was pouring out of my mouth, onto the bed, onto Moustache's pajamas. And this was not just any vomit, it was Raclette vomit, with the sweaty feet smell amplified and mixed with champagne.
And so ended our Raclette tradition. V-day 2009 found us in Mexico City, where we helped set the record for most couples kissing simultaneously (39,897 people, which begs the question – did someone double up??). At the time, I would never in a thousand years have guessed what the following year would bring.
This year, V-Day 2010, my date is my little Green Bean, who started off the day on a romantic note by regurgitating his breakfast for me. In the end, he has turned out to be a much better consort than La Moustache. In fact, here he comes now, flying across the room to land on my head with the same happy, excited look he gives me every single day. I'm sure he won't be my only companion for long, but in the meantime I am quite content with my little sidekick.
Plus, I got the single best Valentine's Day gift I have ever received this year from my *very* generous mother, a fuzzy, gorgeous Valentine's sweater. Thanks Mom!
It started when I was student teaching in the 5th grade during a field trip to Gettysburg, PA. The bus ride was 4 hours each way, and my class started playing Truth or Dare while their teacher and I sat innocently up front, reading our books and chatting. When we arrived in Gettysburg, a couple of kids told me that a particularly charismatic child who many of the girls had crushes on (I would have had a crush on him too if I had been in the 5th grade) had pulled down his pants and shown them his boxer shorts. I think he may have also put a few choice items down his pants, though the details are fuzzy now in my memory. I do remember being utterly shocked, which I would not now be. I didn't have the heart to tell their teacher the whole story, though I did report that the kids had been playing Truth or Dare.
When I taught 2nd grade at a private school the following year, the hanky-panky was of the lesbian variety. Girls would sneak off and kiss during roof time, our version of recess. They wrote romantic notes to each other, and told each other that they hoped to one day get married (if that were to one day be possible in New York State, which I sincerely hope comes to pass, even if I wasn't wild about the idea of my 2nd graders marrying each other).
Last year, teaching 1st grade at the School from Hell, I had a little boy in my class who, two weeks into the school year, wrote a note with a girl that read, “We want to have sex in the bed.” Again I was shocked, as much by the content as by the quality of the writing, which was far more impressive than anything else the two had ever written. I met with his mom to discuss the issue, and spoke many, many times to the guidance counselor and principal, who offered me many promises and no follow-through. The issue escalated, and he continued to behave in sexual ways and use sexual language with girls in the class. Eventually, this was how I lost my job and became, in essence, blacklisted by the New York City school department. (None of this is in writing; I should be able to teach in schools in the city, but when they try to hire me a Mysterious Evil Lawyer calls and forbids them to. The last time this happened the principal who wanted to hire me ended up in tears.) Essentially, the school wanted to push the problem under the rug, I refused to let that happen by reporting incidents over and over again until they were addressed, and in return for my concern I have been exiled.
Last weekend, my 6th graders had a fundraiser at their school to raise money for a trip they will take in the spring to the very land from which I have been exiled. They weren't interested in watching the movie they were showing, so they snuck off and, once again, began playing Truth or Dare, and Caitlin kissed Max. It was a peck, but it was on the lips, and I don't think Max had much say in the matter. He would never say so, but Caitlin essentially forced herself on him. I was glad that it occurred when the children were under their parents' supervision and not mine, but was still unhappy to be dealing with this issue again. I don't think any of the girls are seriously romantically interested in Max, but they certainly revel in having a male in their midst. When they sit on the couch, two girls sandwich him, and I constantly have to admonish them to keep their hands off him. He's basically their boy toy. We finally resolved this issue when Max and I had a serious talk about it, and decided that he would no longer join the girls on the couch. Now, he sits off to the side in a chair, pulled back a few feet as though he's afraid that if he gets any closer he'll get sucked onto the couch beside them and be manhandled again.
I am left wondering why this keeps happening to me. I'm certain that Godzilla, my principal at the School from Hell, would say that I am somehow encouraging this behavior, but I'm fairly sure that this is not the case. One thing I noticed when I began telling people of my saga of last year is that many, many teachers had experienced similar situations (not the lack of support and the blame, but the sexual behavior). In fact, a principal who I met up with several times to discuss my situation told me, “It happens more than you think. It really happens ALL THE TIME. The best thing you can do is report it right away and tell the parents immediately.” (This did not happen in my case. The parents were informed three weeks after the fact, even though I reported the incident in question within 20 minutes.)
I think I may have had a bit more exposure to this kind of problem than other teachers, but I also think that it is a simple fact of life that children are curious about sex. And, they have way more exposure to it than they should; a shockingly high percentage of children are sexually abused, and others see a lot that they shouldn't see. Pretending this is not the case is extremely unhelpful, and even dangerous to the health and well-being of children.
Speaking of exposure to sex, here's one of my students' favorite videos, Lil Miss Swaggar by Cymphonique, featuring kids who are about their age and even look a lot like my students. Just look at the way they move – they look like they're 30, not 13. Why would anyone think that is a good thing?
I'm happy to report that, contrary to 2009, 2010 is treating me very well so far. I spent a few days in New York over New Year's, and the year started for me with an excellent Felice Brothers concert (they're back in the groove after the difficult loss of Simon, the hot brother, from the band) and breakfast in bed on New Year's day provided by my friend and hostess Miami Nice. Shortly before midnight on New Year's Eve, I received a text message from my sister informing me that she and her friends were burning pieces of paper with things written on them that they wanted to leave behind in '09, and they had been sure to include the two people who had ruined the year for me: La Moustache and Godzilla. I was filled with joy that my life is now free of both of them, and hopeful that they will one day get what's coming to them.
On the second day of the twenty-teens, or “the age of Refarling” as I like to think of it, Miami and I headed to Spa Castle with a couple of other friends. Spa Castle is not just another spa. It's an experience. It's located in College Point, Queens, a neighborhood I didn't know existed before my first trip there, but which now holds mythical significance in my mind. The spa consists of two floors of baths, one of which is separated by gender and has a no-clothes policy, and the other is half indoors and half outdoors with a view of the Queensborough Bridge (at least, that's what I assume it is; correct me if I'm wrong). Another level is filled with saunas of a variety of themes, including a salt sauna with salt walls, an LED sauna where one gets light therapy under brightly colored lamps, and a gold sauna lined with, that's right, real gold. (Being a New Englander, my favorite is Iceland, with ice walls and a temperature of 34 degrees.) Finally there is the food court filled with delectable Korean delicacies like Korean sundae, a delicious mix of shaved ice, fresh fruit, chocolate sauce, vanilla ice cream, red beans, and chewy little rice thingamajiggies called mochi. There are also nooks scattered throughout the building where people can nap, sit under purifying lights, get foot massages, do yoga, watch TV, and scrub their bodies in front of mirrors.
Unfortunately for me, when I was preparing to head to New York I forgot to pack my bathing suit. Miami Nice was unfazed. “No problem,” she said with her usual cheeriness, “you can borrow one from me.” When I mentioned this plan to Miami's boyfriend, his eyes widened. “Your bodies types are very... different,” he said.
He was being diplomatic. My body is like Ally McBeal's minus the anorexia. Miami's is more like Joan Holloway from Mad Men, which is why she dressed up as Joan for Halloween (I was a lumberjack). When I tried on her bikini, I looked like a two-year-old dressed in her mother's bra. “It makes you look like you have big boobs!” chirped Miami, lying through her teeth.
Luckily, she unearthed a sports bra, which, while not exactly flattering, at least didn't look indecent. We happily trekked out to Queens and dove into the pools. After a few minutes, I noticed that my friends were giggling. I wasn't sure why, but I was euphoric enough that I joined in. Suddenly I saw something big and black out of my peripheral vision. The jacuzzi jets were blowing at just the right angle, and my sports bra top had blown up like a balloon, as though I were the Nutty Professor coming off his fat meds. All of a sudden I looked like I had a bust bigger than Dolly Parton's.
Remind me to pack my bathing suit next time I go to New York.
I fell off the wagon today for a little while. It happened while I was shopping for cookie ingredients on Centre Street, on the way to a cookie-baking get-together at my sister's house. I was feeling proud of myself because I managed to get my car out and on the road all by myself, despite a dump of about six inches of snow that would have kept me house-bound for days if I were still in New York. Two teenage girls came along as I was digging my car out, and they offered to help and gave me suggestions (such as, “if you dig one front wheel out, you should be able to pull out.”) So I was feeling pretty happy and good about my fellow Bostonians when I went down to Centre Street, found a spot outside the grocery store, and parked my car while I went in to grab a few ingredients for the cookies.
But when I came out of the grocery store, I found a policeman there who had just finished putting a ticket on my car, and this is when I fell off the wagon. As I picked up the ticket and went after him to ask why he had given it to me, I had a moment of feeling very, very sorry for myself. I just moved to this city, I don't have friends here, I got turned down for a job back in New York last week that I was excited about, I'm living off unemployment, and now the parking ticket that I can't afford to pay. It was the straw that broke the camel's back. I asked the policeman in the most polite voice I could muster why I had gotten the ticket, and he said, “Emergency snow removal. It's all over the news.” I started to cry and choked on my words as I asked him how much the fine was.
I drove over to my sister's with tears streaming down my face, and simultaneously gave myself a talking-to. “Refarling, you have absolutely no reason to feel bad for yourself. This is unacceptable. You have a master's degree in education, your boyfriend was an asshole who you're better off without AND he is soon going to be replaced by a better boyfriend, the job in New York wasn't that great anyway, and you're lucky to be receiving unemployment money. You had a fantastic vacation last week, and now you're off to spend Christmas with your wonderful family. And, as if that weren't enough, you get to go spend the afternoon making cookies with your great sister and her awesome friends.”
And I was right. I am really lucky for all these reasons and even more. People in Boston are very nice, as evidenced by my sister's neighbor, who, when I arrived outside her house with red-rimmed eyes, kindly offered me a shovel to dig myself a parking spot. As I type this, I have, literally, a pile of adorable kittens lying on me, as well as a very cute bird nearby who (now that La Moustache is out of the picture) is dedicated heart and soul to me. I have amazing friends throughout the world who would welcome a visit from me anytime, and I am making new friends in Boston. Really, it doesn't get a lot better than this, and it is just plain silly to feel bad for myself when I have so much going for me. And best of all, parking tickets in Boston are about $70 cheaper than they are in New York.
There is someone else who will be devastated by La Moustache's impending departure. Someone who, like me, considered Moustache to be the love of his life, and who is entirely dedicated to him. That someone is our little pet lovebird, Green Bean.
We bought Bean nearly two years ago, in February 2007. We purchased him at a pet store in the far north of Manhattan, where English is like a second language to Spanish. The people in the shop used gestures and broken English to explain how to take care of him. Given his origins, I wanted to name him Pollito, or Little Chicken in Spanish; La Moustache voted for Poupoule, which means the same in French. We kept going back and forth like this, but finally after a week or so we were able to agree on Haricot, the French word for bean.
When you purchase a parrot at a pet store, it does not come tame, and Green Bean was no exception. He was terrified of us, and clung helplessly to a pinata toy hanging from the top of his cage, refusing to come out. I sat next to the cage and talked to him and read him the newspaper, and La Moustache enticed him out with yummy seeds. It took a long time, but eventually Bean came to trust us so much that he lets us pet him like a cat, turning his head from side to side appreciatively and closing his eyes. He likes to cuddle under our chins and snuggle down for a nap. On weekends, we used to enjoy lolling around in bed in the mornings, and would bring Bean in to play hide and seek with us under the covers.
At a certain point, it became clear that he did not love us equally. There is a reason, of course, why lovebirds are called that. Green Bean had made his choice of mate, and it was not me. He was happy to spend time with me when La Moustache wasn't around, but the instant he arrived in the door, Bean flew to him like a moth to a flame. Moustache took to calling him “my little glue” because of the way Bean stuck to him. Not only did Green Bean want to be nearby, he wanted to be as close as humanly possible, and would dive inside Moustache's sweater and crawl around happily in there, occasionally poking his head out of the neckhole like a prairie dog before diving back in.
Lovebirds have some funny mating habits, and Green Bean tried them all out on La Moustache. He wanted desperately to express his love by regurgitating his food to him. The first few times he did it, we wondered if he was having an asthma attack; he would sit on Moustache's shoulder and dry heave, panting heavily and hoping against hope that Moustache would finally open his mouth to receive Bean's gift. Lovebirds also have a mating ritual called “the clicky dance,” which Bean does for Moustache at least once a day. He demonstrates his prowess as a mate by flapping his wings and calling out loudly and by moving his body quickly back and forth in front of Moustache, sometimes running and sometimes hopping. At the same time, he makes a clicky sound with his beak. The clicky sound is apparently very sexy to lovebirds, but the downside of it is that the vibrations from the clicks make him itchy, so he has to pause his dance frequently to scratch his face. Again, when this first started we were not sure what to make of it, and wondered if we should call the vet.
One day I was home alone, and was thrilled when Bean started doing the clicky dance. I texted La Moustache excitedly to let him know that Bean finally considered me to be mate material. A moment later I realized the sad truth when Bean mounted on a plastic toy ball and attempted to mate with it as it rolled around awkwardly beneath him.
Green Bean is sad when either of us goes away, and even when we are only gone for the weekend he welcomes us back excitedly and affectionately. I wonder if he thinks of us when we are not there, and how he will feel when he realizes that Moustache is not just away for a few days.
I am moving to a new city shortly, and am facing the prospect of being a single mom to our little bird in a place where I don't have a lot of friends who I can use as birdsitters. For a time, when I thought about how difficult it would be to take weekend trips or even stay out late at night, I considered finding a new home for Green Bean. Ultimately, I decided that this would be unthinkable. I recently purchased a travel cage for Bean, and checked Amtrak's pet policy (not a problem). I hope to be able to take lots of weekend trips and bring my little one along. And who knows, maybe I'll get lucky and find a roommate who will like him and be willing to take care of him sometimes. Plus Moustache is pushing for joint custody after his return - we'll see about that.
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