My options were dwindling in terms of impressive recipes since he’d recently given up red meat, so I whipped up a quick but simple menu: Salmon en Papillotte with cherry tomatoes, bright yellow and green squash, a little grated ginger, lime juice and sliced oranges.

I served the delicate parchment-enclosed packets of fish and vegetables over quinoa in place of rice. As I watched Harrison take his first bite, I imagined myself a tiny person in his mouth, seeing the first hot cherry tomato burst, its juices pooling on his tongue and mixing with the fragrant ginger, curling into a drop of lime juice before finally connecting with the silky, fork-tender morsel of salmon.

To read the rest of the post and comment … see the piece in today’s issue of NY Press.

*Comments are closed on this post. Please post them to NY Press page linked above.

I was reading something on my phone, then I looked up and electricity passed between my heart and his. You know that feeling. When you see someone in the crowd and your heart flip-flops. You get a chill that starts at the base of your spine, spreads to your stomach and ends with the hair standing up on back of your neck. You just know. I know within seconds if a person is going to be a real part of my life.

I looked back down at my phone. Tried to avoid his eyes. Looked back up, and he was straight up staring at me. He was gorgeous. A head of dark, thick curly hair and curious eyes. Tall. And still staring.

At the next stop, people piled in and he wound up pushed up against the train door next to me. Directly in front of me, a homeless man with a cart was smashed up against the pole. His back was to me, and a pic was sticking up out of his afro. I stared at it to avoid staring back at the man next to me.

Another stop went by. I couldn’t not talk to him. I turned to him and asked him if he had a piece of gum. I’m standing there, dressed up like a doll with a little purse and fancy shoes, asking for a piece of gum. He rustled around in the pockets of his leather jacket, dug around in his bag. No dice. He said, “Sorry, I don’t.” A beat passed. “I wish I did.” I was in.

He asked me what I was all dressed up for. Told him where I was headed, and he asked if I had any favorites for the awards. It turns out that he’s a filmmaker. Time was running out to chat. I missed my stop. I always miss my stop. The homeless man was getting dangerously close to backing right into me. His pic was in my face.

I told the man I’d give him five dollars if he would grab the pic out of the homeless man’s hair and put it in his own hair. He laughed and said he’d give me a hundred dollars to take it out and put it in mine. I refused on principle. Which principle, I’m not sure. But there it was … time to get off the train. I looked up at him, said it was nice to meet him and went on my way. He didn’t ask for my number. I took it to mean he was either uninterested or unmotivated.

A couple of nights later, my friend Tracey posted a cheeky ad on Craigslist trying to get rid of a couch that her and her husband believed to be possessed. My eyes wandered to the sidebar and I saw it: Missed Connections. I thought, “Nah. That doesn’t really happen.” I clicked nonetheless. I clicked back a couple days, since I had seen him on Sunday night and it was now Tuesday.

And there it was, in very big letters:

You needed gum for the oscar party – m4w

Reply to: pers-xxxxx@craigslist.org
Date: 2009-02-23, 12:11AM

And you stayed on the a train for an extra stop. I should have grabbed the afro pick when I had the chance.

You have no real relationship or kinship to someone if they haven’t woven you into their narrative.

This concept drives trillions of dollars every year. Word of mouth marketing . . . have you heard of it?

Stepping away from business, though, I have had occasion to think about this again and ponder it for quite some time over the past few weeks.

It’s something I started thinking about last year, and now that’s come up several times in just a few days, I’m taking it as a sign to pay attention and internalize it.

Playing around on the beach in Isla Holbox (in the Mexican Carribbean) August 2009

First example: A relationship ends, and not cleanly or cut and dried. While you’re still friends with the person, you hear the other person sharing stories about experiences he’s just had with another woman … places they explored together, meals they’ve shared. There are pictures, inside jokes. You understand (or should understand) that it’s time to move on. He has woven another woman into his story in a way that is meaningful to him. There is little room for you.

Second example: You feel an instant bond with someone you meet and you enjoy each other’s company. You find her hitting the nail on the head when she listens to your problems and offers feedback. You find yourself lending weight to her opinions and begin to value her. You find yourself talking about her insight with other people in your circle. “When I told her this, she said that.” Boom. She’s part of your story.

Third example: Someone who you’ve spent little time with seems to understand you pretty well without much effort on your part. Without much fanfare, he lets you know that he’s written a blog and he’s included a “callback” referring to a joke you made a few days earlier. This is funny to you because you had already read the post before he alerted you and you knew that callback was included for your benefit. Mutual admiration is at work, and you’re now each part of the other person’s story.

All of this has me refocusing on input versus output. I’m pouring so much of my time and attention into things that have no meaningful place in my story. I can only read so many blogs/websites/case studies. Why not abandon a few them and replace them with my friends’ work? How about that? Paying genuine attention to the people I love and admire instead of strangers. I have so many smart, talented friends that I can easily replace some of my daily intake of “expert” with the content they work so hard to produce. (These thoughts started shortly before this relevant post by my friend Morgan.)

If I’m managing input, I should be paying that much more attention to output. I’ve been spending more time here and on my other site writing. It has felt wonderful to experience this release, the spill of words on a page again.

Stories aren’t just on paper or on a screen. My story is how I interact with you, what I give to you and what I take from you.

I want my story to be:
Incredibly powerful
Memorable
Passionate
Emotional
Inspiring
Breathtaking
Embraceable
Uplifting
Nourishing

When I meet you, I want to contribute these memories to your story:
She was intelligent.
She was talented.
She was beautiful.
She was driven.
She was genuine.
She was enthusiastic.
She was devoted.

I need to bring life into balance this year. For me, balance isn’t 40 hours of work and 20 hours of play. My balance is switching back and forth between the hot tub and the cold plunge pool, experiencing the refreshing shock of change whenever I need it and feeling that much more alive for it.

I want work…deep intense challenges in my career with problems I don’t know how to solve yet. I want an intensely fulfilling relationship with someone who’s ready to stand still and pay attention and then hold on for dear life to the center of our relationship while we push each other to excel at those things we’re driven to succeed in. I want to turn off the spigot of superficial interactions and channel the flow of my attention into the people who matter most.

This is my narrative. I’m paying attention to my story, and to the characters in it.

Photo Credit: Liz Henry (via Flickr)

To any men who have stupidly clicked on this link wanting to know what all that kinky “copper kisses” title was about, just do yourself a favor and leave. You will have mental images and learn things about the female anatomy you wish you could unlearn and unsee.

To any women who are truly considering getting an IUD, please know that every woman’s experience with this is highly individual. Just as different women react in varying ways to the Pill, your experience with this can and most likely will be very different from what you read here.

But I think you should know that it’s gonna hurt like a motherf*cker when they put it in. FYI.

With that out of the way, here’s my personal background, some fun facts about the device and then a short synopsis of the, uhhhh, insertion process and how it’s gone since then.

Background

I went on the Pill when I was a 17-year-old virgin, right before I started college. I was super religious throughout high school up until my senior year. When I decided to start making my own decisions about my life, I knew for damn sure my college years were going to include some sex.

My mom got knocked up with my brother when she was 16. My Uncle Tom, the only one of the five uncles who is married, got my lovely aunt pregnant before they got married. And my Uncle Dave, we just found out, has a gorgeous little Filipina daughter (no, he is not married to the mother). See a pattern here? My mom’s sister had my two cousins out of wedlock and two three of my female cousins have gotten pregnant before getting married.

I am NOT getting pregnant before I know I’m with someone I actually want to create a life with. So, throughout college I was so freaked out about not getting pregnant that I usually, I’d say 80% of the time, make my boyfriend use a condom even though I was on the Pill. Silly, scared girl I was. My first sexual relationship was awesome. I wanted to have sex all the time. Yay, sexsexsex. But a few bad experiences after that made it difficult for me and I started having a couple of inconvenient medical problems like UTIs at the slightest provocation.

By the time senior year rolled around, I was tired all the time and had little to no sex drive. Which was really sad, because my then-boyfriend thought I wasn’t attracted to him anymore. As much as men can separate sex and love, they need to feel attractive and sexually desirable as much (or maybe sometimes more) than women do. When you’re with someone you love, then that physical component is a super-important aspect of maintaining the relationship.

I didn’t really get what was wrong. I figured when things slowed down at my internship and I relaxed more, my sex drive would be a little stronger. It was weird though, because I thought about sex all the time. In my head, I was a little sex fiend. The mind-body connection just wasn’t happening.

Then adulthood, with all it’s face-smacking reality, hit. The not enough sex problem had a negative impact on another major relationship. This time, the person I was with suggested I look into alternative medicine for my sex drive issues. He also suggested I go off the Pill. But since he was f*cking INSANE, I though it’d be best to prevent myself from sourcing his demon spawn. I did take one of his suggestions and go to acupuncture. Surprisingly, the acupuncture helped, and I also stopped getting UTIs.

It was only after my acupuncturist suggested that I go off the Pill that I started to seriously consider it and look back to see how it may have been affecting my sex drive. Honestly, it was difficult to place any blame on the Pill, seeing as I was a super-religious virgin who hadn’t even really developed a sex drive before I went on it. Artificial hormones were a part of my entire sexual development. I had just always had a low sex drive with the exception of that first relationship, which was about eight months after I went on the Pill. I had a sex drive then, but never after.

I started to research other women’s experience both on and after going off the Pill and quickly got pissed. Over and over, I was reading stories of women who had previously had fully functioning sex drives, but who had experienced a diminishing or downright deadening of their level of desire when they went on the Pill. And many of them said it came back, noticeably so, within months of stopping the medication. Then I was like, “Why the f*ck am I medicating my body to stop it from doing what it’s supposed to?! Why would I want to trick my body into not ovulating every month? Of course I don’t want to f*ck. My body has no incentive to f*ck!”

Before I completely lose my mind on this point (just thinking about it makes me angry), I’ll go ahead and suggest that if you’re looking to go OFF the Pill, please do your own research. Talk to your GYN and your friends. Make the best decision for yourself. I got to a point where it was important for my body to start working and going through the processes it was naturally built to go through, including all the psychotic joy of ovulating. Wooohooo! I believe the hormones in the Pill, and the amount of time I spent using them (almost 10 years to the month) significantly contributed to a lower sex drive and lower overall energy level.

That was in 2005 right after my 27th birthday, at the end of a very painful relationship and also a few months before I decided to move to NYC. All those things combined meant that there was no way I was going to get into another committed relationship anytime soon.

Tick tock. A few months went by when my sex drive didn’t really matter because I was emotionally wrecked and wasn’t trying to have sex. Then, just like a cartoon bomb, my sex drive went off. It was all brightly-colored and lopsided and outside the realms of basic decency. I was, for the first time, experiencing what it was like to have my mind and body on the same page. When my mind was thinking about sex, and I was with someone I wanted to have sex with, my body cooperated. Out of sensitivity to anyone who might be reading this blog even though I warned them not to, I won’t go into too many details, but I will say that, ummm, everything cooperated very nicely.

But there was still the problem of birth control. Even though I used condoms, I f*cking hate them. I hate hate hate hate hate them and want them all to die in a fire. A big rubbery fire. I only met one condom I liked, and when I bought a pack of that kind for myself, one broke. Never again. So, birth control in 2006 consisted of mainly condoms but also a few trips to get the morning-after pill (the, “oh shit, better take a triple dose of the Pill” pill, not the abortion pill).

What does girl do when hormonal birth control is no longer an option, but she is still deathly afraid of getting knocked up? Well, she makes sure she gets tested. Seriously – if you are considering getting an IUD, you are required to be STD-free or at least have knowledge of whether or not you are carrying anything. The reason for this is that if you contract an STD after getting an IUD, the IUD can actually track the infection up into your uterus. This can sterilize or even kill you.

Having kids is so very important to me. Just because I am not ready to now does not make it any less important to me to safeguard my reproductive health (as well as the health of anyone I’d be involved with). So, get yourself tested. I was getting tested every year anyway as part of my annual exam, but do get tested right beforehand. Your doctor will probably make you.

This is also part of why most young women aren’t told a lot about the IUD as one of their contraceptive options. It really is best that you be in a monogamous relationship if you’re going to go that route, because you’re putting yourself in more danger if you have an IUD and you’re having unprotected sex with a bunch of people. The other reason that we don’t hear a lot about this option is because there’s also a chance that your doctor could permanently damage your uterus when placing the IUD. You might not even know until years later when you try to conceive. But I hear that this is super-rare and nearly unheard of if your doctor has routinely placed IUDs (and mine had decades of experience).

Let’s see. Two final considerations: there are two types/brands of IUDs offered in the United States. (Women in other countries, especially Asia where the IUD is the most prevalent form of birth control, have more choices in terms of which IUD to use.) The one I have goes by the brand name Paraguard. It’s commonly called the Copper-T, as it’s copper-wrapped and non-hormonal. The way it supposedly works is the copper kills both the eggs and the sperm. I say supposedly, because the IUD works in a number of ways and that is just part of the explanation. (I imagine it working more like this: When the egg and the sperm show up to the party in my cervix, they see this tall copper dude hulking up in the middle of my uterus. They whisper to each other, “Hey, when did this club get a bouncer?” Then Mr. IUD turns around, makes a menacing face, and then egg and sperm run away. Nobody gets killed. They just come back another time.)

The second kind goes by the brand name Mirena and is hormonal, though it emits a lower-dose than most birth control pills. I did not want even a little bit of hormonal interference, so I didn’t go that route, but I hear that many women don’t even get their period after getting this one. So that might be a bonus for you.

The other consideration is that, according to your doctor and some secondhand information, if you are sleeping with someone who is particularly well-endowed, he may run into a little problem. Literally. If your doctor does not trim the strings at the end of the IUD (which are used to pull the f*cker back out when it’s time to get a new one or when you decide to have kids), then it could be painful for the guy because the ends of the strings are quite pokey. The strings are like fishing line, but stiffer. So, yeah, they are a little jabby.

My doctor trimmed the strings very short, so they are barely detectable. The reason they need to be felt at all is to ensure, month after month, it’s still up there. Because, oh yeah, if you’ve never been pregnant, there’s a chance that your uterus could reject that f*cker and push it out anytime during the first year. What? Don’t look at it like that. If it’s not a baby, your uterus don’t want it up there. So, until it figures out what it is, expect a little back-talk.

The good news on that last point is that if the strings are short and you are very aroused, then you really should not have a problem. You know how the rush of blood to the penis works? Well, the rush of blood you experience does something similar to your cervix, hence the fun of the G-spot and hence things swelling up around that area to make your little reproductive friend all but hidden. Yay!

Have I scared you off yet? No? Well, you are either really committed to this thing or you are sick and a little bit voyeuristic. So, read on to hear the dirtier details of insertion.

Insertion of the IUD

Getting an IUD is actually considered a surgical procedure. It has to be inserted with a device by a doctor and you may want to bring someone with you so that you don’t have to drive right afterwards. The insertion itself takes less than 5 minutes, and most of that time is spent talking about what’s about to happen and why the doctor is holding what looks like the world’s longest pair of scissors up to your vagina.

So, what’s gonna happen is that hopefully you will have had an appointment and a discussion with your GYN to talk about your contraceptive options. You will have asked for the patient inserts (the one for Paraguard is available in PDF format here) so that you can compare the two types. I would recommend reading this info super carefully and asking the doc any questions before the day of, because by the time you put your feet in those stirrups, you should feel really good about your decision. You’re gonna have to, cause you’re not gonna feel so good about anything for a couple of days afterward.

The rundown is that this birth control method is estimated to be 99.4-99.9% effective if used perfectly, and the only ways to f*ck it up are if it’s not inserted correctly by your doctor or if your body ejects it. This means even if you vomit for days, have disgusting diarrhea or are on antibiotics, you can f*ck to your heart’s content and not get pregnant. (But I would think that if you have the ass-shits, you are probably not that into the idea of sex.) The copper IUD is good for 10 years. You hear me? 10 years. And fertility returns virtually as soon as you have it removed. Removal must also be done by a doctor – you can’t just yank it out.

The Paraguard IUD is in the shape of a capital “T” and about the size of your thumb, lengthwise. Maybe a little shorter. The top, according to the website, is an inch and a quarter, and the length is an inch and three-eights. So, it’s tiny. It’s inserted up through your cervix (up beyond where a tampon would stop) and into the space in the middle of your uterus.

The reason it hurts so much, especially for a woman who has not given birth, is because it has to go through the cervix. You know how it has to dilate for a baby to come out? Well, hormones during labor help you dilate, so without that going on for an IUD, the doctor has to dilate your cervix for you. Forcibly. And it f*cking hurts like hell. At least it did for me. The doctor will slide what I mentioned looks like a very long, dull pair of white plastic scissors up to your vagina.

She will open the pair of scissors while they are inside you to be able to see what she’s doing and to give her a little room to place the IUD. One arm of the scissors has a sterile tube on it that contains the IUD. After dilating your cervix, she will shove the tube up inside your cervix, releasing the IUD. It’s this part that feels like someone put a clamp on your cervix and snapped it shut. It’s a huge pinch and it hurts like hell. I’m not a baby by any means. In fact, I like a little pain. But it hurt so much I actually involuntarily yelled when she placed it.

And it’s not over immediately, because she has to use something to go into your poor, ouchy vagina and trim the strings. She’ll perhaps make some innocent comment like, “That is a LOT of blood” and you may internally freak the f*ck out or want to punch her cause you’re afraid she f*cked up and made off with your fertility forever. But now you’re just being silly. You might also want to ask her, right before she puts it in,”What if, when I have orgasms, I come really, really hard? Because I do. Will I push it back out? Will I lose it?” Or maybe that was just me. There was an assistant in the room with us and she sort of chuckled after because I laid down and said, “That SUCKED!”

Copper Kisses

Right afterwards, there will be a lot of bleeding. Somebody just sucker-punched your cervix and left a calling card in your uterus, so it has a right to be a little pissed. You will bleed and bleed and bleed and you will be scared because you don’t understand why you are bleeding. You will Google it when you get home and find out that this is normal, and that you might bleed for another three or four days. I still don’t understand exactly where that was coming from, but I’m guessing it was coming from the uterine walls. It will be enough blood to need a pad. I’m guessing you are not going to want to even look at a tampon for the next week.

You might feel a little dizzy and you will be sore. I had sex that night, so I can’t say being sore will be a deterrent to trying that bad boy out. I didn’t get pregnant so, YAY, it works! I didn’t have sex again for I think another week or so afterwards, so just be gentle on yourself. Your doctor might tell you to avoid sex for up to two weeks to give yourself time to heal and to avoid an infection while things are all vulnerable.

Here’s the last really, really important note: the IUD protects against PREGNANCY, NOT STDs. It’s a contraceptive, but it is not a barrier to all the other things that come from having a man inside you. If you’re with someone and you don’t know that they are absolutely clean, I would like to suggest that you still use condoms.

Okay, so getting into the finer points of having an IUD, here has been my experience: The first period you have after you get an IUD will see you losing a breathtaking amount of blood. My doctor warned me that the copper IUD can cause heavier and longer periods, but said that the first three months are not a good barometer because everyone bleeds a lot. I did some online research and came across the term “bleed like a stuck pig.” Yep, that sounds about right. Previous to having an IUD, I’ve never had any problems with my period. On or off the pill, they had always been regular, fairly light and cramp-free.

So far, and I am in the middle of my third period since getting the IUD, they have been heavier. When I say heavy, I mean going through a Super Plus every 1-4 hours for the first two or three days. I’ve only had cramps the first couple days of each period, and they are only really painful first thing in the morning. I had some lower back pain last month, but have had no other problems as of yet in that regard. My doctor advised taking some Advil every four-six hours during the painful parts and I’ve only had to do that a couple of times.

Outside of that part of my cycle, I have noticed zero difference between now and when I was not using any form of birth control. I’m not moody, I haven’t noticed any change in my sex drive and most importantly, I’m still not pregnant (Yay!).

So, what about sex? Well, I just stopped seeing the person I was dating last week unfortunately, but he was great and very understanding about the whole experience. He had dated someone in the past who had gotten an IUD so he was familiar with how it worked and what to expect. My concerns were that he would feel the IUD during sex or that, you know, I would have that explosive orgasm problem. He never mentioned feeling anything and there wasn’t anything that we had to avoid or adjust because of the IUD. I was relieved to discover that the explosive orgasms did not actually cause me to lose my little friend.

I had one other question shrieking through my head right before the doctor placed the IUD. Maybe if I were Nina, I could have asked that shit, but I kept it to myself. There was an assistant in the room and I think she was already amused enough with me as it was. It’s very personal, but I will of course share it with you anonymous thousands of people reading this because I love you and I want you to know all this so that you can get an IUD if you want one.

My very last concern was whether or not the IUD would change how I taste. I said it! I’m not taking it back either.

I mean, the thing’s wrapped in copper. Have you ever had a penny in your mouth or tasted blood? “Metallic” is not the sexiest, most pleasing taste. I was seriously concerned. I enjoy all sorts of oral activity, both giving and receiving. With boys and occasionally with girls, too. So, it was important to me that my birth control didn’t f*ck up any of the fun.

I’m happy to say that according to all empirical evidence, the IUD did not lead to any decrease in oral activity. There were no copper kisses. Just lots of good, pregnancy-free fun.

***********

Please feel free to leave questions or comments about your own IUD/bcp experiences in the comment section here. I feel really badly that there isn’t more good experiential info available on what to expect, so I would love it if people could voice their concerns or share a little about how it has been for them. Remember, I wrote this for two women who are considering getting an IUD as we speak, so I know that this info will help people.

Also feel free, if you’re a little shy or private, to send me a message. I will try to respond to any comments or messages in the next couple of days. Thanks!

[NOTE: This post was originally published in June 2008 on MySpace. My readers' comments stayed there, but please feel free to leave a comment here now that I've made it public on my website. I will answer as best I can about my personal experience, but do encourage you to talk to a doctor if you have questions about whether an IUD is the right bcp method for you.]

(Thoughts) Something that made me sad today: A man was walking ahead of me on Madison Avenue as I was on my way back to my office. I saw him saying “Excuse me. Excuse me,” to a lady in front of him. She had earmuffs on. Whether or not she heard him or not, I don’t know. He shook his head and she kept walking.

I couldn’t help but make eye contact with him when I passed. He said, “Excuse me,” so I paused. It was a busy street, I wasn’t worried about myself. He said, “Are you from New York? I’m from Yonkers – I’ve been in the city since last night and I’ve been walking a very long time. All I’ve been asking people, what I want to ask you is, I’m very hungry. Can you help me get something to eat?”

I have a soft heart for homeless & hungry people. I’ll never get over it. I don’t give every beggar change, but I always feel sad. Anyways, I had nothing on me except my legal pad and office keys. I told him I was very sorry, and he went on his way. It broke my heart. I looked up at the city skyline and hoped — asked — God to help him.

————

New York is just this amazing place, you know? One second, I’m surrounded by old money and power suits, the next second, I’m turning a corner into Chinatown where everyone is short and no one speaks English. I love that. It’s stinky here. The people have a rep for being rude, but they’re actually nicer than Boston natives. They’re not rude, just extraordinarily direct. Time is money here, no matter what echelon you belong to, so you better know where you’re going and what you what you want all the time.

I don’t know who said it first, but “New York is a city of finalists.” I’m surrounded by people who are at the top of their game. You have to want something very much to get it here, because there’s always a chance that the person at your heels wants it more badly than you. It’s awesome. Good thing I’ve developed a competitive streak and a bit of a mind for business.

There’s this woman sitting behind me and she keeps yelling “Hola!” into her phone. It’s driving me nuts.

———————–

I would have to sit down tonight and really think. About the ways I’ve changed before I set it down to e-paper. Living here has changed me, but not a ton. My relationship with the ex-fiance changed me more than I’d like to admit to anyone – to the point where I should probably have sought some counseling. He was emotionally abusive, and it took its toll.

I also deal with a lot less bullshit, but that has been a result just of growing up, I think. I am more self-protective all around. I give people fewer chances to f*ck up before I cut them off. This has been a good thing.

I understand men, sex and women’s reactions to both vastly more now than I did 2 years ago.

I moved to NYC because I wanted to surround myself with people who were smarter, more driven and more culturally aware than myself. I’ve gotten what I’ve needed in all those respects. It has allowed me to grow in ways I was unable to in NH. But I still miss how easy things were there, and I really miss being around now that all of my girlfriends are having kids. Heather – my best friend in the world – having her son last year … that was almost enough reason for me to not move. I hate missing the chance to see him grow up, and giving up the chance for our kids to play together.

————–

The book “The Four Agreements” changed my life, and the second agreement influenced me most of all. If you haven’t read it, here they are:

1. Be Impeccable With Your Word
Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your word in the direction of truth and love.

2. Don’t Take Anything Personally
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.

3. Don’t Make Assumptions
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.

4. Always Do Your Best
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse and regret.
———-

The winter lager by Sam Adams actually is one of my favorite beers. Other faves are a Belgian called Delirium Tremens, another Belgian called Duvel and I’ve always been a fan of Blue Moon. There’s a Hefeweisen I can’t remember the brewery of that I like very much.

Fave car is still the old school Jag S-type, though I do miss my pearl white Escalade with the amazing sound system.

Favorite book: not even a question I can answer at this point. So many books I read last year will have a lasting influence. I think Robert Greene’s “Art of Seduction” wins most valuable player, though. That book rocked how I operate across the board.

Favorite liquor: Grey Goose vodka or genuine absinthe (which is legal again here now)

Favorite new author: Haruki Murakami. His prose manages to be sparse and lush at the same time.

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Oh, about the title of this blog. It’s strange, man. To find out people keep tabs on you via blog. That’s all. I don’t expect it to stop, but maybe some people will take a clue. Worry a little less about my issues and worry about theirs a little more. Or a lot more. Whichever.

But still the message from one of those others, an other who might have been, confirms those thoughts. I’m not the only one who thinks it.

From: _____
Yeah, things are definitely different than i would’ve predicted on the 10th six years ago.
Sep 12, 6:20 pm

But everything happens for a reason. At least that’s what I like to tell myself.

I sit here and look out, a mere quarter of a mile across the river, to where those towers would have stood. I went to bed with two beams of light shooting to the heavens in memoriam glowing over me in my bed.

I live here now.

I live.

Here.

Now.

I look down over the Brooklyn Navy Yard and barges in the water. I live here now.

I touch the thin thread of emotion. I tap it, tug it, try and pull myself back. But for the first time in a long time, letting it unravel actually feels good.

I feel warmth and worry leaving my body at the same time. Love for this city. Love for an unnamed other. I get more sorted out sitting here watching the sun slip among the clouds than I ever do on my feet.

Alternate realities don’t matter anymore. No matter how many times you play them over, the “What ifs” never come out right. Things would not have been the way we saw them then. They didn’t fit. Not like this does.

The improbability of being here, with the “out of sight, out of mind” theory being disproven more every damn day . . . you know, the people I love the most aren’t even here with me, but I think about them all the f*cking time. Those towers aren’t there, but we feel them, damn it. And the love I have, it stretches continuously. Past time zones. Past reason. I’m filled with light.

We used to talk about it. “The unbearable lightness of being.” But it’s no longer unbearable. Not for me, anyway. It just feels right.

Don’t we all ask ourselves that from time to time?

Some of us are luckier than others. We know our purpose; we know why we were put here and what our cells are made of. At our hearts, even when shaken and broken down, we know we can return to ourselves and find some strength within. In those times, we’re in search of bedrock. A foundation for something pure, secure and steady.

Sometimes, we look to others to provide that bedrock for us. We often evaluate others in terms of what they can give, what they can provide. Not to be selfish, but to make sure that if we take that step and reach out past the edge where she ends and he begins, there will be something there for each person to stand on.

So much has been lost in the way of kindness and in the way we value our relationships. We need to slow down, put away whatever distraction we’re holding onto and just focus. Sit down and face someone and look in their eyes when you’re talking with them. Look for bedrock. Care about what you see reflected back at you. Listen.

Think about how much you can build.

Things get wiggly when you wander around with your energy spread across so many interactions with nothing left to feed it. Sometimes you wander and find out that you’re constantly listening, giving and waiting for it to be reflected back. It never comes. You have to make a change.

Keep searching for bedrock. Hold your gaze steady. You’ll know when you see it. Where there was emptiness, all of a sudden you find yourself standing on solid ground, no longer afraid to fall.

Suicide, murder, abortion. Psychotic episodes, rape and incest. You name it, it’s probably happened within my family. Divorce? Alcoholism? So tame. The sh*t I heard whispered low on the phone after relatives thought I was asleep as little girl, or the shit my Mom has told me when she was angry (which is almost all the time) . . . that shit would make your head spin if you were anyone but me. I keep forgetting this shit isn’t “normal,” – that I have to explain it to people who didn’t grow up like this.

How does it start?

There was so much I was never supposed to know about the people charged with my care.

One summer when I was growing up with my grandparents in Florida, I spent a few weeks with my “Aunt Nora” and her new husband, “Uncle Brett.” They had been together since they were teenagers. Everyone knew they were one of those rare couples who would naturally grow old and wrinkly together, twisting into each other like the roots on the trunk of an old Banyan tree. Their wedding was the first family wedding I was old enough to attend.

They had a pet boa constrictor who ate mice, who in turn ate Captain Crunch. I slept in the same room with the snake that summer and suffered from insomnia the nights she spent shedding her skin. The skin crackled and scratched against the glass of her cage.

Aunt Nora was so cool. She had gone to art school and told me all about how different crystals were filled with different sorts of energy. Clear quartz was just pure energy; if you held it for too long, you wouldn’t be able to get to sleep at all. Amethyst and Tiger’s Eye were protective crystals. Pink quartz were for fertility.

She wasn’t shy about talking about adult stuff, either. As the youngest of my six aunts on my grandmother’s side, she always felt more like a big sister to me. I remember once she was telling me about how she had always wondered what men did when they had to shit and piss at the same time. She asked Uncle Brett, who told her they just sat down to do their business and aimed their junk downwards. Fascinating information, whether you’re a new wife or an 11-year-old.

There was another reason why I loved hanging out with Aunt Nora and Uncle Brett so much. Uncle Brett was a teacher at my middle school, and he was best friends with the man who was going to be my science teacher the following year. Not that many people knew we were related, though, since he was white and I wasn’t.

After the summer weeks with the art and the snake and the crystals, Uncle Brett and I headed back to school. On weeknights during the school year, my ritual went as follows: dance class, dinner, then several rounds Super Mario Bros. and Duck Hunt. I played Nintendo in the formal living room while my grandparents watched the news in the family room on the other side of the house.

One night, I was playing Duck Hunt when a loud wail came from the family room. It was my grandmother, and it was unlike any other sound I had heard before or have heard since. I couldn’t even distinguish whether she was trying to make words, or whether someone had injured her. I could hear my grandfather speaking in the background, so I stayed put in the family room. I didn’t know what to do.

Eventually, my grandfather came to the living room to tell me in as few words as possible what had happened. My 11-year-old mind scrambled for images to complete his sentence. Only one image could really do it justice.

The next morning, I waited at the bus stop with the image of Uncle Brett hanging from a rope on an old Banyan tree on some land owned by his family nearby. My aunt had read his note and found him there herself.

The three kids who were always there at the bus stop with me spoke in hushed voices, asking each other if they had heard the news. They didn’t know he was my uncle until I told them.

“Is it true?” they asked me. They wanted to know whether he had really had an affair with that pretty blonde student one grade ahead of me. The image of my dead uncle dropped out of mind and was replaced with an image of the girl, physically mature for her age. My grandparents hadn’t mentioned that part to me. I still have the softcover yearbook with her picture in it.

Aunt Nora and my grandparents never did tell me what happened. I found out from rumors at school that my uncle may have been involved with this girl and was either about to get fired or my aunt was about to be made aware of the situation. I’ve always wondered about the truth but the acquiescent little girl inside just won’t let me ask.

This may not be true for most of you, but for us, it’s what we don’t talk about that makes us family. That’s why I’m here. This is my story.

NOTE: The above post was a story I was working on for another project. Names of family members have been changed out of respect for their privacy. It’s also the continuation of the life stories I’ve already posted here. This is a third draft, so if you have some constructive feedback, please leave it along with your comment.

I hadn’t been back to the neighborhood haunt since my first date with the boyfriend two weeks ago. It was a dusky, narrow little restaurant with house cocktails made of fresh herbs and berries and burgers so good they would make a cowboy cry.

I sat watching the bartender bounce back and forth, gathering the elements of my drink. She grabbed a handful of fresh mint and stopped in front of me.

“I found love today!”

She said it and let it set there between us.

“You found what today?”

“I found love! A couple of hours ago.”

I leaned forward while she gathered a plastic pitcher of rum, a mortar and pestle with raw ginger and a container of sugar.

“I was taking the bus back from Philly. You know how you always look for the cutest person to sit next to, right?”

“No. I usually get the fat person or the person who only speaks Japanese.”

“Well, I was looking for the cutest person, and there was the most amazing Jamaican man. He had the darkest skin and the whitest teeth. And I sat next to him, and we wound up talking the entire ride. And then he said he’d smoke me up afterwards, so we wound up hanging out for another four hours. And he just called me. Just now.”

She was alight. She topped out at five feet tall with her curls piled on top of her head. Glossy brown strands escaped from the pile like twisted feathers. She had 1.5 dimples on display, just like I do when I can’t help but smile. And I couldn’t help but smile then. She took note of my dimple. “We must be sisters,” she said.

I asked her to tell me more about him. He was the same age as she was and he lived in Harlem.

“Oh, that’s cool. The guy I was in here with is up there. I’ll take the train up with you sometime so you don’t have to go alone,” I said.

She nodded and said, “You know, I forgot what butterflies felt like. You know how when you were in third grade and you had a crush on someone, you were just so aware of their presence. You’d be standing next to them and you’d be freaking out inside thinking, ‘Oh, my gosh! His arm is touching me!’ I feel like that.”

I shook my head at her and looked down at the rum punch she had set in front of me. She poured what was left from the blender into a shot glass on the side.

“I know the feeling,” I said.

“So . . .”

She was going to ask. I didn’t want her to, but I knew she would.

“. . . how did it go with that guy that you were here with?”

“Well, I don’t know. He’s up in Harlem, so it’s hard to get time to see him. You know how it is. We’ll see what happens, I guess. He’s such a good guy.”

“Yeah. You guys had such a cool energy together,” she said, as she walked towards the register at the other end of the bar. “And it’s obvious he’s crazy about you.”

I felt a little twist in my stomach. What could I say? She found love today. I couldn’t tell her that I ended things with him that morning.

You just don’t know when you’re going to find love. And you never will, unless you open up and live. Love and surrender. Take the time to trust and cherish someone. The rest will work itself out.

St. Paddy's Day 2007, NYC

On St. Patrick’s Day, I was wandering around with a friend of mine, dipping my face in random pints of beer at whatever bar we could squeeze ourselves into. They say it’s a holiday for amateurs, I say screw them. I’m from Boston (located in the state that the most Irish people call home, second in Irish population only to Ireland itself) and was raised by (random fact number one:) an Irish-American woman for 2/3 of my life.

My grandmother decorated our house for St. Patrick’s Day like it was Christmas. The name of our church was St. Patrick’s. My grandparents helped build it with their financial contributions. I may not go to church anymore, but I still worship at the bar on St. Paddy’s.

Taking into account the number of beers and shots of whiskey I consumed that day, it’s not much of a surprise that I found myself getting my palm read for $10 inside some storefront next to one of my favorite bars. I can truthfully say it was my friend’s idea. The fortune teller was saying things that were oddly accurate for my friend, so I decided to throw her a few coins and call her bluff.

Here’s what she said:
1. I’m a very lucky person. I’m blessed and God basically follows me around, showering me with good things. TRUE

2. Within three years, I’ll be signing my name on a house or a business. WHO KNOWS (St. Paddy’s Day 2010 update: True. See Mouth Of The Border. Laying groundwork to launch business in 2011.)

3. I’m going to have two children; a girl and a boy. (Considering I want about 47.5 children, I can only hope this is FALSE.)

4. I’m going to live for awhile and die of natural causes. WHO KNOWS

5. My last relationship tainted me and I carry around some serious emotional stuff because of it. I need to do meditations to cleanse myself of that. TRUE, although I don’t know about the meditation thing.

6. At the end of the year, I’ll make an unexpected move to California. HIGHLY DOUBTFUL since, uhhhh, I just f*cking moved – and since the b*tch told me, it ain’t so unexpected now, is it?

PARTY PLANES, AKA New York vs. Boston, Part One

(Random fact number two: I’m a Red Sox fan) I was crossing the street from the train to my office last Friday and I saw a big man in a shiny Yankees jacket. Reflexively, I almost spit on him. No lie. Then I thought to myself, “Holy sh*t. I’m in New York.” I forgot myself. Baseball season is going to SUCK for me this year. I have to go out and grab more Sox gear.

I was back in NH/Boston for the weekend for two of my friends’ birthdays and I noticed a lot of little stuff that I probably took for granted when I lived there.

1. 1 point for New York – NH, your liquor laws suck. As soon as I boarded the bus from Boston > NH, some dude asked to borrow a cell phone. He gets on the horn with his boy and says, “I’ll be in at 11:15. Hey – grab some beeah before you come ovah.” I got in at 11:15 and my best friend was a little late picking me up. Why? Because she had to swing by the store and grab a six-pack of Blue Moon for us to celebrate her bday. You can’t buy beer past 11:15 or 11:30 anywhere in NH. Including bars.

2. 1,000 points for NH/Boston – NY, your men are (generally speaking) not at all what I thought they would be. At all. From a purely statistical standpoint, you should have hot men flowing out of every nook and cranny. And the problems is there are a lot of hot men. But most of them are either gay or dating one of my friends. Either way, totally off limits. When I was back in New England for a mere 72 hours, I talked to two hot men.

One was a firefighter sitting in his big ol’ firetruck right next to our car as we drove to Boston. I didn’t talk to him so much as yell out of my window to him about how hot he was. The other one I’ll get to in a minute. Again, generally speaking, New England men are heads-and-shoulders above you grungy, brooding New Yorkers. They’re clean-cut, seem to shower often, do not have hipster haircuts and seem to be in a much better mood. They’re too busy drinking to wonder if they’re acting cool enough for the ladies, and I will take their no-bullshit attitude to your New York game any fucking day.

3. 567 points for NH/Boston. God damn, I miss my girls. Whatever we did Saturday night, I can’t wait to do it again. There’s nothing like arriving at a hotel to see 10 of your closest friends, a few 12-packs of beer, a table loaded with bottles of booze, chips, dip and a whole night ahead of ya. Whatever new friends or lovers I may make in New York, New England has my heart. And that’s real.

Different Animals (For BG)

Speaking of game and guys, I’ve grown leaps and bounds since my last relationship, and I didn’t really realize how much until this weekend. I met a guy. Not usually something I’ll talk about, but this time it’s worth mentioning. Regardless of what happens, I know dating is going to be a different animal for me now. For instance, when we got into the “what happens now” conversation, one of the first questions I asked him was, “Do you have any problems with bisexuality? Because I kind of am.” It was never an issue before my last relationship, so I didn’t even think to bring it up then. Lo and behold, it was a problem.

I’ve always been upfront, but I changed a lot during my last relationship for the sake of the guy I was dating and I shouldn’t have. So I’m just going to put that shit on the table from now on. You can take it or leave it.

I also told him point-blank that I don’t think I can date him because I don’t do long-distance unless there’s an end in sight. I don’t plan on moving back to New England, so I’d rather he know that now instead of later. I can’t afford to spend time with someone who’s got a problem with who I am or how I live. The next guy needs to just deal with the whole package instead of trying to return the pieces he doesn’t like because they don’t fit. If the pieces don’t fit, he should get a whole new outfit instead of trying to f*ck up my flow.

My Dealbreaker Questions: (And here are the rest of your little known facts.)
a) Have you ever been married?
b) Do you have any children?
c) Do you smoke?
d) Do you have a criminal record?
e) Are your parents still married, and are you close with them? (Or at least someone in your family, if not your parents.)
f) What kind of music do you listen to?
g) Do you like football?
h) Do you eat seafood, onions and garlic?

I think that says more about me than any guy I date. Who bases their choice of mate on food preferences? I am insane. (But then again, so is he, if he thinks he can date an Italian girl without enjoying onions and garlic.)