I'm off to Michigan this afternoon, away for a long weekend with family. Last night, arranging airport pick up plans, my mom said something to the effect of: "soon you'll be home and you won't have to lift a finger. Just let everyone take care of you." I thought she was joking and laughed. I'd sincerely forgotten that there was a place in this world where there are people willing to say such a nice thing and mean it. Thinking back on it now, I realize how crass and mean I must have sounded.

I look forward to softening, to setting my own pace for a while. I'm looking forward to kicking back in The Union with beer and Bryan. I'm looking forward to stopping by LA Cafe and getting a snickerdoodle cookie from The Village Bakery. I'm looking forward to cheering on my cousin Sheri as she walks across the stage and holds her hands out for a well-deserved doctorate in pharmacy. I'm looking forward to sitting at the kitchen table with my mother-in-law, letting down my guard and telling her more than I meant to; when she's calm, my mother-in-law is a beautiful listener, like her son. I'm looking forward to kyaking with my mom on Sunday, and hopefully going to the newly re-vamped Clarkston Cafe with her for fancy pizzas; my mom makes me feel like me, no-matter how lost I am. I'm looking forward to running into my favorite high school teacher on the sidewalk, as I usually do when I'm out running and he's taking his dog Sam out for a morning walk. I'm looking forward to possibly getting my hair cut--a 'do that would easily cost me $70 in NYC will cost $40 (tops) in Michigan. I'm looking forward to a blizzard at Dairy Dream with my brothers. My brothers! My tall and loveable brothers! I'm looking forward to reading to my nephews and smelling their little-kid hair as they sit all squiggly in my lap. And I'm really, really looking forward to being with Shaun. Lately, after we walk to the subway together in the morning (he takes the #1, I take the A), I don't see him until 11pm, when I'm bleary-eyed and crawling into bed after a long day of work. But this weekend, we'll be together. With others, but together, holding hands and laughing at the things only we can see.

Our cat hurtled himself off the window ledge yesterday. He took a nose-dive into the empty air and crash landed in the ally, three flights below. Giles, the furry comet.

Typically, the ally is home to a 'round-the-clock soiree, where Dominican gentlemen congregate to smoke pot, drink El Presidente, and listen the same mariachi song over and over. Had it been warmer, the ally revelers would've had some spice added to their party routine, something new to tell to the wives back at home:

A howling cat falling headlong from the heavens. A white boy leaning from a window ledge above, eyes wide with despair, his voice a shot in the dark: "Giles!"

Had it been warmer, our cat's limp body would've been encircled by the ally revelers once it hit the pavement. The mariachi song would draw to a close; no one would dare hit repeat. Quiet, sensitive Manuel would be the first to crouch down and run calloused hand over furry flank. Never to be outdone, Victor would mournfully remove his Mets cap, turn his face to the sky and cry: "¡Pobrecito!"

Seconds later, Shaun would pound the ally gate with both fists. Jose would break from the group to let him in. Smelling the familiar scent of his owner, life would stir back into the cat's body. His eyelids would flutter, a pathetic meow would issue from his mouth. The cat would move himself to all fours, slow but steady, resurrected.

The ally revelers would cheer and offer Shaun a beer, a hit, a  mariachi song. "No," he'd say, "thank you. I'd better get this little guy home."



But it was unseasonably cold yesterday. A dirty clamminess clung to the air like a strand of greasy hair. There were no ally revelers. There was no soiree. There was only a cat sprawled on pavement, a locked ally door, and a frantic Shaun banging on it, unable to get in.

Shaun called the super, who did not answer. He called the building owner, who promised he might swing by to help, but not until Monday. In pigeon-Spanish, Shaun asked neighbors if they knew anyone in the building with a key. After all, someone must have one, seeing as how our ally is party-central. But as white people, as non-Dominican people, as non-Orthodox Jews, as people for whom English is their first language, whose parents were born in this country: we are not to be trusted.

We don't know what happens here, how things work. We don't know why there are at least two plains-clothes arrests every night on our block. We don't know why every corner has a candle-lit memorial site to a slain teenager, where friends leave poetry and bags of the victims favorite snacks. We don't know the characters in the murals. We only know that mail trucks and city services won't come above 148th street, where most maps of Manhattan inexplicably end. We live on 186th.

We are outsiders here. We are constantly aware of our skin, our language, our dress, our walk, our music, our shows, our water bottles, our hair, our inability to access the ally where our cat's injured body is sprawled: this is how the Dominicans and the Orthodox Jews in this neighborhood must feel if they go anywhere outside of it. We can only ever be observers in this place. We are lingering guests, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

After running around the building like mad, someone must have taken pity on Shaun and unlocked the ally door for him. There, he found our cat, face bloodied and swollen. But alive. The vet office took him in early this morning for cat x-rays and mending.

I was away, working yet another double-job, 14-hour Friday when this all happened. I came home to find an unravelled husband, a cat sipping shallow breaths, and a feeling that I was missing my life, letting down everyone I loved, and selling small chunks of myself just to keep living in a city I've grown to hate.

Many people say that pets and their owners mirror each-other. While neither Shaun nor I are as cute as Giles, we do share personality traits with him. Giles is one of the friendliest cats I've ever met. He rushes, indiscriminately, to anyone who enters our home--family, friends, repairmen--for cuddles, conversation, and play. Giles is also a gusty, brave cat. He loves racing out the door, tearing into the unknown, blindly trusting that it will be nothing more than a fun lark. And last night, rushing headlong onto the street, Giles hadn't the faintest idea that NYC would knock the wind out of him and leave him wondering why he ever thought it wise to do such a foolish, painful thing.

I had the day off today! From both jobs! I can scarcely believe it! Shaun is off covering the NYC comic convention, so I had the whole day to myself. I went to the optomitrist (I'm fresh out of contacts), walked in the park, read in the sun, bought fresh bread at the farmers' market, and napped.  It was  extra warm outside today--in the 80's easy.  To the great amusement of the Spanish-speaking men in my neighborhood, I wore shorts for the first time this year.

I also whipped up a new blog about a weekend escape to Connecticut. Check it out at Naptime in the City That Never Sleeps. Last, but certainly not least, I answered burning questions posed by my Xanga peeps. Answers are below. Follow-up questions welcome.

Q.) ThinLizzy17 asks: Where do you hope you'll eventually land?  If you close your eyes and think about "home," where will that turn out to be?

A.) When I close my eyes and think about home, here are a few things that leap to mind, in no particular order:

1.) The dead of winter 2003. 6pm. A weekday in our second Chicago apartment, a truly horrible one. There's no insulation and an upstairs bathtub will fall through the sagging kitchen ceiling any day now. I've been home, bundled in about ten sweaters to keep warm and using the same tea bag to make countless cups of tea; I am writing. Everything is quiet. Dusk settles. Shaun comes home from work. "Hey," he calls. I take my teacup to the sink and meet him in the hall. I kiss his face in greeting. His skin is cold. I am warmer than I thought. The cat meows, underfoot.

2.) Tail end of July. Hot. Swagger-some. I'm home for the summer from my first year at college. I didn't know it at the time, but it was to be the last time in my life I would live at home, near my family, in that Michigan town. It was also to be the last time my family bore any resemblance to the structure I'd grown accustomed to. I was working two jobs to save up for the school year. A sandwich shop clerk in the day and a waitress at night. My legs and lower back were always sore.

I drove a hot little red sports car. I always kept a bikini and towel in the back-seat, just in case the opportunity of lake swimming arose. My diet primarily consisted of soft serve ice cream cones. I was working on a short film and reading a lot of Hemmingway.

One day, I had enough time between shifts to head up to our family's yellow cottage on Big Lake. It was only about 20 minutes away from my family's home. The key sat perched on a rafter above the front porch. I let myself in and changed into my swimsuit. I perched a boom box in the back window and blared a Travis cd. I headed down to the water with a yellow inner-tube and a library copy of Garden of Eden. Carefully perching the book atop the tube, I swam out to the end of the dock. With one foot anchoring me and the other left to the nibbles of minnows, I laid back on the tube and read the afternoon away. When the canopy of leaf shadows stretched long and met me in the water, I swam in and went to work. This was before cell phones, before unplugging became a hard thing to do.

3.) An itchy, too-tight, short-in-the-arms, gray woolen sweater that I stole from my mom.

4.) The way the altitude of my grandparent's Colorado mountain home pushes the lids from half gallon cartons of ice cream; bursting columns of Tiramisu-Swirl. Also in their home: racks of snowshoes. Shelves of hiking boots. Whipped butter in a countertop pot. A hallway photo gallery of family history. A crouching, almond-eyed African fertility statue made of wood. Apricots.

5.) Biking to work on Chicago's lake shore path. Morning. Lake. Glorious.

6.) Lake Michigan sand dunes, friends, and campfire.

I look forward to having a home that includes/provides feasible access to 90% of the elements I've listed above. I look forward to living in a place where my mom, brothers, and best friend are no further than a short-ish Amtrak ride away. I can't wait to settle down in Chicago. Theres an attitude, economy, and cultural sector there that work for us. Best of all: it feels good to be there.

When I'm teaching someday, and a mother, I look forward to spending big chunks of summer in Michigan. Shaun will either do his writing from there or visit us on weekends. Because July should be spent with family, preferably by a lake.

Q.) Secret Life of Pandas asks: If you had one image of yourself that you would have people remember, what would it be?

A.)


Q.) mydogischelsea asks: Where is your favorite place to write?

A.) Mainly, my kitchen table or desk. No music. No bra. No makeup. Phone off. Crunchy carrots and ice water on hand.

I also love the library-feel of Alliance Bakery, although it has the misfortune of being in Chicago's Wicker Park (a poor neighborhood, turned artsy-hip, then promptly overpriced and yuppified). But the WiFi is free and they bake fresh mini-loaves of whole-grain and give you a whole tub of hummus to dip it in. Great coffee, too. The staff leaves you alone to write, even if you only buy one cuppa and stay writing for ages, which is what most people there seem to be doing.

Journaling takes place outdoors, in parks, on subways, on boulders I stop to rest on during a hike. Multi-media stuff (I like to make collage/text thingies) is strictly at my desk, with a cup of tea nearby.

Q.) Boowasborn asks: Has your and Shaun's experiences with NYC been different? If so, how has it been different?

A.) Our experiences are always different and expressed differently. Shaun is a brooder; I'm a giant exclamation mark. Words fly from my mouth, accessible and loud. Shaun chews on words for longer, savors them, is careful and conservative with them. He often takes longer before judging a situation--its an internalized process that unfolds in his head. I feel any given situation with my entire body and my gut knows in an instant what I think and feel about it. There is bad and good in both of our approaches. Its a yin-yang thing.

So does Shaun hate our life here in NYC too? Yes. But our reasoning is different much of the time.

For example, while he thinks everything is gray and uniformly hideous here, I think everything is a vomit of circus color and grotesquely disturbing in very unique ways. Ultimately though, we both can't bear it here because of how wholly unsustainable it is emotionally and financially. Plus, while Shaun's had great success working the connections he needs to for the business of writing, he really struggles to find the time, energy, and comfort to generate new fiction in NYC. This is a problem unique to the pace a person needs to keep to survive in this town.

We both take huge comfort in knowing that we're doing what we came here to do and leaving. All the freelancing that he's been doing, he walks away with. The agent, the editorial contacts--he keeps those. As for me: I get to walk away with a whole new cast of characters, a whole new setting. I get to walk away with all the things I've learned about myself during our time here. I get to know exactly what my limits look like. I get to know the intimate details of the NYC behind the town's grandiose myths. We took what we could, a midnight raid, and soon we'll be back in a place comfy enough (emotionally and finically) to create new work again.  Plus, we've made cool friends here. And we both need all the friends I can get in this world.
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