tamarzworld

Please Keep Your Feet to Yourself

2011-12-19T18:53:00.000-08:00

Half asleep, I shuffled onto the uptown 1 train to head home. The crowds of people with their holiday shopping bags took me by surprise. Was it that time of the year again? As the doors opened to let passengers off at the next stop, a seat near the door became available. In anticipation of a good nap, I quickly claimed it. Instantly I felt all of my muscles relax upon sitting down. I closed my eyes for a few minutes and thought about how odd it was that I could take a nap in the midst of total strangers who were looming over me. The train stopped and the doors opened again to let on the next crowd. A short attractive woman holding a toddler walked on. She looked a lot like one of my professors who was from India. I stood up and leaned towards her. 'Would you like to sit down?' She nodded as if it was the only civilized thing I could have asked her, and thanked me politely. She was well-dressed, and cooing to her child softly. The angular mousy-blonde woman sitting next to her was intently reading her book, arms stiffly guarding her space. Someone stepped in front of me and obscured a clear view of the action to come. I heard the toddler vocalizing excitedly. I saw blondie protecting her space. 'Your child is kicking me', she said in a controlled voice. I saw her long arms exert halting little movements towards the Indian woman, which I imagined were attempts at corraling the child's unweildy legs back into his mother's lap. 'He's only a child, he can't help himself', I heard the mother defend. Her face was clearly visible to me, and she held a broad, confident smile that was turning into condescension. Blondie continued guarding her territory.'His legs are kicking me, keep them under control.' The mother responded instantly with the same crinkly-eyed smile, 'Oh, you obviously will never be a mother, or never a good mother, anyway, that's for sure.' The mother started laughing, and before Blondie could respond, a heavy woman on her other side offered to switch seats with her. The new arrangement was quickly implemented. The mother suddenly burst into tears. A seat opened up on her other side and a man was walking towards her with a look of concern. He sat down next to her and asked her what had happened. She answered in between quiet, heaving sobs, 'I was so upset, I said something I wouldn't normally say. Why was she so mean?' They talked in hushed tones as the toddler calmed down and stopped kicking. I didn't feel sorry for the mother, though she was clearly vulnerable and full of self-doubt. I felt sorry for the crazy book reader. People were now glaring at her and whispering about how horrible it was to treat an innocent baby like that. Some were even doing double takes to record her image, lest she be caught in future tussles with babies on subways. Had this incident taken place in the car adjacent to this one, she may have been supported by like-minded adults in favor of preserving kick-free seating zones. There probably is something wrong with me, I thought as I reflected on my utter fascination with scenarios that involved very uncomfortable verbal conflicts among strangers. Calm was restored, as the mother and her male counterpart now spoke in voices which were inaudible. If the emotions of the incident were still on their tongues, it was impossible to detect from their facial expressions. They could well have been discussing what silverware to use for their Sunday brunch in the Hamptons. Blondie got up at the next stop, and with little fanfare, exited the train. No parting advise on how to raise children with urban sensibilities. Another day on the 1 train, and no one lost an eye.

To all the innocent ones

2011-09-11T05:06:00.000-07:00

My friend in Saltash, a small town about a four hour train ride from Heathrow airport, sent me a quick message on Facebook last month. She mentioned that she'd like to come visit when the Freedom Tower is built. We receive so many bits of information online in such a short period of time, in comparison to BC (before computers), that our filtering system has become very efficient at responding mentally to specific data and filing it as necessary. My gut response to her statement was to feel slightly foolish at not being as interested in 911-related news as Cornish friends half a world away. It's not that I was so physically removed from the site, living five miles north of it. Every week for the past three years, I have taken the number 1 train to Rector street to tutor my young student. Every time I crossed the West side Highway I would see the construction of this tower. My focus on arriving on time for my weekly appointment and crossing the highway invariably took precedence over reflecting on 911. And then one day, waiting for the light to turn green and wondering if the crossing guards took their jobs home with them, I looked up and saw a glittering piece of architecture that seemed to have materialized from nowhere. It caught my full attention, and it dawned on me that this was what everyone was talking about. The foolish feeling returned, accompanied by a sense of awe at the power commanded by a giant structure. This Friday morning, two days before the tenth anniversary of 911, I am sitting in front of my new class of children. The school is in a community center in the Bronx. There are twenty four-year-olds sitting in front of me on the rug, waiting to hear 'The Man Who Walked Between the Towers'. I checked first with my director for approval to read this book. She requested that I not go into any detail about the disappearance of the towers at the end of the book. As a person highly committed to honesty, this posed a slight problem. I had planned on answering any question that came up in a way that children could understand and use in their struggles with conflict resolution. (Sometimes people don't agree on things, and sometimes they forget to use their words when they become angry). My director was firm on her stance, explaining that some parents might become irate over such exposure to 911 events to their children. Having experienced the wrath of an angry mother on two occasions, I quickly accepted the argument and began my reading. The children were focused. Jason, who was sitting in the front, saw Philippe Petit juggling in the park wearing his street performer outfit. 'He looks like Michael Jackson!' When I read the part about Petit contemplating sneaking up to the rooftop against the instructions of the police officers, I said, 'He knew he wasn't supposed to be up there, but he wanted to walk across the wire so badly, he couldn't help himself. So he snuck up there.' My assistant Ms. Shandra walked over to set the tables for breakfast and said under her breath, 'Hmmm. They know a lot about doing things they're not supposed to.' When I got to the page where the towers were missing, I asked the children where they were. 'They broke', Jason said. 'How?' I asked. He shrugged. He tried again. 'They disappeared!' 'Yes' I said, 'But how?' He waved his hand like a magician making something disappear, then clapped his hands with the flourish of a seasoned performer and smiled up at me. I smiled back at him. At that moment, I agreed with my director. Let's hold on to our innocence a little longer.

Asian Persuasion

2011-07-27T11:19:00.000-07:00

My friend AeRhee and I had just finished watching a Brazilian documentary at MOMA. This was the type of film that would fall into the category of 'films about quotidian routines that are not designed to promote tourism'. For some reason, we both decided to wait it out to the bitter end. The rough premise was to highlight twenty little known villages in Brazil with short vignettes of their local inhabitants. Upon leaving the theatre and marching out into the steamy evening air, we got into a discussion about how we express our dissatisfaction with others. In my usual self-deprecating manner, I confessed that I was noticing my occasional tendency towards passive-aggressive responses to strangers' unintended slights. I gave AeRhee an example from the night I went to see Pink Martini live at Summer Stage in Central Park. I was standing not far from the stage with an audience of a thousand or so people, and was dancing a little to 'Lilly', one of their catchiest songs. Suddenly, a young woman arrived with a large tote bag which she tossed in front of her, and then planted her body two inches from my nose. My Cha Cha moves ceased, as I looked down on this spectacle of space invasion. As the red in my cheeks started deepening, I tried to think of a tactful way of asking this person not to insert her hair in my mouth. My friend had no trouble coming up with a solution. 'I would have said, 'Excuse me, can you please move forward a little, I don't have enough room here.' I looked at my friend and smiled. Yes, that would have been the normal thing to say. I told her that culture plays a role in our responses, as I recalled learning about Asian cultures having a very direct way of communicating. AeRhee, who is Korean-American, agreed with me. As we quickened our pace down 58Th street, we arrived at a bar my friend wanted to go into. It had an East side look to it that I wasn't used to. Men were wearing business suits or collared shirts, and the women were in cocktail dresses. I was wearing an outfit more appropriate for hiking a mountain. AeRhee and her direct communication skills miraculously got us two bar stools as we slid through the crowd of suits. I ordered a Czech draft beer. It was cold and crisp, but it lacked a pulse. It put me in a bad mood. I like my friendly Belgian ales. Being heard involved screaming, so our conversation was limited to lots of nodding. Through the sea of conversations one voice succeeded in getting its message across. A clearly inebriated man wearing a pink sports shirt repeated the same phrase several times as he looked over in our direction. 'My friend just got back from serving two terms in Iraq'. AeRhee responded by taking out her cell phone to show me pictures of the pianist she had become friends with. As she scrolled through the images of a pensive looking man in a tuxedo with long flowing hair, the war veteran made his way up to the bar. He too was drunk. He leaned over and touched an image of the pianist sitting in AeRhee's convertible. 'He's a good-looking guy', the vet slurred. AeRhee and I looked at him momentarily, and then went back to the pictures. I felt bad for the vet. I turned to him and said, 'Welcome home'. He thought I was offering an invitation. He must have had a lot of those Czech beers. As I glanced at a picture of the pianist standing in the woods, the vet stuck his finger under my arm. What was he doing? The gesture was unacceptable for many reasons, not the least of which being that I had been sweating all day from the record-breaking temperatures. What to do? With all my Asian moxy I turned to him and in a clear, direct voice announced, 'Don't ever touch me again. I don't like being touched by strangers.' This huge, drunken man who had previously worn a mask of arrogance, suddenly woke up from his stupor. His features slackened in a moment of defeat, and gazing at the floor, he apologised. Though thrilled with this new found directness, I still didn't trust it's power to permanently block future space-invading attempts. I picked up my stool and moved it closer to AeRhee. I was on the right path. I looked forward to a future of directness accompanied by better beer.

The Me Generation

2011-05-01T16:15:00.001-07:00

Being a CUNY student, I have unlimited free access to all films showing at the MOMA. Being unemployed, I take advantage of this quite often. MOMA supports film makers from all different stages of their careers- some of the best of the lot, like last night's 'Das Lied in mir' directed by Florian Micoud Cossen, was a final film school project. Unfortunately, the previous eight films I watched there left me wondering if my taste in film was no longer in sync with my budget. Two weekends in a row I viewed international documentaries that sounded very promising- the first, told from the protagonist's perspective, about a woman in South America sold as a child to work as a servant for a middle class family. The first hour of the film featured no dialogue, no music- just straight footage of this woman as an aging servant, toiling through her chores. The camera followed her as she pruned the plum trees, watered the plants, chopped wood. An hour. One hour. I had to stop asking my friend Mel to join me for these viewings, as she no longer trusted any film I showed interest in. So I invited Mike, who hadn't seen me for much of my 'MOMA film marathon' period, so was unaware of potential pitfalls with my film selections. The very long line snaking around the entrance door to the downstairs theatre was a good sign. We found some empty seats, and started settling in. I looked behind me, and realized that the very short man in back of me would never be able to see over my head, so I asked Mike to move down a seat, and I followed. We put our coats and bags on the now empty seat on my left. Within seconds, the elderly lady sitting on the other side of the seat said in a very audible voice, (something all little old ladies seem to possess), 'Don't you think it's rude to put your belongings on one of the seats when the theatre is so crowded?' I looked around to see if I had missed some movie-goer who was looking for an empty seat. Seeing none, I replied, 'It's not a big deal, if someone wants this seat, we can simply take our jackets back.' She was intent on forcing the issue. 'But they'll think someone is sitting there if they see your jackets.' Then she turned to her friends before I could come up with a good answer, and said very loudly, 'It's all about them, the 'Me' Generation.. Me, me, me!' All of a sudden I turned into my grandma Blanche, and was fired up and willing to risk being kicked out of the theatre to stand up to this seat Nazi. 'If someone wants to sit here they're welcome to, I don't know why you're getting so angry.' 'You want to see angry, I'll show you angry!' she said in a huff, and then added quickly, 'Well anyway, I want to sit there!' I smiled triumphantly. 'Well why didn't you just say so in the first place, instead of giving me this big lecture?' I took our stuff off the seat, she moved over next to me. I turned to Mike, my heart pumping from the adrenalin- 'Is this funny? It sounds funny to me, but no one is laughing.' Mike is a therapist by day, and has a penchant for keeping the peace. Since granny was still muttering about me and my selfish ways, and Mike saw my haunches up, he said jovially, 'Am I going to have to sit between you two?' I was thinking it might be a good idea, but then granny sat quietly with her hands on her lap looking straight ahead. All bark and no bite. I was tempted to give her another piece of my mind, but eh. I have been tested by the best of them- irate phone company customers, out of control three year olds, and revenge-seeking stalkers, to name a few. It's hard to take pride in engaging in warfare with someone half your height, but I must say- it really feels good to tell someone, 'You picked the wrong person to act like a lunatic with. Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up.'

How do I love thee?

2011-03-04T14:03:00.000-08:00

I was walking hurriedly down the Sugar Hill side street to get to work. Patches of black ice were glazing the sidewalk, keeping my gaze low. As I looked up, a large man looking like the late Biggie Smalls was approaching me, slowly walking his cuddly dog. It was Riley's father. Riley was a a three year old in my class who was in constant motion, defying any direction that she herself did not initiate. On my second day of work as a substitute teacher at this school, I found her moodily sulking on the floor with her arms crossed across her chest. She turned to me and said, 'I don't love you no more, Ms. Tamar.' It was one of the cutest things anyone had ever said to me. At least coming from her, it was. I wasn't even aware that she knew my name. Seeing her father on the street seemed like a good opportunity to find out more information about his complex little girl. I shared my story with him, and he confided that Riley often says the same thing about him to her brother. 'Jared, I don't love daddy no more.' He shared some more stories about the trials of getting her to sleep before midnight, and how he spends hours reading to her. I didn't have any solutions, but thought it was a good step to building some rapport with a parent. Later that day at work, my assistant teacher asked me to find some Valentine's poem to include with the heart-shaped pictures she had been working on with the kids to send home to their families. I thought gathering some insights from the kids directly and compiling a list of quotes would be a more personal gift for them to bring home. I started an inquiry into the reasons behind their love for their families. Having a mathematical background (yes, completing an undergraduate minor in math qualifies), I couldn't start with the assumption that love existed. The interview consisted of two questions- do you love your family, and if so, why? Kid #1: 'Yes, because they make me rice and chicken.' I liked that logic. Kid #2: 'Yes, because they buy me candy.' OK, a little pedestrian, but if someone were to buy me some Sour Patch kids, I may be inclined to have warm feelings towards them as well. I asked Riley: 'Do you love your family?' She didn't miss a beat: 'Mommy's good and daddy's bad.' Had she been rehearsing? I paused for a second, and thought maybe a second round would illicit something more generous to her poor sleep-deprived father. I repeated the question, and she repeated the answer. Twice. I said OK, and wrote down her words. You can't edit kids' feelings. I thought it was original, heartfelt, funny, and mostly, I thought her father would get a big kick out of seeing it. I compiled all of the quotes into one page of classroom voices, ran it by my assistant teacher who agreed to keep the unedited version, and off the cards went to the homes. That was a Friday. The following Monday, my supervisor came into the classroom and sighed, 'I wish you would have showed me the card you sent home before sending it out. One of the parents was very upset.' I had a feeling that this might happen, but felt confident in the good intentions behind the decision to send the children's quotes home. Apparently, one of the moms thought that Riley's statement was given by HER daughter, and that brought up issues with the estranged father. The issue escalated to a point where the mother lost control and came into my classroom to voice her anger. Unfortunately, I was sick that day, and her wrath was taken out on teachers from another classroom that had no idea what she was talking about. This scenario ran over in my mind many days and nights, and though I am positive that I had the best of intentions by sharing Riley's quote, I have now learned to reign in a bit of my off-center humor. Somberly waiting for the 1 train on my last day of work, Melissa, the mom of another girl in my class came up to me with her daughter. 'Tamar! We're so lucky we get to see you on your last day!' Our train came, and we all boarded together. I asked her if she had heard of the drama that had been going on in my class. She said she had, and after I explained how the children's collective quotes were mistaken by one mom for quotes of her own daughter, Melissa looked sheepishly at me. 'I thought they were Alyssa's quotes too.' I asked her if the quote about mommy and daddy was upsetting to her. She told me that she is not on the best terms with Alyssa's dad, and when she read the quote, she said to herself, 'Yes! She finally sees him for what he really is!' and she has happily displayed the card on their fridge ever since.
I don't know, but for some reason I couldn't get the Pebbles Flintstone song out of my head that week either.

Note: if you want to hear this video, first scroll down to my playlist at the bottom of this page and click the two vertical lines buttom in the middle of the three button volume control to turn off the automatic music

The Mumbling Man

2011-01-02T07:47:00.000-08:00

I have known Gogol Bordello would be giving a performance locally for about a month, but kept putting off getting a ticket. Gypsy punk music with Eastern European roots kind of sums up my childhood, so I wanted to go with someone like a sibling- you know, someone who would 'get' the music, and dance along with me until the last set. Having no handy siblings, the tickets sold out, and I was left with the next best option: posting on couch surfing for a like-minded fan. I was happy to find a Gogol Bordello group had already formed and were sharing tips on getting last minute tickets to the concert. Before I knew it, I was waiting inside the Time Warner building for at least one of those fans. Aren was supposed to meet me by a designated escalator entrance. I arrived early, and was struck by the throngs of New Year's day crowds, well dressed out of towners happy to be spending their money. I witnessed several impassioned reunions, and found myself smiling along with the anonymous reunitees. For a moment I felt like I was in an airport. When Aren arrived, we shared ideas on best practices for negotiating with a scalper. Armed with no concrete plan, but an abundance of confidence, we inserted ourselves at the end of the ticket-holder's line. We waited a short while until they had checked our IDs and given us charming paper bracelets to allow us access to alcohol purchase if we so desired (I didn't, thank-you- this was New Year's day and I was still a bit groggy from the previous evening's adventures in Green Point). Security checked our bags for weapons, and sent us inside to enjoy the show. Of course Aren and I were not quite ready for this step, and were instantly turned away without our tickets. Standing in the unlit street was a a big guy with an over sized bomber jacket, telling us to come over to him so we could 'talk'. A security guard opened the velvet rope allowing us to exit. I was assigned the task of talking, since Aren was too dressed up to be considered for the sliding scale rates. I shifted my gaze non-challently, as if I really didn't have any interest in buying these tickets, and asked casually, 'How much?' The scalper countered, 'What were you looking to pay?' 'Twenty dollars.' The scalper grimaced, and in a raised voice, answered, 'Now miss, I know you didn't come to a sold out concert thinking you were going to get a ticket for $20.' I work with three year olds, I wasn't falling for this circular logic. I thanked him, and walked away. I did have a sheepish smile though, as I mimicked the guy's words to Aren. It was pretty funny. So plan b was to tend to nutrition needs first, and avoid the trap of purchasing under desperation. This band has been around and touring for twenty plus years, this wouldn't be their last concert. We got a bite to eat, talked about things couch surfers love to talk about, and tried one more time. Crossing 11th avenue in its notorious darkness, two lurking scalpers remembered our plight. 'Got tickets,' they said as smoothly as a Barry White lyric. How much?' Aren asked. '$80' was the answer. 'No thanks.' We kept walking. One of them called after us, 'You won't find anything cheaper. Go back to the movies.' Every one's a comedian. We did find something cheaper, but still overpriced. I was really tired, and we decided to call it a night. We parted and I headed back uptown for home. I remembered I needed to buy stuff to make playdough, so dragged myself into D'ags. I picked up an appealingly green bunch of broccoli rabe. As I studied it, the sprinklers for the fresh vegetables activated and startled me into jumping. I was too tired to laugh, like I usually do. A song I liked was playing in the store's system, and I started singing softly into my broccoli rabe. I was alone in the produce aisle. I walked around looking for items I needed. Passing the pasta section, an older man who may have been homeless was mumbling as he looked up at some out of reach boxes of pasta. I couldn't tell if he was talking to me or himself, so I kept walking past him. I got around the corner, and thought, 'Wait. Maybe he needs assistance.' I walked back and asked him if he needed some help. He was in his own world, and didn't hear me. I asked him again, this time approaching him from his other side. He turned to me, and had one cloudy eye. He looked around 80, but was probably only 60. His face softened into a smile when he realized I wanted to help him. With a thick island accent, he replied, 'No, I'm fine.' At that moment, I saw a man that seemed to be completely alone in the world. He had taken to talking to himself as the rest of the world had stopped listening. I felt overwhelmed by sadness, and had to leave. As I started the three block walk to my apartment, the sultry dark night swallowed me in its emptiness.

Quinn Will Save the Baby Polar Bear

2010-12-13T19:26:00.000-08:00

Quinn is a 3 year old girl at the new school that I just started working in. This job came up unexpectedly as a colleague at school approached me timidly after class asking if I was interested in a temporary teaching position. For the first time in two years, despite long bouts of unemployment-related anxiety, I was very tempted to decline. It was the last week of the semester at grad school, and the pressure was on to perform in presentations, case studies, and a dreaded four hour teacher certification exam. I reluctantly told my friend I would be happy to speak with the school, and the next day after a thorough interview, I met the new set of students. Though the youngest group I had ever worked with at 3 and 4 years old, there was a certain toughness about these tykes that was a little unsettling. Quinn's face in particular remained in my mind hours after I left their classroom. She had a very intent look on her caramel-toned face, with set, slightly knit eyebrows. Her expression seemed to say, 'I'm very angry, and I'm not getting over it.' My first day of working with the children, I noted her combative approach to the slightest resistance or barrier. When skinny little Lizette blocked Quinn's view of the story I was reading, Quinn shoved Lizette with such a force, that the child flipped over some books backwards, and got up with a perplexed expression on her face. I was very relieved that no blood was shed. Quinn showed me the same defiance whenever I challenged her point of view. I started noticing a pattern in fact, that many of the children were not really taking me or my gentle attempts at classroom management very seriously. Ms. Ramos, the assistant teacher, announced that the children were playing with me, and that I needed to control them. This did not bode well with me one bit. But I knew that she was right. How do children know how to do this so adeptly? It was as if they had conferenced during lunchtime, and concluded that they would simultaneously disregard anything I asked them to do, and further, if I was occupied with calming one disruptive child, then another one would instantly engage in his own disruptive behavior. I think this is the moment in the classroom where many adults make the definitive decision that classroom teaching will never be their cup of tea. As much as I dislike being disrespected, I respect that children have reasons for their behavior, and I was determined to overcome this obstacle to get through to the fun part of this job. So the next day, while the same group of preschool hooligans were making a fool of me, I asked Ms. Ramos for some advise. She raised her eyebrows and had a look on her face that said, 'I doubt you will ever learn this trick', and said, "You're the teacher." Undeterred, I asked her how she dealt with this behavior. She smiled and said, 'They don't do that with me.' Then she walked over to them and with a very stern voice picked out the ringleader of bad behavior and said, 'Lizette, do you want me to call your mother?! You listen to Ms. Tamar!' And then I got it. Threaten with calls home. I thanked Ms. Ramos, and felt my teacherliness kick into that higher gear as I persisted with the firm/persistent yet caring role that I had lacked the day before. The rest of the day, the kids were mine. It doesn't matter how interesting or creative your lesson plans are, if you can't control the kids, you can't teach them. I had those kids quivering in their boots (well, not quite- but they were sitting on their spots for once during story time, and all 17 were paying attention). And as I started reading to them Claudia Rueda's 'My Little Polar Bear', and asking them questions like, 'Who is going to take care of the little Polar bear cub if his parent disappears?' tough little Quinn calls out, 'Me!' And so goes another day working with the little cubs in the big city.

Tale of The Tape

2010-11-02T19:50:00.000-07:00

Well, I don't give up very easily. In anything. But sometimes, you just have to say, 'It's OK, this isn't exactly what I wanted to do.. not really even very close, but it's OK.' After all, I'm only talking about formatting- how much sleep can a person lose over this? You really don't want to know.

So miraculously, all 33 of the Chilean miners have been rescued. I remember before I registered to run in a four mile race in Van Cortlandt Park, I asked my friend Wendy who was running her very first race- if she and her four relatives that she managed to talk into joining her- if they all wanted to run as a team in support of the miners. This was back on August 29, when the miners had already spent 24 days trapped underground. I thought we'd call our team 'Mucha Fuerza' to encourage them. Turned out you couldn't just make up a team on the spot. So I ran that race thinking about those guys, and thinking about how any pain I was enduring was nothing compared with their situation. Then I thought about the estimated rescue timeline of four months. I thought about how it would be November, and the New York City Marathon would be taking place, and those guys would still be stuck down there. A whole season without natural light. I didn't want to think about that too much, because it's a little too much to fathom. Then I got a call from Wendy, a couple of months later. The rescue mission had begun. By October 13, all 33 of the miners were safely above ground. Only the week before I had made up my mind to run in the upcoming marathon. I had been accepted a while ago, but felt unprepared to run it, so I hadn't trained for it at all. Then one day I came across a runner with a prosthetic leg who was slightly ahead of me. I caught up with him, and we completed one loop of Central Park together. I was fascinated with his stories and plight, and inspired by his positive attitude. I finished that loop in a faster time than I'd run all year. That run decided it for me. A month is not a lot of time to prepare yourself to run a marathon. So here I am, a week before the big day, and I have only run one long run, which was only 18 miles. Today I found out that there's another guy who wasn't really able to prepare properly for this endurance race, but he's not letting that stop him either. And for you boxing fans, please excuse the lack of proper competitor stats formatting text-this is the no-frills version due to lack of options on blogger. No one's perfect.

Tamar
Home Town: New York, NY; Weekly Mileage from 8/05/10 - 10/13/10: Around 30; Races Run from 8/5/10 - 10/23/10: X-Country 5k 25:31 Thetford, VT 8/17/10; X-Country 4M 31:53Bronx, NY 8/29/10; Half Marathon 1:42:50 Staten Is, NY 10/10/10; RunTheRiver 5k 22:21 Randall’s Is, NY 10/23/10; Special Challenges Leading Up to the Marathon: Forced to reprimand teen male truants in the middle of a track workout (note: did not slow down in process); Expected # of Fans To View Race 11/7/10: Not as many as Peña, but a well timed, ‘Go, Tamar!’ would be worth a lot

Edison Peña

Home Town: Copiapó, Chile; Weekly Mileage from 8/05/10 - 10/13/10: Around 30; Races Run from 8/5/10 - 10/23/10: Triatlón Piedra Roja 2:36, Chicureo, Chile ;
Special Challenges Leading Up to the Marathon: Trapped in a copper-gold mine for a record 69 days 700m beneath the ground- completed 3-6 miles of training a day in the minimal tunnels available; Expected # of Fans To View Race 11/7/10: The entire population of Chile, and likely the rest of the world

Addendum: Apparently, David Letterman has been reading my blog, and decided to book Peña.. or maybe he couldn't resist the opportunity to host a guest who has more charm in his right eyebrow than half the celebrities saturating the media today. Here is a fantastic five minutes of that show:

Rocking the Crayolas

2010-10-19T17:37:00.000-07:00

Tuesday is my Art Education graduate class, a very hands-on, practical course with little controversy save for the continual din of side conversations. Until today. Several of us students had just finished sharing our clay lesson plans with the rest of the class. The subject of play therapy came up, and somehow our professor wound up discussing the large number of kindergartners failing. Belinda from my table laughed to herself at the absurdity of calling a five year old to task on lack of studiousness, and the lone white male in our class, Connor, (who happened to be sitting next to me) said in an incredulous and forceful tone, 'How do so many parents send their kids to school ill-equipped?' The professor, who herself had been an art teacher in public schools for many years, enlightened this gentleman as to the many valid reasons why a child would not be prepared to pass kindergarten, which is not even a mandated grade, as another student pointed out. After listing reasons such as lack of English language fluency, lack of previous experience in formal early childhood programs, and lack of time from economically strapped parents whose priority is putting food on the table, Connor came back with, 'I don't understand how parents can't take one hour out of the day to teach their kids the basics, like the alphabet.' The classroom mood swiftly alighted with the wrath of parents being directly accused of denying their children the best education. These comments hit home for many of these people- a mix of multi-cultural adults who had themselves struggled to not only survive a biased school system that denied the merits of their own rich heritages, but are currently either parents or teachers of children struggling with these same challenges. It was unfortunate that this young man was white, because it is nearly impossible to view his comments as anything but race directed when the inequalities which children in inner-city schools face are inherently attributed to their race. Had a person of color made the same comments, though naive in content, I doubt the class reaction would have been a defensive one. After several passionate responses addressing the inappropriateness of the man's words, I glanced at my scissors sitting on my desk ready for today's construction project. I hoped they wouldn't get used prior to our scheduled assignment. The guy was up against the wall, with the rest of the class completely disgusted with him. He told them that he did not intend to target any culture, and that his comments were directed at children in general, which includes Anglo-Saxon white children. The damage was already done. I had that sick feeling in my stomach that you get when you know there's nothing you can do to save anyone. When that happens, I talk about Rafajella, the six year old student I have been tutoring for the past year. She's an English language learner, but she's Eastern European, so she represents both sides of the coin. Maybe she had the neutrality to diffuse the pressure.'Globally, we have one of the poorest education systems amongst other industrialized nations. The parents of the Serbian student that I tutor want her to be able to keep up with her classmates, but they've admitted to me that it's their believe, as well as the belief of their homeland education system, that children should not be taught to read until they are seven years old. Maybe we should stop looking at the U.S.'s model of education as the right standard.' The professor said that she was glad we had this discussion, and released us for a much needed break, after which we would come back and start our construction projects. Belinda and I headed for the bathroom. We were both surprised at the reaction of the class to the initial comments about lack of school-readiness in our children. Sometimes it's hard to relate to comments that don't directly speak to your own personal issues. Amelia, who moved here from Malaysia five years ago and works very hard to keep up with the graduate courses with her continually evolving English skills, joined our conversation. Belinda asked her if she was upset by the comments. She said at first she wasn't, but then she became very angry when she realized what was being said. Anger is a very powerful force, and once it was ignited in our little art room, it was difficult not to get swept up in it. I felt it sucking me in too, before I had a chance to analyze what the two sides of the issue really meant. It was good to talk about this thing before re-entering the class. When we returned, we each worked on our construction projects. I was doggedly trying to make an old egg carton into a lizard. Belinda was making a free-form play structure (with advent calendar windows). Connor was silently making what looked like a machine gun. After a few minutes, the professor asked us to go around the room and talk about our work. Someone made a cute subway rat. Another person made a cheerios box vacuum cleaner. Connor lifted his piece and told the class it was a telescope. I wonder if he was sending subliminal messages for us to take in the whole picture? I think we could all benefit from capturing a realistic viewpoint. None of us is free from bias, and we all have much to learn. As current and future educators, let the lens of clarity first be pointed inward.

Darkness

2010-08-26T08:50:00.000-07:00

Isla Negra, Chile

"Podrán cortar todas las flores, pero no podrán detener la primavera"

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda

I am one of those people whose emotions are fully embraced by the quotidian chiens écrasés appearing in the daily newspapers. Mothers drowning their children to flee responsibility, wives dousing abusive husbands with acid causing the victims to be totally ostracized from society, and so on. The acid attack article stuck with me a little longer than the others. Yesterday, walking home from a loop run in Central Park, I heard a man in a distant apartment screaming bloody murder. As I passed the friendly community garden which brought up fond memories of relaxing with Dakota and the local neighbors last summer, I tried to pinpoint the exact apartment the distressed screams were coming from. Cautious to appear indifferent to his cries, lest the perpetrators witness and later seek retribution, wearing a blank expression I maintained my gaze directly in front of me. After I crossed Manhattan avenue, and was safely off of any one's radar, I started to think. Some innocent guy could actually be in the final stages of a homicide attempt, and I had an opportunity to save his life. Now would be a good time to have a cell phone. A couple walking quickly and holding an umbrella (it was raining), passed me. They were having an intense conversation in Spanish. I plunged right in. 'Excuse me. I heard a man screaming across the street. Do you think we should do something?' They stopped their conversation and looked at me intently. The man was short and stocky, with thick, dark eyebrows. His eyes were fully focused on me. 'Do you want to call 911?' He asked me. I told him I didn't have a cell phone. He took his out, dialed 911 and handed me the phone. Both he and his female companion were watching me. I didn't realize he already dialed, so I started pressing buttons, unsure if they were alpha or numeric. 'I already dialed', the man told me. I listened and heard nothing. Then the dispatcher's tired voice tinged with a slight Brooklyn accent came through. '9-1-1, hello?' 'Oh sorry,' I said, embarrassed by everything that had transpired since finishing my run. 'I was walking home from a run in the park, and I heard a man screaming bloody murder.' I thought about that expression. Did people still use that expression? It sounded like something Ralph Kramden would have said to his wife. 'Jeez, Alice, I'm five minutes late, and you're over there screaming bloody murder!' The dispatcher repeated my words. 'So he screamed bloody murder?' I panicked for a second. Was I calling in a bogus report? A guy screams and I call
911. Maybe he stubbed his toe. No, it was a bad scream. A person being tortured kind of scream. 'Yes, he was screaming in pain.' The owner of the phone crossed the street to get the exact address. He came back and told me the building was housing a religious cult. My fantasies of being a hero were vaporizing before my eyes. The dispatcher asked if I wanted to leave my name and number. I told her I could, but I really didn't have anything else to contribute. I returned the phone to the guy, and the couple continued walking and holding their umbrella. I walked awkwardly next to them, since I was going the same way. The guy made a little small talk about running. He told me to have a nice day, and then turned to his companion. We were still walking inches away from each other. It was really awkward. I was glad when they crossed the street.

The news story I read the day before of acid attacks in Cambodia clearly fueled my imagination when I heard that man's screams. But the story that got to me that day was of the 33 trapped miners in Chile. Few of us can imagine with any authenticity what it is like to be trapped below civilization, in the heart of the earth, where the total absence of light is a constant reality. And then, like a Rabbi Boteach joke, the bad news got worse. The rescue effort that was estimated to take four months (four months in darkness!) can not be disclosed to the trapped miners. According to former NASA astronaut Jerry Linenger who survived degraded conditions as a result of a fire on his 1997 space mission, 'Psychologically, you need to know the end point.' Upon further reading, it seems these miners know a thing or two about survival. They likely already know the time frame involved in drilling a rescue tunnel. After my bloody murder saga, I don't think there is much I can contribute to this rescue effort either. But my thoughts are with the miners. One is named Jimmy Sanchez. In 4th grade I had a crush on a Jimmy Sanchez at the Starr King School in San Francisco. For months we exchanged millisecond glances. Then one day he talked to me. He was wearing his turquoise cardigan sweater, and his wavy, sandy brown hair was parted on the side. We were the last ones to leave the classroom for the cafeteria. He said, 'What's for lunch today?' And I told him, 'I think grilled cheese sandwiches.'
Sometimes a few words can bring you out of the darkness.

Boomerang Effect

2010-05-30T18:45:00.000-07:00

Interesting gifts have been coming my way lately. It all started when I went out to my favorite bar with a classmate. My friend had just revealed that she'd never been out of the country, and I was listing distant places for us to travel to. When I got to Australia, my friend said she wouldn't feel comfortable going there, as she had heard that minorities are not welcomed. Hearing the mention of racism sober always brings on a visceral response from me. After a Blue Moon or two, unprecitable things can occur. Half joking, I announced 'Well, we can just forget about Australia, then!' And my dramatic accompanying arm gesture sent my fresh pint of Blue Moon flying off the table. The liquid that had been occupying my full glass had now darkened the powder blue back of the shirt of the unfortuate man sitting at our table. I didn't give him a chance to fully express his anger, I just kept apologising, thinking about how thoroughly annoyed I would have been if our roles were reversed. Then I thought I'd explain that the reason for the mishap was related to racism. Instantly, the beer-soaked man took up our cause and started vigilantly decrying every potential country that would dare to ruin the future vacation in discussion. Inebriation is an amazing thing, I thought as I smiled at his attempts at flirting. Magically, a brand new Blue Moon pint made its way in front of me the next moment. Some bystander had witnessed the drama, and wanted to assist in the losses. I smiled at my friend. She now understood why this was my favorite bar.

Go To Sleep Tamar!

2010-05-21T17:01:00.000-07:00

Beautiful low humidity day. I went out for a short test jog to loosen up before a 1/2marathon I am doing tomorrow. As I start my jog, each fiber in each leg is tight and resistant. As my friend Mike would say, this does not bode well. I really didn't need another excuse to bail on this Brooklyn race. It starts at 7:00 am. In Brooklyn. That's kind of insane, and means I should be going to sleep around 8 at night to get enough sleep. So I'm not taking it too seriously. I finish my jog, and spot one of my building neighbors. A very tall Asian woman who is almost always walking two blond dogs. She is dogless today. We always say hello and only hello as we pass. I'm feeling really bold, and think how nice it would be to find out her name. I look up and she's already crossed the street. I have to jog to catch up to her. She's going to think I'm stalking her. I don't care. Her name is Yu-Chen and she walks five days a week. She was impressed with the fact that I may finish this 1/2 marathon in under 1:40. I have lived in this building for two years and we never said more than hello. I think that's how most New Yorkers tend to be. After I showered, I had a whole agenda. I swung by an old school I worked in when I first moved here. A small group of 2nd graders in Summer school still remembered me when I passed by their school last year coming home from work. They all ran to the playground fence and screamed out 'Ms. S.! Ms. S.!' One girl in particular, Lakshmi, would not let me leave until I gave her my phone number. I'm not sure why she wanted it, but I gave it to her. Flash forward another year, and our community bulletin told me their school was having a festival open to the public. I knew she'd appreciate a visit, so I stopped by. It was in the school yard, and the sun was so strong I started tearing. I looked all around, and didn't see any of my kids. Then I saw Felipe. He looked exactly the same, just a foot taller. He was the one who looked so tough in school, but when the cooperating teacher yelled at all the kids to put their bag lunches away before she counted to ten, he offered to put my lunch in his backpack. I wanted to say hi to him, but thought he may not remember me. I walked around, disappointed that Lakshmi wasn't there. Still I sensed she was there. I walked over to this huge inflatable house where children were jumping inside and could be seen through this mesh window. I saw a jubilant dark girl with straight black hair. That was her. When she came out, I called her name. She turned around and smiled, and gave me a big hug. 'What's your name again?' she asked. I reminded her. She had a worried look on her face as she looked around for her friends. She ran away to find someone, then ran back and gave me another hug. She was distracted by all the things she wanted to play on. She looked beautiful, and she was wearing the same dress she wore on my last day when all the kids gave me a special presentation. Her cousin had made it, and it was a very unique design. She ran off again to get on a line for a ride. I walked around to see if I could find anyone else, but didn't. I thought I'd say good-bye to Lakshmi. I went up to her. She told the girls waiting in front of her who I was. I asked her how school was going, and what she was going to do this Summer. I told her that I was going to run a long race tomorrow. I told her how I'd run an even longer race last month, and that it caused me to lose one of my toenails. Kids love that stuff. I was wearing sandals, so she was able to observe the situation. She studied my foot with concern for a full minute. I told her I had to go. She made me promise to write her a letter. I told her I would, but she'd have to send me one back. She said she would try. I left and trekked over to NYRR's office to pick up my race number and goodies bag. They're so organized over there, I guess they have to be, their events are so huge. As the woman assigned to the R-S box was searching for my number, I was chatting with this other volunteer whose name I can never remember. The other woman handed me my number, and I continued chatting with my friend. I asked her if there was anything else I needed, and she turned over my race packet and said I just need to affix that sticker to my bag. I'm really glad she turned over my envelope, because it belonged to some 31 year old man who wasn't me! He had some similar crazy Eastern European name. I told the woman who handed it to me, and she was a little flustered as she had confirmed it with me. I apologised since it was my fault for not paying attention, but assured her that I am not a 31 year old man. Some other runner picking up his packet looked at me and said, 'I can vouch for that'. That was presumptuous of him. What am I doing still writing?? I have to go to sleep. Wish me luck getting up at 3:30 :-(

A belated thank-you

2010-05-11T14:43:00.000-07:00

My creative writing skills have been beaten out of me with the advent of graduate school participation. No one cares about interesting narratives, apparently. It's all about facts and citations and correlations. And correct formatting, let's not forget. So I'll leave the creative stuff for now to someone whose well of talent never runs dry. Here is a great video my sister put together of some highlights from the Boston marathon. This turned out to be a great family weekend for us, with my niece Hailey celebrating her graduation from culinary school in Boston, and then on Monday, both my niece Alex and I boarded the school bus in Boston for the long ride to the start of the race. Alex is an amazing person (as are all of my nieces!!)and an amazing runner. She only recently got into marathon running, and within two tries qualified to compete in Boston- a feat that most runners can only hope to one day accomplish. She definitely has the heart of a runner, devoting most of her life to service for underprivileged and neglected populations around the world.
I was undecided about running in this race until the last few days, but despite my own indecision, I felt the support and caring of many people. Thank-you to everyone who shared in the excitement, I'm not naming names, but you know who you are. Some agreed to drive there and arrange the whole trip, some sacrificed beds to keep the snorers from the racers the night before the race, some created goody baskets with gourmet foods, some provided a selection of Gatorade during a final leg of a long run (a SELECTION, mind you, not just yellow or green- yellow AND green). OK, I have a paper to finish, and I didn't intend to get all sentimental; but I did forget to say thank-you. THANK-YOU, GUYS!

Vain Indulgences

2010-04-08T12:31:00.001-07:00

I'm taking a coffee break from writing this paper for school on correlations between course readings in historical educational ideologies with children in cinema. It's as bad as it sounds.
So I hopped on to New York Road Runners website, and viewed a cache of photos of me from a race this past winter. I made a fascinating and previously undisclosed discovery about my appearance: during a run, when my left leg is forward, I look reasonably pretty and free of deformities; but when my right leg is forward, the tables are turned. My features take on a grotesque demeanor caused by gravitational pull, whose appearance is comparable to the expression one makes upon viewing the results of a smashed cockroache. (I can imagine that one pretty well, since I put such a creature out of his misery on my way out the door this morning).
Back to real writing.

Vexatious Requester

2010-03-17T10:17:00.000-07:00

The office of vital records in Hawaii is getting inundated with repeat requests from parties with ulterior motives for copies of the birth certificate for Barack Hussein Obama II. The state is looking into putting a two year restriction for receiving governmental records to individuals who make the same request more than once.
Can I adapt this ruling for my own personal use? Maybe it's the pedagogue in me, but I feel there has to be a reasonable limit to the time given to grasp a new concept. After all, there is such an enormous body of knowledge expected of us humans to incorporate into our social constructs, that we have little time to waste dwelling on the concepts that elude us. We can change the language of the ruling to restrict offenders to a two year ban from further contact with me, at least in regards to the issue in question.
So without further ado, here is my top-five wish list of people who would benefit (in my favor) from this restriction:

5. My favorite radio station- I'm sorry, your membership drives are driving me insane. I realize listener support is what keeps your station commercial free, but why do paying members have to be subjected to the two week long round-the-clock request for new members?

4. People on the street telling me to gain weight (!)
I know, this is a weird one. It doesn't sound all that offensive at first, but trust me, when a stranger approaches you and suggests you gain weight- rather than compliment your amazingly toned runner's legs- it just takes the wind out of your sails. (As my old friend Dick Vincent used to say, 'If I look emaciated, that means I'm running well.') Still. Two years, NO SOUP FOR YOU!! (maybe a little more for me)

3. My friend Mike the Pervert- caveman comments when viewing new Facebook photos of me. Come on now, you've been warned enough over the past ten years. Grow up!

2. The man on a street somewhere whose chants vibrate through my apartment every night with the words, 'Glory, glory, hallelujah, I love you! I love you! I love you!'
You've been doing this for two years. Time to take the act downtown.

1. And the number one repeat offender- you guessed it- those pesky people who just don't get it! Despite multiple blog stories of my low tolerance for social exchanges during strenuous runs, people are still coming up to me and asking for directions! In Central Park, where there are hundreds of leisurely walking bodies, just waiting for an opportunity to assist! Double fines for offenses committed during a race.

Little Pieces

2010-02-27T10:30:00.000-08:00

Wrapped tightly in my cocoon of warmth and darkness, was I really prepared to face the harsh elements of this post-snowstorm morning? After 24 hours of complete seclusion, I was anxiously looking forward to feeling some signs of life on my skin. My block was an interesting study in snow-removal techniques. Someone (thankfully not me) ploughed the sidewalks East to West, and the roads were, after two days of neglect, clean. The parked cars did not fare so well. Mountains nearly three feet tall enveloped most of them, with one or two lucky ones parked under partial sunlight having the advantage of auto-car clean-up as large chunks of snow fell in sheets off of them. As I walked up the street, I was thankful for no longer being a car owner. Entering Central Park, I discovered the hill I walk up to start my runs was unshovelled. That surprised me, as the maintenance of this park is so consistently thorough. As I approached my running route, I was relieved to see that it was snow-free. I thought about the pedestrian who was killed in the park this week by a falling limb. There weren't as many people as normal for a weekend, and I was able to really appreciate the views of the park. The temperature was a bit warmer than normal without those frigid winds to ruin your mood. I felt like I was running in the midst of a fairy tale setting- all the trees were rimmed with glimmering white snow outlining their delicate branches. A huge pile of snow fell inches in front of me. Then a hard ball of ice grazed my temple. That hurt! I thought about the penny my friend dropped out of our second story apartment building when we were in middle school. The guy it hit didn't believe it was a penny. He said 'OW!' loud enough for us to know he would be running up our stairs and banging on our door in the next minute. Thanks to that incident, I was now preparing to defend myself from the gravitational properties of these falling chunks of ice from above. Every time I passed an overhanging branch, I put my hand over my head. I figured a broken hand is preferable to a cracked skull. My commitment to this uncomfortable maneuver was pretty low, as I knew that if I was to get hit by a chunk of ice, it would undoubtedly occur when I was too lazy to guard myself. I looked up at the sound of children playing in a huge fort made out of snow. Someone had created a portrait of snow on a tree. It looked like a man climbing a rope, only the rope portion that was between his legs had melted in intermittent stretches, giving the appearance that the man had a bad case of the runs. I saw a tall couple ahead of me running. They were passing a horse and carriage. The woman was waving her hand in front of her face as she turned to her man. It looked like she was teasing him about having bad breath. As I passed them, I said it wasn't his breath, it was the horse. She laughed, appreciating that I understood what she was miming. I then told her to be nice to the guy, as good running partners are hard to come by. She thanked me, but I'm not too sure she understood what I said. Then I passed two older gentleman shuffling along in comfortable looking clothes. I overheard one say to the other, 'One little slip, and I just want to turn around and go home.' I could relate. Then a couple passed me running, and the woman called out 'Hi, Tamar!' I said a staccato 'hi', turning around and realizing I had no clue who she was. She solved the mystery and said 'Susan!' I'm always so impressed people can figure out what's going through your mind and accommodate your confusion, all while running in the opposite direction. Maybe it's me, but I'm really kind of amazed with that kind of talent. Then I look over, and see this Blue Heeler with a big stick in his mouth, running ecstatically through very deep snow. I got caught up in his heroicism, and heard the soundtrack to 'Chariots of Fire' playing in my head. I ran through a sunny patch of road and CRACK! A chunk of ice whacked me on the head. It didn't hurt, but the crack was so loud, I knew that either the ice ball or the skull had to have permanent structural damage. I guess I have a hard head, because I didn't think about it again during the run. I finished my loop, and anticipated a slow time, since my legs felt very tight, and everyone seemed to have passed me today. To my surprise, my time was decent. I walked home, surveying the crosswalks to avoid plunging my feet into deceptively deep puddles of slush. I passed by my favorite cafe, and imagined an old friend enjoying a cup of coffee, and then spying me pass by, run out and surprise me. A few blocks later I arrived on my block. A car parked on the corner had a bumper sticker of a picture of a native American. Then another that said 'Official Vehicle of the Native Americans', and a last one saying 'Native Americans-We're Still Here'. Not all in that Toyota RAV4, I hoped. As I took out my key, I thought it was really nice to share little pieces of people, and maybe we get greedy when we think we need big chunks of them.

Setting the Bar Beyond Your Grasp

2010-02-01T07:38:00.000-08:00

How high are your expectations? Of yourself? Your friends? Your family? If you set up goals for yourself that you know you will not reach, is it less of a failure? It's a great idea, when you think about it. If I am never really fully vested in a goal in the first place, perhaps because I knew it was unrealistic to expect success in it, how can I possibly blame myself for not reaching it? For me, my unrealistic goal (the main one, as I have numerous pseudo goals), has always been associated with running. When I first started running after leaving Israel, I loved it. I loved the fact that despite being a little overweight, I could still experience the physical high of athletic movement. My very first goal was not to complete a mile, since I was still not there yet. It was not to run a 10 minute mile, since I was still only capable of 11 minute miles. It was not to lose weight, or even enter a local 5k race. My first goal back then was to be the fastest woman in the world. I wanted to be accountable for this goal too, so I went public. My sister published a school yearbook for inhabitants of Woodstock, NY. Under my 2x2 photo was my life's ambition: To be the first woman to break 30 minutes in the 10k. Now over 10,000 people would know that I was serious. How serious is it to run a 30 minute 10k? Well, it means that you have to run a mile in less than 5 minutes. And then do six of them back to back, and then kick a little more until it's all over. Several Olympics have passed since that goal, and I still have yet to break 40 minutes for a 10k, let alone 30 minutes. But this goal has served me well. It has ensured that I will dedicate myself to the sport, and strive to get the maximum gains that my body is capable of in any given day. It has required a fierce dedication and passion, that has yielded great improvements in my athletic abilities. But it would have been just as easy on that first day on the track in Berkeley, for me to say, 'I am no good at this, I'm too fat, and I feel like I'm going to pass out. Running is not for me.' What is the deciding factor between quitting and persevering? I don't have the answer to that question, but I think it is more important to look at the act of motion. We often engage our brains so much that we rationalize getting out and doing anything at all. Don't think. Just move. Do it. Move it. Live it.
Prenatal brain development shows us that we might be doomed if our parents didn't love us enough. Or neglected us, or abused us. What happens is, the connections in our brains are developing for only experiences that are present. If nurturing is absent, we don't have any response to it when it appears in later life. What does this have to do with unrealistic goals? A lot. If your brain is in survivor mode, it needs to set up 'feel good' situations for its host (you). There's a great comfort in setting yourself the task of becoming the next American Idol, because you likely are older than 28 and can't sing very well (in others' opinions), thus the disappointment of not being able to fulfill this goal can be easily justified. But sometimes you really do want certain goals, and despite being presented with multiple barriers to obtaining them, you somehow find the strength to continue pursuing them. When these barriers are internal, the pursuit can be trickier. And to trick a trickster, you have to implement the element of surprise. Don't let your brain be a bully and dictate what you can and can't achieve. You know what you want. Don't let some faulty wiring come between you and your dreams.

Thirteen Miles of Friends

2010-01-24T09:14:00.000-08:00

Things to avoid doing the night before a race: drinking coffee after 4 pm; listening to Rachael Yamagata's 'Elephants' CD; I was wide awake at 3:45 a.m., wallowing in sadness.
Things to avoid doing the morning before a race: relying on any subway on the weekend. To my surprise, I was looking forward to running this morning's half marathon in Central Park. I hadn't done a half in over a year, and felt it was time to test the endurance of this speed-chasing dreamer. Waiting on the 1 train platform, it didn't dawn on me to check the weekend subway schedule. I felt reassured by the sight of other race-ready people waiting too, easily identified by their funky orange D-tag looped and looming around their shoelaces. I heard a train, and prepared to board. Strangely, the top half of the train was missing, and in the spots normally occupied by strap hangers were sitting dozens of bags of city garbage. Well that was a dirty trick. One anxious runner exited the turn style and then turned around and asked if any of the runners wanted to share a cab. I thought I'd test my luck, and wait a little longer. The start of the race was a little over half an hour away, which means I was mildly frantic. Well, actually normally I would be in a state of near hysteria, but somehow, it just didn't seem to make sense to worry about something out of my hands. Besides, I had to take off my track pants in front of a car full of strangers to save time. I didn't realize how much talent was involved in changing into race-gear during a subway commute. Most people were sleeping anyway, and the rest somehow knew to avert their stares. I think I've picked up this teacherly look which commands lots of power when it comes to fending off unwanted behavior. When we got to the 72nd st stop, I broke out into a slow jog. The park was only a few blocks away. I checked my bag, and jogged to the port-o-potties. With less than twenty minutes before the gun would go off, the lines were amazingly long. I heard a female voice call out my name. Heidi! I love Heidi. She was one of the first runners I met in the city. She's from the Mid-West, and just a very good person. She was about three places away from her turn on line. I ran up and gave her a hug. I remembered that she had sent a 'friend request' about a year ago to me on Facebook, and I had not responded to it. I always hoped she wasn't offended by that. As I ran off to find a shorter line, I told her, 'I think about you all the time!' She smiled, and must have thought I was crazy. I do really like her though, and thought there's nothing wrong with letting her know. Then I see Julio on line! This is really funny. He works in a Running Store, and he runs every single race in New York City, and I know him casually through an old running club. I was in a more anti-social mood than I'd been aware of when I walked into that store two days ago. I didn't know he worked there, and was so not in the mood to be friendly. He seemed to have enough friendliness to cover for both of us. We briefly exchanged that we would both be running in this race. As I exited the store, he said, 'I'll see you Sunday!' I smirked as I told him there was no way he would see me Sunday, there would be over 5,000 runners. And there he was, standing on that port-o-potty line, living up to his claim. OK, fast forward to the main event: I always have goals for races, but was having a tough time gauging what to expect today. The hills in the park had been taking their toll lately, and I was not running up to par. So the race begins, I am in the second corral, and I feel like most of the runners here are running a lot slower than I was. So I get this boost of energy in an effort to catch up to the main field, and pass about 100 people. My third mile is actually under seven minutes! I'm so ecstatic I make some crazy face and do a little cheer on the spot for myself. A short, very blonde woman and I keep taking turns passing each other- she me on the uphills, I her on the down. At one point I decide to grab some gatorade at one of the aid stations, and she happens to be right next to me. I offer her the rest of my cup. She takes it after considering if this is a good idea. Clearly it restored her energy, as she whizzed past me going up one of the many hills. She cheered me on as she did, which was such an unusual and nice gesture. At one point I saw my friend Joann standing on the sidelines with her dog Scout. I screamed out hello to her, and then hello to Scout too. That seemed to sap any residual energy I had, and I made a mental note that focusing on the race takes precedence over greeting friends' dogs. With three more miles to go, my quads felt like they were being ground up in a meat grinder. My hips and legs felt so tight, I was wondering if everything would just buckle as I got to the descent portion of the hill. Finally mile thirteen was in sight, Heidi had finished, and was sprinting the course in reverse to greet people. 'Great job, Tamar!' I smiled and fed off of her positive energy; I guess I picked a worthy person to stalk. I finished the race, elated that I'd run under 1:37. The blonde from earlier came up to me to chat. She looked so calm and relaxed, like she'd just finished a 2 mile jog, and not a grueling 13 mile race. I went off to put some warm layers on. I didn't see anyone that I knew. I felt content to stretch and contemplate my experience in my own little corner.

Uptown and Downtown

2010-01-19T10:35:00.000-08:00

I have to admit, after three years of intuitive living, sandwiched between small intervals of behaving as a sensible employed adult, the latter lifestyle can really frazzle my zen. Or my laziness. Whatever it is, I make a funny grown up.
My friend Liza called this morning, sheepishly asking to borrow some survival money. I had blacklisted her from further loans due to proper follow-up repayment, but she had been a good friend to me these past few years. And how can you turn someone down who doesn't know if their train card will go through en route to work? You would have to be pretty heartless. We tried to figure out the logistics of her picking up said funds. I had to take a complicated trip to the Bronx that morning, and she too was on a deadline. She was thinking of people in my neighborhood that I was friendly with where I could leave it for her. Given my freakishly strong desire for privacy, that was an interesting exercise. 'What about the guy at the bagel place? You said he was nice.' I laughed under my breath. 'Yeah, he's not talking to me. I didn't smile at him one day, and now we just don't say anything to each other. It's OK, I hardly go there anyway.' Then I remembered Justin. He worked at the stationary store a few blocks away. He was from Senegal, and we got into a conversation when I first moved into the city. I was struggling to accept how much more expensive everything was in my new urban home, including his overpriced notebooks. I thought he would give some pat excuse and be annoyed that I was disparaging his wares, but he was genuinely empathetic, and even gave me some tips on where to shop. We became friends. I'd stop in and we'd chat about running, my progress in the teaching profession. I developed a platonic crush on him, and one day brought him a lavender butter cookie that was made in the local bakery. He was pleased, not shocked at this obvious show of affection. Unfortunately, he couldn't identify the floral essence in it, so my crush dissipated. So Justin would be the recipient of Liza's money envelope. I sealed it, and considered putting a sticker on the seal, in case there was a different guy in the store, I imagined this would prevent him from opening the envelop. I realized that was absurd, because Justin was one of those people who you could trust your life savings with, and he wouldn't have anyone like that working for him. I was running late for my Bronx excursion. I walked into the stationary store, and Justin's face lit up upon seeing me, as usual. 'Hey, Tamar, how's it going?' I tried to be brief, but after accepting my favor request, he started telling his helper about my marathoning prowess. I chatted a few minutes, and then began my long journey. I was heading to the FedEx location in the Bronx that was holding my important item. Money for school! I had to dip into a retirement fund finally. A worthy cause, if ever there was one. This trip somehow involved taking four separate subways. Shady characters seemed to be strategically placed in the cars I entered. Red eyes giving me the once over, baggy jeans and over sized leather coats. I wanted to read but realized there were too many fast and confusing train changes to do both tasks successfully. Besides, I may need to fend off a purse-snatcher. When I finally ascended from the final train, I looked around, and felt like I was in the middle of a gritty transient industrial town with nothing more than factories and highways. As I started the foot portion of the trip, I discovered that drug dealers were part of this scenery. I felt lucky that I listened to my instincts and waited until the daytime to do this. After getting lost a few times, both on my way to and back from FedEx, I started losing my gateway skills as well. I saw an above ground train, and felt relieved that I was near a station. But after walking another ten minutes and not finding Cypress Avenue, I felt a little hopeless. I turned around, and there was one limping little guy coming towards me. He looked mean. I went right up to him. He pulled out his earpods, I said 'Hi' cheerfully, and asked him where Cypress Avenue was. He stopped looking mean. 'Oh, it's right back there. You see that check cashing place on the corner? Just figure out which way you're going, and that's where it is,' he said, now smiling as though to an old friend. I thanked him profusely, and started heading in that direction. My mind had temporarily forgotten that most subway trains operate underground. In the absence of overhead trains, I wondered how I would ever make it home again. He was right, I did need to figure out which way I was going. One of these days I just may.

Exposed

2010-01-10T14:54:00.000-08:00

She was running late to meet her date. She really didn't consider this a date, because in their short phone conversation, it was apparent that he was already fumbling for words and coherency, revealing an over eagerness to be liked. She couldn't think of him as anything more than a potential friend. She noted with annoyance that he left her a message an hour before their appointed meeting. He stated exactly three times during the message in one form or another, that he was looking forward to seeing her. She wondered if he had some type of social disorder. She started feeling a tug of compassion for the guy. It can be very stressful meeting new people. She left the house determined to be kind, regardless of any impulse to behave otherwise.
When she finally arrived at the coffee shop, she easily spotted him in a bright purple sweater sporting a boyish smile at her presence. He looked sweet, like someone's little brother on a first date. She wanted to start shedding some of her many layers of winter-wear as the heat was blasting, but she thought better of it. This man did not have custody of his eyes, and they gazed steadily in the region of her chest. She was not too sure how to deal with this bit of Neanderthalism. She tried to distract his attention with conversation so she could at least remove her coat without feeling violated, but his gaze remained chest-height. Her physical comfort took precedence, and off came her coat. His eyes remained transfixed. 'Maybe he's too shy to look into my eyes,' she reasoned. She really wanted to remove her sweater too, but couldn't imagine what might occur in that event. She decided to wait until they were seated. She didn't know what they were talking about, but her companion was laughing heartily at her jokes. Good time to take off the sweater unnoticed. As soon as she did, to her surprise, he adjusted his glance to her face, and left it there until they parted two hours later. Conversation flowed, she felt comfortable with this person. Then he pulled an awkward maneuver. She shared some recent coup she had achieved, and he put his hand up for a high five. That alone was unpleasant enough, but when she complied out of politeness, she felt his small dry hand try to linger into a handhold! This guy must have been out of his mind. A handhold?! A handhold! She couldn't believe the gall. She quickly retreated her paw, and buried it underneath her leg to ensure protection from future ambushes. Mind you, this was all done in her subtle manner, never missing a beat in the warm conversation. At one point, the talk got depressive. She shared a recent sadness with him, and immediately regretted it, as she knew this would illicit another attempt at hand-holding. She wedged both hands under her legs this time. Then he looked down and confessed he had never been in a relationship, and she could see tears welling up in his dark brown eyes. She told him he was better off, but he didn't seem to think so. She wondered why men were always crying around her, and told some more jokes to lighten the mood. Then she decided it was time to end this meeting. They walked to the corner, and exchanged niceties. She walked up St. Marks street and remembered the night when she was 15 and had a crush on David Hinchman, a gay actor. He lived on that block, and she spent the night on his roof once. It was too cold to walk around she decided, and she ducked down into the warmth of the subway. On the semi-crowded train, she noticed a gay couple. The more effeminate of the two caught her attention. At first she wasn't sure why she couldn't stop looking at him. He was making a dramatic expression with his eyes. But when he relaxed his features, she understood. His face reminded her of someone she had once cared about. The slanted brown eyes, the strong handsome nose, the sullen pout. As long as he wasn't smiling, she could imagine it was him. Suddenly he noticed her staring at him. She looked away. She started remembering things she wanted to forget. She looked back, and saw him whispering to his partner. The partner glanced at her. She looked away, but then had to look once more. She felt an overwhelming longing. One tear rolled down her cheek. She looked away, this time for good.

When You Put a Rat Out

2009-12-23T14:19:00.000-08:00

One night I heard some shuffling sounds coming from my kitchen. I was in a peaceful sleep, but was fully awakened by the sounds. This was a few weeks after the mouse incident, so I knew what was likely waltzing around my recycling bags. I turned on my light, and looked intently towards the kitchen. Out ran a big mouse. He disappeared. Then I heard a shuffling noise again, this time closer to my kitchen table. I stared intently in that direction. My 'I Teach NYC' book bag was hanging from a chair. To my complete astonishment, a rat head peered out of that bag. Just the head. I gawked for a second, then said to him, 'You are a rat. And you are in my book bag.' He descended knowingly. I kept staring, this time at the spot where his little rodent head made it's appearance. Out he popped again. Just the head. I think he realized he was being watched. Down he returned, no doubt feeling safe amongst my lesson plans. I was too full of adrenalin to consider that he may have hitched a ride with me from school to my house in this very bag. My thoughts were on immediate removal of his being from my apartment. As I walked to the kitchen to grab my broom, I kept a constant eye on the opening of my bag. I knew I only had a few seconds to act. I used the broom handle to lift the bag by its strap, opened my door and walked out with my package, then closed the door behind me. I dropped my bag on the hallway rug, and lifted the flap of the bag with the handle of the broom. Out scurried a six inch long subway rat, and down the stairs he ran. I was appalled to witness this, but pleased with the excecution of my rodent removal skills. I went back inside, wondering how I was going to continue living a normal life now that I knew parasitic mammals had free access to my home. With the help of an experienced exterminator with a strong flashlight, we were able to find the exact location of the point of entry. I could once again breath and sleep in peace. I would say the experience did not change me as a whole. I do check cautiously every time I open the door now to make sure he doesn't try to sneak back in. I wonder when I will start letting my guard down again?

Time for the Grim Reaper

2009-12-07T08:54:00.000-08:00

La Mort du Fossoyeur, Carlos Schwabe, 1895

Here is a nice little test I would like to share with you: The Death Test. I was visiting my favorite testing site when I stumbled upon this. Feel free to take it.
http://www.okcupid.com/the-death-test

At the end of the the test, they ask participants to share a heartwarming story about a loved one who died. Some are less heartwarming than others.

"Uncle Steve: I took my uncle out to lunch one day, at a diner. He ordered a chopped liver sandwich. I have taken many people out for dinner/lunch over the years, but he was the only one that ordered a chopped liver sandwich."
—TS, new york ny

"me and my grandpa used to go fishing twic a month an the month he died we went fishing for our last time a week b4 his death"
—maw, sutherland va

"God grant peace to the souls of Irina, Sergey and Anastasia and all who passed away all around the worldy"
—AAS, Russia

"My father died of smoking related illness. I left my parents when I was 7 years old. We reunited when I was 18... a year later my father was diagnosed with lung cancer... half a year later he passed away."
—s.h, West Covina, California

"The last time I saw him, I was 21 and pregnant with my first child. He arrived, clean shaven (which was rare) and with two long-stemmed white roses... one for me, and one for the baby. That was Easter Sunday, and he was gone before it was June. I still bring white roses when I visit his grave."
—tk, Cambridge, MA

"i was my grandmother's favorite grandson."
—ar, Los Angeles, CA

"My best friend Clavin died at 17 from a blood clot in his leg."
—JN, Piscataway, New Jersey

"My husband passed in Katrina. I didn't find out until i went to volunteer to help the animals (im a vet tech) that where left abandoned or homeless from the storm :("
—K, Southeast florida

"My grandmother taught me to crochet.She was so proud of me."
—CO, Stillwater

"I don't have any heartwarming stories about someone dear to me who is dead"
—KIP, Camp Lejeune, NC

Tough Girls Come From NJ

2009-11-29T18:24:00.000-08:00

This photo reminds me of the complete freedom I feel when my mind is 100% present in a task. I walked around the city today with all sorts of anxieties and trouble creeping in and out of my head. Fears of massive failure, letting people down, not being able to pay my rent for the first time ever, not knowing if anything I'm doing is right.. all attacked my insides and stayed in a a lump in my stomach all day. I did what I normally do in these situations, and that is, I tried to keep my head. Work on one problem at a time, if only mentally.
Last week I had run a 5k race in my birth town. It wasn't my fastest time, but it was a race well run. The eventual winner in the women's race and I took turns holding the lead right up until the finish. With about 3/4's of a mile to go, she picked up the pace, and I was so tired, I just tried to maintain the roughly two-telephone pole distance that grew between us. Then she entered the track for the final 100 meters to the finish. She was a local girl, and the crowds came to life. Their cheering gave me a huge adrenalin rush, and I shifted into my sixth gear, which I don't think has been used in a few years. I knew I couldn't pass her, but it was fun closing the gap. We talked afterwards, she was one of the sweetest runners I've ever met. That was an unexpected surprise- kind of like hearing Mike Tyson's soft-spoken voice in an interview after one of his earlier career matches. I guess that is one of the draws of racing: you get to leave yourself behind, and unleash the true warrior within.

The Great Balancing Act

2009-11-24T15:45:00.000-08:00

I wasn't the least bit nervous for this job interview. First, because the hiring freeze for new teachers was still in effect. I had a hard time removing the ironic expression from my face as I entered the West Harlem elementary school. How can you sell yourself if the merchandise is contraband? On the other hand, my mind was holding on to the hope that despite the freeze, a good principal would know how to cut through the red tape. So I brought my good luck teacher's portfolio. The principal greeted me with a hearty handshake and warm smile. She brought in her vice principal, so I stood up a little straighter- this administration was looking to hire someone today. I opened by letting the ladies know that I was a new teacher. The principal frowned, but then offered that they had a six week substitute position available, would I be interested in that? She told me that the class was first graders, and they were looking for a general ed teacher to work with their special ed teacher as this was a ctt class (collaborative team teaching, as known in these parts). I was interested. I liked that age, and I liked the idea of having another adult with more experience than me in the fox hole. After practically offering me the position, she realized that she didn't ask me any questions about my experience, my background, or my work history. (I have an honest face, that used to happen to me all the time before I started interviewing for teaching positions). I took the opportunity to whip out my trusty portfolio. She turned to a sample of my drama class' work. I had made a worksheet with a one-panel comic of two portly hobos standing on a street corner, with the instructions for the students to create appropriate dialogue. One girl wrote: 'Jose, I'm not feeling good. I think I'm going to have a baby.' Ms. Timmons chuckled, and called across the table to her assistant. 'Ms. Richards-Bouvais, you've got to see this,' and she passed the portfolio across the table. She continued shaking her head, 'Men always gain so much weight in their stomachs, don't they?' We exchanged a little more light chatter, and it was decided that I was hired.
That was two weeks ago. I feel like I have been a teacher for three years, based on the vast depth of emotions I have felt during this fortnight. I have gone from blaming myself, the administration, the kids, and finally the existing teacher for the daily chaos and eruptions that occur in this classroom. There are moments when it feels as though this group will never progress beyond the first grade (and many of them are already repeating it). Some of them are so hyperactive they can't focus for more than a few seconds. All of them are shouting out and running around the second Ms. Davis walks out of the room. I found myself completely overwhelmed the first few days, and am not sure why I didn't quit. I think it was this little voice deep inside that told me these kids really needed me there. So I stayed, and I knew that to make this work, I needed to be supportive of everyone who is involved in making this classroom succeed. I started by letting Ms. Davis know that I would like to share the responsibility of writing lesson plans with her, because she had told me that she had been doing everything herself. She looked relieved, and told me if I would take care of the reading lesson plans, she would be grateful. For any non-teacher reading this, the public school system has become a highly orchestrated and monitored vehicle. Every week of every year in school from pre-K through 12th grade there is specific material to be covered with accompanying performance standards and indicators. This was the third month of the school year, and I was brand new to this class and clueless about the curriculum that they were using, not to mention completely new to working with special ed kids. Ms. Davis was busy with continuing to run the class and handle the multiple behavioral problems. Though we met once to briefly discuss the class itself, I felt a bit unsure of how to 'jump in'. Though I came prepared with my own lesson plan revolving around a children's book I took out from the library, I never found my opening to actually deliver my lesson. Ms. Davis seemed to have everything under control, she led the class through their day with me assisting the best I could. She became completely harried at times, and I felt like I wasn't pulling my weight, but at the same time, it was a delicate balance trying to blend my ideas with what she had already established. Two adult women running a household is no simple task. As I went home one day, walking the 15 blocks from work, I tried to think of ways that I could really help in this classroom. Ms. Davis was obviously frustrated, the kids seemed out of control, and I felt stressed and guilty for not doing my part. I decided that, although Ms. Davis didn't appear to want my help anymore, it was for her own good. I was going to come into class the next day, and gently let her know that if she wanted me to, I had a reading lesson plan prepared. And so I did. She said she would really welcome that, since she was feeling under the weather. I was hoping to do this in the morning, as experience taught me that this class was too unruly to conduct a serious lesson after lunch. I didn't get my wish. On this day, a tired, but restless group of first graders who rarely paid full attention in the morning to their regular teacher was now in my hands.
My lesson was simple. I wanted them to get practice in figuring out the meaning of a book based solely on the pictures. I was going to use Mordechai Gerstein's 'The Man Who Walked Between the Towers', a true story about a man who walked between the twin towers of the World Trade Center on a tightrope. I was well prepared, except for one thing. I didn't know how to deal with the subject of the disappearance of the towers at the end of the book. I decided that this lesson was about reading pictures as a scaffold for reading. I didn't need to touch upon death and destruction as well. I doubted that these kids' attention spans would make it through to the end of the book, anyway.
So I brought the group of 19 onto the carpet. I introduced the book, and let them know what I wanted them to do. Despite half the kids talking constantly to each other, and another small handful scooching every few seconds to a different part of the rug, there were a bunch of kids really excited about sharing their ideas of what was happening in this book. I wished Jameela would stop crying, and Celestial would stop looking at the kid behind her whose foot was bumping into her, but it seemed that if I stopped every time someone was disrupting, I would lose the attention of those who were listening. I continued asking for insights into the nature of each page in the story, every now and then glancing up to see if Ms. Davis would rescue me from the discipline tasks sorely needed. She was sitting in the back, engaging a child who has tendencies to hurt himself. She looked very tired, and was not rescuing me. Despite the lack of order on the carpet, these kids were engaged in the story, and they were giving intelligent answers. Then it came. The page with the picture of the spot where the towers used to be. I could have bypassed it, and no one would have noticed. No one on the rug was born until after the towers came down, so it was my guess that the history was unknown to them. But how could a teacher ignore the opportunity? 'Do you notice anything missing in this picture?' I asked, and felt myself take a quick breath. 'It's a sunny day,' one girl said. 'Yes, that's true, but let's look at the picture from the beginning of the book and compare them.' I showed them the initial picture with the towers standing tall, and then flipped back to the latter page with them absent from the landscape. 'Where are they?' At this point, there were only a few kids paying attention, and a large group had formed a doggy pile in the middle of the carpet. The ones who were listening were now standing around the book to get a closer look. 'What happened to them?' I asked again. Celestial's little face was very serious as she raised her hand to share her conclusion. 'They broke them so he wouldn't walk across them again.' The pictures of the policemen arresting Philipe Petit for his unlawful act of walking the towers had made it's impression. I was amazed by this girl's ability to concentrate and follow my line of questioning in the face of utter chaos that was on every side of her. Despite your environment, however depressed, abusive, or dismal, the extraordinary beauty of learning can still be nurtured. Though no principal in New York City would agree with me, I felt this workshop was a huge success.

It Takes a Village

2009-09-30T06:17:00.000-07:00

Returning home from a wonderful celebration weekend upstate with my sister and her daughters, I turned the key to my apartment with a subtle feeling of curiosity. Had my place remained intact during my three day absence? Would there be any surprises waiting for me? I swung the door open, and my eyes were drawn to a moving string on the stove top. I hadn't left that there. I flipped on the light to discover the string was the tail of a pudgy little mouse, who was now scooting his girth and tail down into my front burner. Of all the sights I've seen since moving to New York City last year, this was the most unpleasant. I had never once seen mouse droppings or heard gnawing sounds, so there was no indication that there were mice in my building. All the fatigue of travelling had completely left me, and I was now in a heightened state of awareness. I decided that this mouse simply needed a moment to gather his belongings and make a quick exit in peace. I took my mail key and went downstairs to allow him his space. When I returned, all was quiet. Leaving my suitcase exactly where it was in the kitchen, I called my father. He would really be sympathetic, as he had his own rodent story the day before. As I start to describe the events to him, my little friend darted out of the kitchen and into a pile of books in my living room. I screamed in my father's ear. Then the little guy darted across the room behind my printer. I lept onto my bed, and remained there for the duration of the phone conversation. My father was rather enjoying this turn of events, as he reminded me of my lack of empathy when he was relaying his rodent saga the day before. Of course, his story was quite different. He had set a trap out for the perpetrator after hearing much commotion in his basement, and when he checked the next morning, the trap was gone. Naturally, we were both horrified at the implication of this scenario. My sympathies were for the unknown creature in that case. Of course it was true, in my new unrelaxed state, with concern of unexpected mouse activities, my father now had my full sympathy at his previous predicament. He talked me through different options for ridding myself of this guy, and also threw in a little mouse psychology to allay my fears of a future face to face encounter. I hung up the phone, still standing on the bed. I was truly freaked out, and couldn't fathom ever being comfortable again in my apartment. I decided to act as though the mouse didn't exist. (After putting on very thick socks and tucking my pants into them). I unpacked, made myself a little snack in the kitchen, and even dared to use the computer which was within two feet of the last mouse sighting. I did a search for humane methods of mice removal.
The night passed without a second appearance. I purchased a live trap at the drug store, and walked to a coffee shop. The guy behind the counter was preparing my coffee, and I thought I'd start gathering information on this process. I mentioned to him that I'd just purchased this contraption, and was concerned with the part when I release the mouse into the wilderness, the possibility that he may scurry up my arm. The guy had a blank, slightly pained look on his face, that said, 'I have no interest whatsoever in having this conversation.' Instead he said, 'I have no idea,' and smiled awkwardly. He walked away to put milk in my coffee. Unsatisfied with his answer, when he returned I asked, 'But what would you do?' 'I don't know, I don't have mice.' He scurried off into some hidden corner, giving me a creepy feeling of déjà vu. I sat down with my coffee and my humane mouse trap, and heard a little voice behind me. 'Tamar?' It was my Georgian friend Sophie. It is always so nice to see her, she feels like a long lost cousin from a distant land. She joined me for a few minutes, and of course I had to drag her into the whole mouse drama. She came to life and said she recently had her own experience, where she had set a trap for him, and she was annoyed that she was the one that had to discover it and not her roommate. She also admitted she used to be more compassionate, and as a child, her grandmother was furious with her for setting a mouse free that the older woman had captured in a snap trap. What else can I say about him? In a rare case of me updating my Facebook status, I noted that I was wondering if the mouse in my house was planning a party while I went out on my run. An old co-worker responded that she just got the e-vite. I think personifying this guy really helped take the edge off of the whole concept of having a mouse in my house. So far, I haven't used the trap. I think he was just visiting.

Wazungu in Harlem

2009-09-02T06:34:00.000-07:00

West Harlem always feels starkly different to me than the rest of Manhattan. Specifically heading west on 125th street from the A train station. It was the middle of the week around 2 p.m., and there were lots of people walking with a purpose down the busy street. Few of them were white. Facial expressions were tight and strained, ready for a confrontation. I was there to check out the
Percy Sutton 5K race which was to be held that Saturday. Right in front of me was a group of about 20 teenagers. It was a hot day, and one girl, around 15, took her water bottle and sprayed it on the white tank top of a tall, lanky boy in front of her. He walked off to the side to assess the damage, a fiercely sullen expression on his face. He looked pissed, but I think it was mostly to save face with his friends that he walked methodically with an exaggerated anger up to the offender, grabbed her from her group of friends, and held her close as he squeezed the entire contents of his water bottle all over her. This public display of revenge felt like the MO of the neighborhood. Show respect or pay the price. I casually skirted past the entire scene, averting my eyes so as not to be pulled into this drama that had nothing to do with me. I felt my enthusiasm for the race markedly plummet, as my attention to my immediate surroundings suddenly became much more pressing. When I turned north on St. Nicholas Blvd, I was surprised at how desolate the street had become. Originally I wanted to walk through the course to get an idea of what to expect on race day, but between the intense heat and surrounding attitudes of the neighborhood, that idea no longer appealed to me. I compromised and decided to just check out the starting line so I'd know where to go on race morning. I started walking up the street. There was a park to the west of me that continued for many blocks. A wall of trees made up it's perimeter making it appear impenetrable. I believe this was St. Nicholas Park. I walked through it once on my way to City College for a visit. I remember walking up hundreds of stone steps, wondering at the time if there wasn't an easier way to get to the college. As I neared the street of the starting line of the race, I saw two police officers handing out fliers outside the 138th street subway station. I took one. It was an artist's rendering of the rapist who had struck the previous week in a nearby courtyard. This whole thing was starting to take on a surreal quality, and my emotional response followed suit. I dismissed the message contained in the flier I held and later studied at home, and proceeded to focus on the officer's description of the course: very hilly. This race was looking more like an adventure run than a chance to show off some speed. Then again, with the looming threats of violence nearby, maybe a PR was a guarantee.
That night after I'd turned out the lights and reviewed the order of events to get myself to the starting line, I felt a mild panic building somewhere within. I'd never taken the A train heading north so early in the morning. Was I realistically in danger? Most crimes are committed on subways with few passengers. I couldn't imagine many people, other than muggers and rapists, riding the train at 6:45 a.m. on a Saturday morning. There were alternate trains that I was more familiar with I reasoned, but then they wouldn't bring me as close to the starting line.
When my alarm went off the next morning, I decided to take the A train. I knew how to avoid danger, I told myself. Looking as nerdy as only a runner heading to a race is capable of, I went out into the night. It was actually light out, but I'm trying to add intrigue here. I arrive at the A train platform, and there are several people waiting. They appear to be on their way to work. Within two minutes, a train pulls up. I board, and am embarrassed to see half a dozen runners all nerdy like me, all white like me. Embarrassed because I knew that they too were relieved to not be alone in their 'outsiderness'. Instantly I felt depressed that this event, named after one of the first black Manhattan borough presidents, taking place in a predominantly black neighborhood, in honor of historic Harlem Week, like all American running events, would be sorely underrepresented by black participants. Between my earlier fears of being attacked on the subway and my current malaise over the state of racial inequality, I nearly forgot to generate the usual hysteria in the face of running a 5K race. The train stopped abruptly on this thought, depositing us whitey's in the heart of a vibrant community working together to make this neighborhood event a success. There was music playing, race walkers and runners warming up, and the comfortable feeling of pre-race jitters. Normally a New York Road Runner sponsored race boasts close to 5,000 runners. When the races head off the beaten path (read: not in Central Park), the numbers go way down, and it's a much more civilized experience for the nervous runner. Within a few blocks into the race the humidity made it feel like I was running inside someone's armpit. The air was so heavy I felt as though a giant, invisible rubber band was holding me back. As I passed 150th street, I was happy I'd told my friend Mannah to come out and watch me- this gave me incentive to keep a dignified running form with the semblance of a decent pace. Without a personal audience, I would happily have slogged through the course, content with any manner of forward movement. There were some beautiful views of interesting old brownstones and later a river appearing to the east. Was that possible? The last half mile or so of the race was an impossibly long straightaway, and a big moment of truth: I had no energy left, but if I didn't maintain or pick up my pace, I was at risk of not breaking 22 minutes; and that hasn't happened to me in a few years, so I didn't want to start any new traditions. I held my head up and ploughed to the finish line, a hard-earned 21:47. Not a PR, not my goal for the day, but the best I had in me that day.
Award ceremonies for NYC races are not the big productions their upstate counterparts present. Unless you've outright won the race, you have to quietly walk over to a table tucked behind the runner's baggage area, and claim your winnings. I hadn't seen the results yet, but I didn't see too many women in front of me, so I had some hope. I scanned the results sheet, and upon seeing the '2' next to my name, signifying a 2nd place age-group win, I did a mini-celebration dance on the spot. This was my first NYC award in four years! This was one of the medals I wasn't planning on dropping off at the Salvation Army during my next house move.

Chinese Tendencies

2009-08-01T09:10:00.000-07:00

I have narrowed down the criteria for my ideal running partner, and have concluded that I will not compromise on this list. No scars, no history of serious illness in the last three generations of your family, and no tooth cavities. Disqualification for those who have runny noses, ringworm, drug allergies or bad breath. The candidate must also possess a pleasant and adaptable disposition. Yes, I am kidding; though this is an actual list of true criteria for a different type of applicant, I would be more insane than previously believed if it were in fact my design. (Though I wouldn't mind if my future running partner possessed a few of these traits, notably fresh breath). During my run today, I made some daring attempts to recruit future running partners en route. It helped that a 20 mile NYRR run was in mid-stride as I started my own private 6 mile loop. I had a captive pool of runners in all different sizes, shapes, and running paces. I was feeling good for the first time all week, having finally adapted a little to the oppressive humidity that has blanketed the city for the first time this summer. I kept passing runners with numbers affixed to them, and didn't see anyone running my pace for a while. Then I passed a water stop, and some guy with a sweated green t-shirt grabbed a cup and sipped on the run. He seemed to be going my pace, so I thought I'd ask him about this organized run. I think I startled him, as he was kind of reticent about giving information. Then I realized that he wasn't a registered runner, and may have been worried I was going to yell at him for taking the water. He said he was doing an 18 miler. I asked him if he had a lot more to go, and he replied, 'Yeah, one and a quarter.' So this guy was probably exhausted from running 15-3/4 miles in hilly Central Park, guilt ravished the whole way for not officially paying his NYRR dues while using their amenities, and now pressured to not only be charming and sociable, but to keep up with this fresh-legged intruder. Since I had nearly the whole park to cover still, I just picked up the pace and left that one behind. Next I saw some guy tuck in from the right and start a jaunty paced jog. He seemed springy and energetic, and had a white nylon short-sleeved shirt on with foreign words on the front. When I caught up to him, he stopped running, and pulled off to walk. I encouraged, 'You can't walk, you just started!' He looked at me incredulously, a pink face dripping in sweat. Hmm, I thought, maybe he had already finished a long run and was just doing a cool down. Maybe he had a severe side stitch and was disheartened to have to stop, and didn't appreciate anonymous feedback in the least. Maybe he was Hungarian and had no clue what I had just yelled at him. And maybe it was time for me to stop talking to strangers. My failure to engage people this day reminded me of Oliver. Oliver was this adorable half Chinese half Russian 4 year old who was having a hard time finding someone to play Lego Indiana Jones with him on the playground. He was a tough and sensitive kid, and usually very quiet. I kept making different suggestions of potential playmates for him from the kids that I knew out there. 'There's Dylan, I bet he would play with you', and then Oliver would say 'OK', and skip off with a cute little smile on his face and approach the kid. He returned empty-handed, but was game with continuing the search. I suggested at least four more potential players, and each time Oliver good-naturedly skipped over to the party, and each time he returned just a little more broken. I had to attend to some other playground drama, and when I returned a few minutes later, I was thrilled to see Oliver had not only found a playmate (his twin brother) but was smiling ear to ear as the two of them took turns pulverising each other in a mock sword fight. I didn't realize Lego Indiana Jones was such a violent game, but it sure made Oliver happy.
By the end of my run in the park, I forgot all about looking for someone to run with. I was really enjoying being in the park and found myself feeling very strong and fit.
So for those of you still wondering what those strange items on that list were all about, here it is: They are amongst the 100 health requirements for would-be astronauts vying to be part of China's next space team, the Yangtze Evening Paper reported today.

Just Michael

2009-07-12T12:36:00.001-07:00

Life on the Periphery

2009-07-06T15:53:00.000-07:00

Henry called to share a strange incident with me. His voice sounded dark and concerned on the voicemail message. A mutual friend of ours had just introduced him to her new friend Charles, a mortician. When Henry met Charles, he instantly recognized him as the man who has been serving him coffee every Saturday morning in the local cafe for the past three years. When Henry smiled and told him of course he knew him, how could he forget this face, 'Charles' excused himself and politely denied having any former acquaintance with Henry. Henry was extremely perplexed, and upon his arrival home, was able to ascertain the name of the man in question. It was not Charles. It was Andrew Gibb, and he was no mortician. Now I started questioning this man's identity, as that name was familiar to me in an entirely different context: two years ago I had sold my treadmill to an Andrew Gibb, and we had developed an email friendship upon discovering our mutual interest in parasitology. Reminiscing upon that period of my life, I re-read some of the two year old emails we had exchanged. This man seemed perfectly sane, I wondered what would lead him to this false representation of his identity? Why was I spending the better part of a beautiful day trying to figure this all out? With the few hours of sunlight left, I gathered some reading material and headed for the park. I spend too much time alone, I'd finally decided. As much as I cherish my independence and crave my freedom, it's just not healthy to spend so much time alone. Although at times, it looks as though the majority of New Yorkers are most comfortable in their seemingly solitary existences, I think it's mostly a facade. As I wait for the light to change to cross over to Riverside Park, there is an FDNY ambulance and a police van parked across the street, and a group of uniformed men standing around a man sitting on a bench, holding a white cloth to his face. The light changes to green, and if I cross in a straight line, I will be deposited right in front of the injured gentleman. I can see from his posture that he is elderly; he is also African-American. His clothing looks a little worn, and it is hard to tell if he is a homeless man, as he looks like many homeless men that I have seen sleeping on those benches. As I cross, I try to casually walk to the side, so as not to intrude on the moment. I also want to make sure that the man is being attended to properly, so I make subtle eye-contact with him. He looks at me for a second, and he looks like he is going to cry. His lip is swollen badly, and blood is pouring down freely. I feel like I'm going to completely break down and cry too now, so I walk behind the scene. I see a woman with a Jamaican baseball cap staring at all the action. She has dark skin, and her eyes are very attentive and wide. I know she has been following everything that has transpired. I ask her what happened, as I try to steady my voice. She tells me he was running across the street to catch a bus, and he had all these heavy bags. Why was he carrying such heavy bags, she wanted to know. He fell, and that's when he started bleeding. The bus stopped and then it left. I averted my eyes to keep from breaking down, and prodded her to tell me more. At that moment, some men brought the man on a stretcher into the ambulance. I asked her how long he had been waiting for the ambulance, and she said about an hour. I remembered this story my friend had told me recently about a man who had diabetes but was not yet diagnosed. One day his energy plummeted, and he suddenly became very disoriented. He somehow got himself to the emergency room of a hospital in the city. He had been waiting for so many hours for someone to see him, that his condition deteriorated to the point where he looked like a typical dishevelled and distraught street person. He was somehow able to walk to the check-in desk to see if someone could tend to him, but they assumed he was another homeless person, and told him he needed to wait. He ended up dying in the waiting room. This was a man who had a regular job, lived in his own apartment, and was completely functioning and independent. The ambulance pulled away. It seemed to be going very slowly. Dianna and I talked for a while. We wondered what would become of this man. After a while, she packed up her special edition Time magazine with the Michael Jackson tribute, and said she had to get going. She didn't leave for another five minutes. I saw my neighbor from upstairs who always walks her yellow lab mix dog with black leather doggie shoes on his feet. We never talk to each other, but I noticed she was hanging around longer than necessary to cross the street when she was near us. The sun was setting, and I said good-bye to my new friend. She got up to go home, apparently waiting for me to leave before doing so. I walked down the stone steps to be closer to the river. I read some newspapers for a while, and then headed back. When I returned to my previous spot, I noticed my Grenada friend had only moved to the bench across the way. I guess in the end, she really just wanted to be alone.

The Quieter Race

2009-06-28T11:38:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, in an attempt to connect with local runners while simultaneously celebrating the completion of my first real public school teaching job, I joined in on a group of 11 other hearty souls for a ~200 mile relay race in Vermont. It was the sort of adventure that brings city-dwellers a little uneasiness, as we had to make do without our covetous staples: sleep, privacy, and 24-hour artificial lighting. Adapting to the awkwardness of travelling with strangers was made easier by our common goal: run your leg, let the next guy run his. Try to run fast. Try to be pleasant. Try not to stink too much after, because it will be noted and likely blogged about at some unknown date in the future. Rinse and repeat, two more times. So that's the short version. I just read three longer versions written by my teammates, and don't want to risk accidental plagiarism, so I think I'll stick with what I've got. So coming home was the strangest part of all. Now what? Sort of like post-marathon apathy, this big grand exciting event in Vermont was over, and so was my beautiful teaching job. (It is summer break, I reminded myself, though the younger kids I worked with would surely be in favor of year-round schooling.)
So having raced three times over relay weekend, (a 4 miler and two 5 milers, one run at midnight) I was sort of in racing mode, and ready to go again. The only problem was that physically my body was barely able to jog slowly. One day I went out two miles and had to walk back. I didn't feel tired or sore, but I just couldn't run anymore. Despite this, the two races that were coming up this weekend kept playing in my head. Mentally I was really ready to race. Saturday rolled around and I got up early to watch race #1, the Gay Pride Run. Despite the extreme humidity, the top four runners came flying down East Drive in Central Park to finish in some phenomenal time under 24 minutes. For five miles. Wow. It is always exciting watching races, and discovering and cheering for people I know. I thought I saw a friend finishing, and I walked towards the finish to say hello. There were so many runners, I lost track of my friend, but then discovered something that really distracted me: each finisher received a rainbow missile popsicle. I walked across the street, half searching for my friend still, but I couldn't get the thought of obtaining one of those popsicles out of my head. I had never seen that kind before. It looked like it had a lime flavored coating on the outside, wrapped around a rainbow swirl of flavors inside. I really had to have one. I walked back to where the volunteers were handing them out. It didn't look like they had enough for all the runners. I looked longingly one more time at some racers enjoying their treats, and realized that it wasn't meant to be for me. So I ran my little training run, felt like my legs were coming back, and decided that I would run race #2 the next morning, the Hope and Possibility 5 miler, for athletes with disabilities and able-bodied runners. I woke up in the middle of the night with the Michael Jackson song 'Miss You Much' in my head, and then heard that song in real life a few seconds later on some one's boom box in my neighborhood. I wanted to acknowledge the singer during the race somehow, so that morning I stuck some craft letters on my good-luck Kenya tank top: MISS YOU MJ. Off I went to the 110th street subway station, this time with 'I'll Be There' firmly planted in my brain's turntable. In Central Park at 7:30 a.m., one hour before the start of the race, there were many vans parked near Tavern on the Green unloading athletes and race participants in wheelchairs. I saw a woman around my age looking very fit and sprinting. As her figure receded in the distance, I noticed her black prosthetic leg attachments. I heard an announcer introduce Trisha Meili, the famous Central Park Jogger from the brutal 1989 attack. It sounded strange to hear his game-show host voice say jovially, 'And here she is, The Central Park Jogger!' She had a surprisingly big and strong voice, which made me happy. A handsome man asked me if there were corrals in this race. We started talking a bit about training and racing, and then I had to remove myself to focus on the total anxiety that sometimes overcomes me before a race. This race was much smaller than the one the day before, so it was possible to line up close to the front. I took a good spot, re-affixed the letters on my shirt that the air's moisture was loosening, and felt calm. It was good to be on a starting line again. I smiled to myself. Some guy in the front had turned around and was staring intently at me. It was my friend Gael. I felt my face start to smile at him, then instinctively stopped its course. I looked back at him with a blank expression, then we both looked away. Gael had written me a really nasty email some days before, so nasty in fact, that I actually felt sorry for him. Clearly he was projecting something that had more to do with his own issues than anything I could have incited in him. Unfortunately, words can have better staying power than Michael Jackson tribute letters on a humid day. I tried to put my mind in a neutral place. Somberness replaced my previous pre-race giddiness. The horn went off, and the race begun. My first mile felt like work, and then my pace and energy died. I knew that I might not be recovered still, so I tried to change my mindset from race mode to 'getting a good workout' mode. The finish line was in sight, and I kicked to get under 37 (37! I have run 1/2 marathons at faster paces than that!) As I gave my final kick, there was Gael cheering me on with a big smile. In my spent state, I thanked him and smiled genuinely. I walked to catch my breath. Someone handed me a bag of pretzels. (Pretzels!) I stood to the side as finishers walked by to the baggage claim area. Three young women who had just finished the race were laughing and enjoying themselves. One called over to me. 'Kenya! Kenya!' she said excitedly. Turned out they were all from Kenya. One of them commented on my DIY graphics. 'Aww, MJ.' They all took a moment to make sad faces, and one did a sort-of moondance. The one who called me over looked at my arm and pointed. 'You're getting goosebumps!' Why is it only foreigners seem to notice things like this? We talked for a while, then went our separate ways. I liked the low-key aspect of this race. I felt like it was OK to run slower. Today it was OK to just be.

No Child Left Behindathon

2009-06-12T17:08:00.000-07:00

Who remembers the famous Felix Unger speech about the word 'assume'? I am starting to take on the same view of the word 'assessment'. In between creating a transportation museum with the kids, tying eighteen pairs of sneakers several times a day, singing lively rhythm and movement songs for 40 minutes when our broken down CD player insists there's 'no disc', ensuring everyone in my classroom is getting all of their spiritual, educational, creative, and intellectual needs met, a stack of report cards waits to be completed. By me, I believe. Since taking over this pre-k class at the end of April, I've pretty much been left to my own devices. I have no complaints with this, as I am used to being the captain. However, had the swine flu scare not robbed my principal of much precious time, I believe I would have been given more instruction and encouragement on this one task which is pretty much the nation's barometer for the educational health of a school. So rolling about the recesses of my brain has been the contents of those odd-sized manila envelopes quietly resting in a rusty file box in our locked closet. One day several weeks ago, I asked my para Ms. B. if she knew where they resided. She unlocked the closet, ferreted around, and provided me with the treasures. I leafed through the first four page document hypnotised. Wow. That's a lot of information to gather on one kid. I wondered who was going to assess these eighteen kids in June. I tried not to think about it too much, because I had a lot of other things to focus on that were in my mind a lot more important and immediate. So that's what I did. Then two weeks before the end of school, one of the literacy coaches hands me paperwork for assessing the children's ability to rhyme. I think I was starting to understand where this was all heading. Still trying to keep an optimistic view that some mythical report card assessor would be called in (possibly from the 1,000+ absent teacher reserve pool), I started the preliminary efforts of a person attempting to conquer the first step of a very long race. Armed with a two page document simulating benchmarks on their last term's report, I brought Alyssa out into the hall to begin the testing. We're not supposed to call it a test. Just like 'time out' is not 'time out'. That's corporal punishment. The concept can be the same, but you must rephrase it. My 'time out' is called 'think time'. Anywho (!) Alyssa smiled at me suspiciously as I ruffled through the right set of papers for her. She often does that, but she had a good reason to this time. Halfway through her identification of the alphabet, she started adding terse but polite comments to her answers. I pointed to the 'r', she recited, 'r, please'. She was getting annoyed with the predictability of this game. She also didn't much care for my placement of an 'X' on her missed letters. Do these kids really need to have a sense of failure as they're working on their emergent reading skills? She was frustrated when she didn't know a letter, and when I asked her what it was, she started replying with a cute little smile, 'nothing'. Then it was time for her to demonstrate her ability to write the alphabet. After a few letters, she told me, 'I don't know how to do that, but I can make a smiley face.' I let her draw a smiley face. When I asked her to retell a story, she started telling me about the Gingerbread Man. 'The Gingerbread Man.. HMMMM, HMM HMMMM HM HMMMMM'. George Costanza popped into my mind. Alyssa was done with these shenanigans, and wasn't humoring me anymore. I didn't blame her one bit. Where was the section on the report card that indicated 'Smart enough to rebel against being treated like a statistic'? I love the whole school environment, the dedication and good intentions of the teaching community- but students are individuals with diverse abilities to process information and demonstrate their knowledge. Why do we have one test for every student across the board? Isn't it sort of like a shoe store offering size 7shoes only? Your feet are a size 10? Adapt. I would be in big trouble if that were the case. I don't know what the answer is. Tomorrow I am going to run a 5k race on a very humid day. Maybe something will come to me magically. And maybe those report cards will fill themselves out. And maybe I'll break 20 minutes.

Haiku for You

2009-06-03T14:56:00.000-07:00

H1N1 meets R2-D2

I'm sick, so are you,
she transmitted through her blog.
Porky said, 'That's all, folks!'

An Interesting Day

2009-05-29T15:16:00.000-07:00

So many great snippets of life and dialogue overheard, that I need to get some of it out of my head and onto some written format before it gets buried underneath months of mediocre dailyness. OK, so I'm sitting near the rear door of the #4 bus heading to work at 7:30 this morning, when a yuppie family boards the front of the bus. Dad heads straight for the back, alone, and mom stays up front with her two tow-headed boys. The older one is about 6 or 7, and he is giving an impassioned lecture to his mother. The bus is full of workers and students, silently partaking in their morning ritual. His voice is the only one heard. 'Why did you do that, mom?! Why did you make me run through the red light? I could have been hit by a car!' The mother must have replied, though not audible to the rest of us. 'Just to get a bus? You almost made me get HIT by a CAR so you could get the bus??' he said incredulously. Snickers from the back of the bus, as we imagined the kid calling his lawyer. I actually felt sorry for the mom. The kid would not let up, and his rant continued to be the sole voice on the bus. 'Imagine yourself, having a terrible time, and someone made you almost get hit by a car, JUST TO GET A BUS!' Now I started feeling sorry for the kid. The way he expressed his anguish made me jealous. The mom must have been doing something right. No idea how that one ended, as my day as a pre-k teacher was about to begin. I have been with this class as a replacement to their teacher who went on maternity leave since last month. It's kind of amazing how much there is to learn about children when you go from being a non-parent to suddenly being responsible for the growth and education of 18 four and five year olds. The parents bring their children directly to the classroom in the morning, so I try to talk with them a little. One mom shared with me that her son did not get accepted into a gifted and talented program. I was shocked, since this four year old was able to identify by name the pygmy marmoset (my favorite primate.. well, the Golden Lion Tamarin is up there too, now that I spotted one at the Central Park Zoo) from the library book I read to them yesterday. Another nail in my coffin for educational assessments. And then the day continued with tears (little girls claiming other little girls saying they were not willing to be their friends); my bossiest Leo girl, who loves to communicate by whispering directly into my eardrum, crying inconsolably sorrowfully- shaking her head quietly and muttering, 'I just want to go home.' When she finally told me what happened (another girl jumped in front of her in the lunch line), we coerced the apology from the perpetrator, and the victim was once more enjoying her pizza and chocolate milk. One boy, who smiles and waves at everyone in greeting upon his arrival, inevitably falls into at least three crying fits a day. The last one happened at the lunch table. 'Damien, what's the matter?' I asked. 'Alyssa did this to me.' And he mimicked a person bobbing their head from side to side with their eyebrows raised. This gesture has caused him tears before, and I just sort of accepted that it was insulting, but now I was really curious: what did that gesture mean? He couldn't tell me. Neither could Alyssa. I had to do some more probing. I asked Damien what he had said to prompt it, and he told me that he informed her that he got a second chocolate milk. I looked over at Alyssa. Then I understood. That's the gesture that signifies, 'And then what?' There really is no great response to that statement. After lunch is quiet time, reading a few books, and then nap time. For some reason, there seems to be the most potential for utter chaos during this time, and I'm still honing my craft with fixing this. What's funny is, these kids really love being read to. Even though it seems like their attention spans are shorter than five minutes, if they are engaged in listening to an interesting book, I can keep them audience for 15 minutes. Today they were cranky and moaning about being mooshed together, and I couldn't get that zen quiet that I like. So I dug deep down in my bag of tricks, and commanded them to rest their hands palms-up on their crossed knees, and chant 'OMMMMMMMM' with me with their eyes closed. Nobody questioned this, and it actually worked! They were om-ming away their shifty behavior, and in perfect form to listen to 'Anansi and the Moss-Covered Rock'. I'd go on, because a lot more interesting things happened in my day, but it's your turn. How was your day?

In honor of National Poetry Month.. (prizes for the first to name the poet)

2009-04-05T18:57:00.000-07:00

"Si Tu Me Olvidas"

Quiero que sepas
una cosa.

Tú sabes cómo es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otoño en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ceniza
o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
todo me lleva a ti,
como si todo lo que existe:
aromas, luz, metales,
fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.

Ahora bien,
si poco a poco dejas de quererme
dejaré de quererte poco a poco.

Si de pronto
me olvidas
no me busques,
que ya te habré olvidado.

Si consideras largo y loco
el viento de banderas
que pasa por mi vida
y te decides
a dejarme a la orilla
del corazón en que tengo raíces,
piensa
que en esa día,
a esa hora
levantaré los brazos
y saldrán mis raíces
a buscar otra tierra.

Pero
si cada día,
cada hora,
sientes que a mí estás destinada
con dulzura implacable,
si cada día sube
una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
ay amor mío, ay mía,
en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
sin salir de los míos.

"If You Forget Me"

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists:
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loveing me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

You Need an Alternate Exit

2009-02-20T15:13:00.000-08:00

Ten minutes back in my apartment from a great one week trip to Texas, and pure panic sets in. The dance with the cute, sweaty-palmed cowboy, the thrill of finding deep-fried okra at a Texan dive called Dickie's BBQ, the strong bonds of female friendship renewed thanks to my awesome travel partner- not even the taste of a running comeback in the form of an unexpectedly fast marathon time on a hilly course could wipe away the fact that I'm living in the city, I have no job, no prospects, no direction- and it's just me here to get through this. Instead of unpacking, I drowned my fears of the future in mindless searching on the internet. Going to sleep meant having to face the morning and a life that expected some drive from me which seemed to have evaporated. The next day my friend Andria tells me she's in town, and she's got my olive oil. She threatened to buy me some when she learned how expensive my daily habit had become since moving South. I didn't have the heart to tell her I'd already adapted to canola. Wow, she lugged one of those heavy 4-quart tins of olive oil for me? Life was already starting to turn around. We were trying to incorporate a fun get-together out of the olive oil drop-off event, but the thought of dragging that container all over the city was starting to depress me again. Then I found it: A free comedy show in Williamsburg. Perfect. Andria and my olive oil were relaxing in her sister's homey little apartment not far from there. I emerge from the 7 train to a freezing 35 mph wind in my face. Immediately a short blonde woman stretches her arm out and hands me her camera. 'Hi', she says with a heavy nasal Brooklyn accent, 'Can you get a picture of me? Try and get those buildings in there, too.' I don't mind, as my friend is not here yet to meet me. The wind promptly snatches the cover of my newspaper and whips it down the street, too fast for me to chase. Darn, the cover was the best part of this paper today. It was the one with the bizarre story of the woman whose 17 yr old chimpanzee mauled her bestfriend, and forced her to kill it. I took a few pictures of Brooklyn lady, and then noticed my fingers were completely numb from the cold. I told her I'd have to bow out of the job. She forgave me, and as I descended back down to the subway station to avoid the wind as I continued to wait for my friend, I heard her unsuccessful attempts to recruit new photographers. My friend arrived and we walked many blocks to her sister's subletted apartment in Greenpoint. They were making fried chicken and rice, and there was a relaxed, warm atmosphere. Of the four girls in the apartment, only one was employed, and that was in a funeral home. I asked Lea, Andria's sister, who was not employed, if she was stressed about it. She said she was, but she did not look the least bit stressed. Somehow we got into a conversation about depressed people, and she said they were annoying. I was intrigued with her laissez-faire attitude over a community that's familiar and confusing to me. I asked her how she dealt with them. She waved her hand and rolled her eyes, and said, 'Oh, they're easy. You just gotta keep 'em busy.' I thought about every depressed person that I ever knew. She was right! They didn't seem depressed when they were busy. I opened the bottle of French Gewurtraminer I had picked out several weeks earlier. I was curious if I had picked a winner or not. I was kind of heartbroken the last time I'd found a Gewurstraminer that I'd loved, and then found out the winery discontinued its production. I could tell from the first sip of this new one that my luck was indeed starting to change. Sweet clover and tea roses danced in the air. I wished there was someone there without a stuffed nose who could appreciate it with me, but the girls said they liked it. We rushed off to our comedy venue. Ah, the crowds in Williamsburg. Reminded me of Berkeley in the '90s. Gentlemen with James Dean perfect hairstyles, pinstriped longsleeved shirts, and smoking clove cigarettes. (Outside, of course). The bartender was wearing an oversized red-striped dress, thick horn-rimmed glasses and not one stitch of make-up. She smiled at me when I ordered my drink, and reminded me of a shy church girl. What a culture shock from the jaded set in Manhattan. I really enjoyed the first comic the best, laughed the hardest- but it was the last comic with his forced audience participation bits that probably made my night. I discovered that hipsters, despite appearances, do not all have their acts together. Underneath the smooth veneer of hipsterity often lies one more unemployed New Yorker. OK, so fast-forward to the next day. Back in my little bachlorette pad, once again checking the pages of craigslist for that elusive teaching job. I come across an appealing gig. Someone offering to do all the paperwork to get me registered as a family daycare worker in my own apartment. Hmmm. Do I really need them to do that? I investigate further, and find a number of an office where you can apply for a license to work in this field. I leave a message, and receive a return call within 5 minutes. This is very surprising. The woman tells me she's from the office of family daycare registration. How many kids was I looking to care for, 4-6 or 6-12? Sounds like a Kentucky Fried Chicken order. I opt for the smaller size, wondering how I can bring more than two children to a park? Do I tie them together? On the kibbutz in Israel they would stick them all in a shopping cart that they called an aggala. As I'm imagining my new life as Mother Hubbard, Luz on the other line asks me if I have an alternate exit. Hmm. Well, sure. I have my front door and my windows, those are alternate exits. 'Do you live on the first floor?' she asks. 'Well, not technically,' I answer, 'but my apartment is considered 1A.' She pauses. I can feel her smiling. 'Are you on the street level?' She asks to humor me. 'Well no,' I answer slowly, 'I have to walk up a little flight of stairs to get to my apartment.' I then walk over to my window and look down onto the sidewalk below. I imagine passing kids out the window during an unexpected fire. 'It's not much of a drop,' I tell Luz. We both laugh, and then as soon as it begun, my new career has ended.

They Can Smell Your Fear

2009-01-28T16:07:00.000-08:00

These past two weeks I have been pushed into the abyss of teaching. One of my assistant principals announced firmly that I would be covering classes for teachers conducting individual student assessments outside the classroom. I glanced at the schedule she handed me. Uh-oh, there were 4th and 5th graders on this list! I was not used to big kids or big kid lessons. Even second graders had an air of smugness to them that made me miss the unjaded little kindergartners. Suck it up, Tamar. Sooner or later you're going to have to start dealing with the adult world again, and upper elementary kids were as good a place to start as any. I walk into Jordan's class, and she hands me a perfectly laid out substitute teacher's lesson plan for the two hours I am to be with her 4th graders. Things look easy enough, until I get a glimpse of a two page lesson plan on Deforestation. She tells me this will be easy, just go over it with them on the rug, take as much time as I want to explain anything. I nod and smile as she heads out the door to start her first assessment. There's a slight problem. I don't really have any idea how to talk about Deforestation. I feel like a Seinfeld character. Yeah, I know that I can write-off many expenses when filing taxes, but what exactly am I writing-off? (OK, I have been doing my own taxes forever now, so this is just an analogy.. for other people, who really don't know about their write-offs. Not that it's an indication of great intelligence, just to illustrate that we do some things as adults for too many years without really questioning what it means, and then it's too late or embarrassing to ask.) No real time to panic about looking like a fool in front of twenty 9-year-olds, (no doubt, there will be plenty of opportunities to accomplish this task properly),as it is attendance time. I actually have had this bunch of kids before, and they are not particularly obedient with substitute teachers. I decide to have them tell what one food they would choose to eat for the rest of their lives if they had no other choice, as they answered to their name being called for attendance. They seemed interested in this challenge, and had fun with it. Somehow, it still took three times as long as it should have to complete this daily task. The future of the rainforest was going to be discussed after library. I lined up the troops and marched them upstairs. I decided to stop every time they became disorderly, to establish authority. I wanted to ensure that they would be listening attentively when it came time for me to bluff my way through an environmental discussion. Yes I recycled, yes I conserved water, electricity and paper- but those important facts and connections explaining the benefits of saving the rainforest were just not at the forefront of my mind. Surprising, really, given the amount of rainforest saving coffee I've drunken in my lifetime. Yes, I know, time to widen my horizons and put down my Bob Glover book for a moment. So in the library, I notice something remarkable. Tessa and Jean are sitting together and laughing! (Quietly). Two months ago, when I subbed for their class, Tessa was crying her eyes out over Jean and another girl excluding her. She even had me go over and speak with them, because she was positive that they were talking about her. When I agreed, Jean defiantly informed me that Tessa is the one who starts the trouble, as she is constantly telling lies about her, and that she has no intention of ever talking to her again. I learned then that regardless of how hurt a child appears to be, that it is entirely possible that they brought it on themselves. It is amazing how blind we can become to our own undoing in social situations. Seeing the two of them together getting along was uplifting. Not enough to power me through my upcoming social studies test, but a slight push in that direction. So after I gathered the troops again, we trotted down to the classroom. I didn't give them a minute to start taking over the class with their potential for social debauchery. I called them directly to the rug. My game plan was this: a certain astrophysicist involved in demoting Pluto from planet status, was recently quoted as saying he received a lot of hate mail from third graders over this reclassification of a beloved planet. Yes, they have strong opinions, and are eager to voice their concerns over causes. (Even if those opinions are the result of educators prodding them to think persuasively). So after reading a few dismal statistics on the rate of deforestation, I mustered up my best Greenpeace canvassing voice, and asked the troops: 'If I told you there was a way for you to make a difference in our future environment, would you want to help?' The troops were ready and willing. That meant that they would listen to the lesson for another eight minutes without trying to beat each other up and get me off topic. It turned out more than half the class already is actively recycling. We had an interesting discussion about the hypocrisy of saving paper by reading the news online, as electricity is then generated. Not knowing which was more damaging to our cause, I said in my best teacher voice, 'Excellent point, let's continue.' OK, I didn't really let that one slide. I admitted ignorance, and suggested they investigate this further. I am not too sure what this group learned from my presence that day, but I certainly learned from them. I left their classroom with a reinforced view of the power of enthusiasm. I got excited talking about a global catastrophe that they can help reverse. Not to mention saving my dear little friend the Pygmy Marmoset from falling into extinction.

A Person is a Person No Matter How Small

2009-01-18T19:11:00.000-08:00

It's my last class of the day, and the hardest one to keep motivated. It's Saturday, and before they enter my classroom, they've already had music, Chinese, and English classes. Now they have Ms. Tamar for their third grade reading and writing class. Jeffrey told me one day his Chinese teacher is mean. I'm much nicer than she is. I notice he feels very comfortable interrupting the class with questions completely off topic. I imagine the Chinese teacher not putting up with that at all. I'd love to watch her in action, maybe pick up a few pointers. I must admit, English intimidates me. The grammar, the syntax..literacy in general instills a subtle fear in my heart, so I totally understand when these kids need to digress a little, and I often indulge them. When I ask them to turn to page 18 of their Essential English workbooks, Jeffrey asks me what year I was born. Clever tactic. I have discovered all kids are fascinated with discovering their teacher's age. I just don't feel that they need this information. But Jeffrey's question leads me to want to test his mathematical abilities, so I tell him. 'You're that old and you're not married?!' he asks incredulously. I laugh. The other kids are shocked as well. Susan tells me, 'You have to be married!' 'Why?' I question, quite curious as to where this will lead. 'Well', I can tell she's just made something up on the spot, as she often does when answering questions, 'the government says if you're not married, you have to sleep alone.' My mind races for an appropriate response to this interesting logic. 'Well, that's good, because then I don't have to hear anyone's snoring.' And with that, we start reviewing the homework from the previous week. The kids were tired, and Jeffrey keeps interrupting with questions, and he was starting to wear me down. Near the end of this one and a half hour class, I ask Alice, one of the quieter students, a question. Jeffrey blurts out the answer. I yell at him a little too harshly to let her give me the answer. That was the first time I yelled at any child this year. I feel guilty, and hope he isn't insulted. Immediately he and several other students say in unison, 'Her brain will shrink if you don't let her answer!' I was surprised they were quoting me so readily- that was something I had told them three weeks ago, and they still remembered it. I guess there were no hard feelings with Jeffrey. He had several more questions about Barak Obama, the crash landing of the disabled plane in the Hudson last week, and if the KKK was still in existence. I told him if we have time at the end of class, we can discuss all that, in addition to his questions about my time spent in Israel. When it was time to leave, I was taken with how small this boy was as he exited the room. He probably has more opinions about our current economy crisis than half the people I ride the subway with everyday, and yet he couldn't be more than four feet tall. I am really lucky to be here, I think to myself as I turn off the light and head out into the frigid night on a small street in Chinatown.

It Isn't Easy Being Green

2008-12-13T20:28:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe I've taken a few month hiatus from posting here, and the best thing I can come up with is a story about the Mucinex mascot. Luckily for you, I failed to find the exact image of him that I used for my art class graphic duplication exercise. In case you aren't familiar with this character, he is the personified version of the material that is produced from congestion. Who would bring that in to a class full of kindergartners, you ask? Well, the enrichment program I work at in Chinatown provides very few materials, so I have to scrounge and brainstorm on my own. Advertising circulars are abundunt on my doorstep, so I came across this cute image of Mr. M. looking very green with a crabby expression spread across his broad face. Apparently his host had taken the medication and sent him packing in the middle of the night. Poor guy never had a chance to even dress properly. I handed this picture to each of my 6 four and five years olds today for our first lesson on copying images. I ask them to tell me if they know who this guy is. At first there is a lot of head shaking. Then finally one of my four year old twins screams out 'Kung Fu Panda!' I can't control a laugh. Then I go over all the elements in the image with them, and remind them to include all the details, like his pajamas, his pillow tucked under his arm, the moon in the background. After a few minutes, one of the girls hands me her finished product. She has drawn to near perfection only the details, but has neglected to draw the actual character inhabiting them. I tell her that's OK, she can draw him underneath the details, at the bottom of the page. She laughs and says, 'But I don't want to draw him in his underwear!' How can you not love the way their little minds work? Of course, why would she bother to draw his pajamas a second time when they were all perfectly composed up above?

It's 'Pick a Caption' time!

2008-09-30T12:03:00.000-07:00

Pick your favorite caption to this recent New Yorker magazine cartoon. (Hint: one of the choices was composed by this blogger).

Frankly, Mr. Johnson, our law firm just doesn't need a
Classical linguist at this time.

So why did you leave Red Lobster?

So you think you're ready for the corner tank?

Sometimes you've just got to bark like a dog

2008-09-12T14:45:00.000-07:00

I can't seem to find a running partner no matter how hard I try. I didn't even realize how dire the situation had grown until one day during the first few minutes into my run around Central Park. It was a clear, low humidity day, I was rested with no apparent obstacles to prevent me from completing my run, and my mind just said 'enough'. I didn't argue, because I had been a really faithful athlete over these past few months of adapting to hillier terrain and the more aggressive lifestyle of a city person. I walked slowly back out of the park. On my way I passed a man standing holding his tall Boxer dog's leash. The dog had the face of an old man, and stared at me intently as I approached and then passed them. As I expected he would, the dog barked and lunged at me as I passed. I kind of laughed nervously, like the dog was chiding me for quitting my run. The man apologised profusely, and said the dog is just a puppy, and was only playing. That's my favorite line. As I crossed Columbus avenue, it dawned on me that I had been doing all of my training solo for a while. Hard tempo runs, hilly 12 mile park loops, 5 am reservoir sprints, and Harlem track 800 intervals. I needed to drag someone along to share the suffering! That evening I composed the perfect ad specifying the ideal running partner I was seeking. I didn't mince words, as grandma Blanche would have said. I outlined the paces required for my potential RP (running partner), and warned that I was strict about following the watch. No sense wasting my time with a dilly-dallier who was not on the same page as I was. Satisfied with my ad, I posted it on craigslist, and the very next day got a response from 'nybling'. He said I sounded like a cool person (!) and won't have trouble keeping the pace. He also stated he'd never run more than 4 miles before, but knew he could handle the distance. I trusted his confidence, and proceeded to set up a running date. He said that sounded great, he was pretty sure he could run the full 6 miles I'd planned. That was it. He could build his miles on his own, I needed a steady partner. I told him to contact me when the training wheels had come off (ok, I was not that harsh), and he seemed relieved to get out of our run. The next day I headed to the park, team of one. No matter. Lately I've been having unspoken competitions with runners trying to pass me. It's the closest thing to a running partner I can find. This day was pouring rain. Few people were out, which was a nice change, since usually it's a struggle to keep from bumping into the throngs of cyclists, runners, walkers and general park enthusiasts that share the same 6 mile loop as me. As I'm coming off of the big hill past Lasker pool, I hear some squishy sneakers running up my back. I'm wondering if they're my own, and look over my shoulder to check if there's a person in them. Sure enough, despite the pouring rain, there's no one else in sight except this one runner holding a big plastic bottle of some yellow fluid and gaining quickly on me. How odd. I was hoping to be able to run leisurely. Marathon man passes me, and then I decide the park is mine today, and I whip past him in response. Triumphant, I continue building a nice lead. Then it dawns on me that if I really wanted an RP I'd be more sociable, and instead of trying to beat everyone, I'd start talking to them. Oh well. Maybe next time I'll put this insight to good use. I run another 5 miles without seeing Marathon man. I pass other runners, the blind man who I saw walking in the opposite direction as me when I entered the park. Wow, he's doing an impressive pace I calculate. My clothes are soaked, and I'm looking forward to seeing the fountain where I exit the park. Suddenly I hear the squishy shoes again. I look over my shoulder, and Marathon man catches and passes me. I don't mind. Then I hear a strange sound. Like someone barking soft little woofs. There's a young woman sitting in the middle of the road in the pouring rain, kind of gasping or woofing. I didn't really get it, but it seemed very odd. I slowed down, and Marathon man stopped to investigate. I figured he'd handle that situation, and I'd complete my nice little loop without interruption. That woman wasn't crying, she had a calm expression on her face. I think she was just crazy. If that man didn't stop I would have stopped. I decided to turn around and make sure she was ok when I finished my run. Once I turned around, I instantly felt tired. I couldn't remember how far away that woman was, but it didn't seem like more than a mile. Cars were passing every now and then, and I hoped that they saw her. Just when I thought I'd never see her again, there she was this time standing in the middle of the road. I stopped and walked slowly up to her. 'Are you ok?' I asked. She looked at me with a slight look of disgust and started walking away. 'Are you the one that was sitting on the ground?' I asked. 'No, no', she answered and started moving quickly away from me and off the road towards the grass. 'I came back to help you', I said, hoping that might convince her that my offer was genuine. She wanted nothing to do with me. My gut told me that she had serious emotional issues. The sad part is, I'm sure this woman has a boyfriend. But I digress. I walked the half mile through the park to my exit spot. It was still raining, my beautifully straightened hair from earlier was a ratty mass of tangles, and I had bits of leaves and dirt all over my legs. Life in the city can be very sad and lonely. I've had some really close calls with wondering how I could go on with some of the acute disappointments I've experienced since moving here. Maybe sitting down and barking on the road once in a while is a good way to clear the cobwebs. I really can't ever picture myself doing that, but I'm sure if I did I would feel better.

My Kids

2008-08-05T19:04:00.000-07:00

My world of 'intuitive living' officially ended 06/17/08. That was the first day the bootcamp teaching program that I enrolled in begun. I had to say good-bye to many habits that I had grown quite fond of- sleeping 8, 9, and shamefully sometimes 10 hours a night; leisurely grinding my own coffee beans and enjoying sipping from my yellow Falmouth mug whilst sitting on the floor and gazing at the dog walkers strolling past my building; running. The latter habit was the most shocking to lose. During that first week of teacher-training, one night I set my alarm for 4:30 am to squeeze in a run before a 9 hour day of graduate classes. The alarm went off and I realized that I had to complete a paper in that time. Something finally took priority over running. I didn't like my new schedule one bit. I felt under a microscope in my classes, with the constant threat of forced group discussions lurking in every corner. I was a fish out of water, suffocating in my desire to learn in solitude. After the first two weeks, 5 pounds lighter and sufficiently sleep-deprived, we had all completed 6 graduate credits. That was a nice little reward. I was dying to go out for a run. The next morning I showed up for my summer school placement, where I would be an observing teacher in a classroom with a cooperating teacher. I showed up with 3 other fellows. They didn't have as many kids as they expected enrolled, and one of us had to go home. I volunteered. Walking down Amsterdam and eying the Dunkin Donuts, I wondered if that was the end of my teaching career. Shouldn't a new teacher jump on every opportunity to learn her trade? I felt strange, doubting my own commitment to this new profession. But I was thrilled that I finally had time to go for a run. Despite the heat and humidity, I was smiling throughout my six mile loop of the park. I passed the Central Park police precinct and smelled a strong odor of Neccos candies or a million carnations. What was that? Whatever it was, I wouldn't be smelling it for long. I got a call from my field advisor (we had many advisors) telling me that they could now take me at my placement school, and I was to show up the next morning. Now it was all starting to feel real. As I walked down the street the next morning to the school,I had that jittery, first-day-of-school feeling, but in a grown-up way. I was excited to meet my new kids. I walked into Ms. H's class. Right away I could tell she was a strong teacher, with strong ideas about how to teach. She greeted me coolly, and said under her breath that there was a gentleman placed with her the other day, and she even wore her best perfume, but he didn't return. Her humor made me laugh, and I knew I was going to like her. She introduced me to the children, and they all took turns greeting me. After a mini-lesson in setting up a graphic organizer to pull out the main idea and details of a story, Ms. H. had the kids go back to their seats to get to work. I'm always shocked by the content of 2nd grade curriculum. A graphic organizer? I think I just learned what that was- last year. So 7-yr-olds can grasp this concept? I think we need a new reality show- 'Are you smarter than a second grader?' Half the class was missing their front teeth. It's impossible to get mad at someone who has no front teeth. I brought a chair over to help Fahema with paragraph format. I opened her text book to a random page to show her how it looked. There was a photo of a lobster facing us. As she was writing her paragraph, she kept looking back at the book for reference. In her tiny smurf voice, she said, 'That lobster is freaking me out.' They're so cute!! But I wasn't suppossed to be appreciating their cuteness, I was suppossed to be learning how to help them succeed academically. Fahema seemed to not need my help. I moved on to another table. Fernando hadn't started yet. I asked him if he knew what the main idea was. He answered me by telling me in Spanish that he is a grandfather. I impressed his friend by answering in English that he is too young to be a grandfather. He still didn't get to work, until Ms. H. came by and questioned why he had nothing written on his paper. I felt guilty for not staying on task. Funny, but I felt myself turning into a second grader in that class. I think the kids started catching on to this, and they would look out for me so I wouldn't get into trouble with the teacher. One day when they dealt out bag lunches for the upcoming field trip to the transit museum, I was given a peanut butter and jelly sandwich lunch. Ms. H. asked all the children to put their lunches in their backpacks, and to keep them on task, she told them she wanted it done by the time she counted down from 20 (this is a very effective trick for getting others to do what you want in a timely fashion. I am waiting for an appropriate opportunity to use this on my friends). Felipe noticed that my bag lunch was still sitting on the desk. He called over to me, 'Ms. S., you can put your lunch in my backpack if you want.' Those kids started really mattering to me, and eventhough I didn't think I knew enough about teaching to be a real teacher, I did feel confident that if we could go on field trips every day, I'd be the best teacher in the world. The last day of summer school, the kids surprised me by each presenting me with a hand drawn card with a letter thanking me for helping them with their reading and writing. Martin drew a picture of a shark with blood on its teeth and two people in its mouth- one was Ms. S., and the other was him, with an arrow explaining that he was saving Ms. S.
Aw! So now summer school is over, and Ms. S. is unemployed. She's been pounding the pavement, but somehow that great teacher shortage seems to have been a myth. I'm almost hoping so, as the thought of having my very own class with no Ms. H. to help with the discipline and keeping us on task is quite daunting.

All of my Running Partners are Stars

2008-06-06T17:03:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow morning I will be running in a race in Central Park that will include the entire American women's Olympic marathon team, about ten other women from around the world who have run under 33 minutes for a 10k (that's a 5:30 minute per mile pace for six and 2/10ths of a mile), and about 3,000 'normal' female runners that want to challenge themselves. I'd be more nervous I think if I were of the elite women's caliber. I can't imagine running a race knowing that my salary was at stake if I didn't finish first.
Wednesday I was doing a casual five mile run around the bridle path in Central Park, and I look up and see Hilda Kibet jogging in the opposite direction. Not a household name to be sure, not in New York households, anyway, and if I weren't such a 'fast-women' stalker, I'd probably not have any idea who she was either. But I recognized her from a recent running journal photo. She was winning the Nike 1/2 marathon run on the streets of Manhattan last Summer. She looked ecstatic to be winning, and her smile was infectious. As I saw her this day, I called out her name. We exchanged greetings, and I asked if I could join her. She welcomed me, and off we trotted as if it were the most normal thing in the world. And really, it was. Two women passionate about their sport, sharing a social bond. After a few steps, I was struck with the realization that I was running with one of the fastest women in the world. Maybe she wanted to be alone. I asked her if it was really OK that I was running with her. She seemed perplexed by my concern. I added that maybe she wanted a little privacy, as I imagined annoying runners bombarding her with requests to run with her all day long. She assured me that she preferred the company. Admittedly, I was too starstruck to offer much conversation at first, but my partner seemed very willing to entertain all the questions that a mortal runner would want to know, and after a while, I started to feel like we were equals. I mentioned to her that the photos that were taken of her at the end of the Nike 1/2 marathon were really striking, and it was great to see a runner so happy during a race. She laughed and told me that she was celebrating before the race was over, high-fiving people and dancing as she was sprinting, and didn't realize that her nearest opponent (Catherine Ndereba), was very close to her, and she nearly jeopardized her win. That sobered her up and she promptly stopped smiling and beat her rival by a mere second. I was happy to hear that story, and told her my old coach Bob Glover used to yell at us for waving and smiling at him during a race. 'That's disgusting!' he'd scold us, 'you don't see the Kenyans smiling!' Thankfully, Hilda crushed that theory. Though I fully agree with this. If you're doing anything but focusing 100% on the race, you're probably not going to run your best. Or maybe not. Maybe you do need to have those relaxing, celebratory moments during a race where you are being human. I don't know. I can't see it working for me. Racing really is a matter of enduring discomfort. We discussed the tireless workouts that Toby gives, interval after interval, and just when you thought this workout must surely be over, he whips out another combination. We agreed the benefits are really more mental than physical. If during those workouts you think to yourself, 'There's no physical possibility for me to do one more mile repeat', and then he has you do another, and you prove yourself wrong.. Well, then you can imagine how that translates to the possiblities open to you for faster times during a race.
When we had arrived at the section of the park where Hilda had to return to her hotel, we said good-bye, and I was wondering where I was. Not that it mattered. It was a gift to have run with that woman. While heading up some long hill back home in the outer loop of the park, I started thinking about how there is really more about us that is similar than not. We will both be nervous and anxious and want to run our best Saturday morning. We may both even run a pr, though hers will be at least ten minutes faster than mine. I was also struck with the fact that here was this woman who had just run a 30:55 10k the previous week and not one single person recognized her during our run! But maybe that's the way it's suppossed to be. Is one person more special and worthy of recognition than another simply because she was born with better genes? Would I have been so happy to have met her and run with her if she was an ordinary 55 minute 10k runner? Yes, I would have been, because I love Kenyans and their sing-song way of talking, and their comfort level with socializing with strangers. It also wouldn't be far off to say that there is a possibility that in the deep recesses of my mind, I'm thinking that if I spend enough tme with Kenyans, learn their language, train with them, live with them, that maybe some of their inherent running speed will find its way into my legs. They say that friends and spouses start to mimic each other in appearance and behavior after a while. And if there is no truth whatsoever to this speed by association theory, I will still feel blessed to have gotten to know these wonderful people.

Stop Feeding them Cinnamon!

2008-05-15T09:16:00.000-07:00

At the risk of ruining a lifetime reputation as a 'nice person', I have to share my unkind thoughts on the troll-like presence of a new generation in New York City. Introducing: Population mini-dog. Where ever you turn, there's a perfectly reasonable looking adult tethered to a toenail clicking, eye-bulging, frequently yapping micro-breed canine. Maybe it's more apparent to me as a runner, since much of my time is spent running miles around Central Park, and what more natural environment is there for a leashed little ball of wiry straw and yippability? That's the problem. They don't fit in. They haven't earned their presence. With real estate close to $1800 per square foot for a condo on the Upper West Side, what possible contribution can this homely creature make to justify his place in my park? And make he does! As my Wantagh cousins used to ask upon someone's return from walking their Great Dane Brutus, 'Did he make?' I'll leave that territory alone, because I must say, the owners of these little pitzkeles are really pretty consistent about cleaning up after them. Believe it or not, I am actually a huge animal lover, and stopped eating red meat for ethical reasons related to this love. And a huge wave of guilt washes over me every time I see one of these hideous little dogs prancing down the street, oblivious to his own objectionability. It's truly not his fault he wasn't born of larger stature, and who am I to judge him unfavorably? But my guilt is wasted, as most of these dogs were a genuine investment by someone who cherishes them. This is the part that completely confounds me. What is there to love about a smooshed faced, aggressive bundle of yips and excrement? There's an Israeli saying that translates to: In taste and smell, there is no argument. But could so many New Yorkers have such bad taste?

OK, while researching for this posting, I must admit, that SOME of these dogs I found kind of.. well, I hate to admit it, and really, very few.. but some were kind of.. cute, OK? None that I posted here, but in general- dogs are cool. They never look down their noses at you for having a frizzy hair day or running a slow 5k.

But if any of my readers finds any of these photos appealing in any way, you may just want to keep that to yourself.

New library card, new neighborhood

2008-05-06T12:52:00.000-07:00

How do I know I'm no longer living upstate? Because instead of the allotted 60 minutes on the public library computer, I now only have 45 minutes. And the faces surrounding me are exotic and beautiful, some young some old, some haggard from years of surviving the streets of Manhattan, some fresh from their lack of existence. Though there is a separate section for computer use for youth, what are these young people doing using the adult computers?? Maybe they're not that young at all, it's just my memory of youth. The last time I really hung out in NYC libraries was when I was in Junior High School, and I had this obsession with collecting obscure photos of Brooke Shields. I'd sneak a bound stack of magazines like American Home from 1978 that I knew she was on the cover of, and stealthily tear it out when no one was in earshot. My sizable collection ended up in some storage closet in the dorm of a Tel Aviv university. Could still be there, along with the Brooke Doll, and Brooke Books, which actually sold on ebay recently for a grand. OK, a REALLY small person just took the computer next to me. He couldn't be more than 9. Which reminds me also that it's really smart to have a separate section for kids, as libraries tend to attract really weird and possibly dangerous adults. This one looks pretty safe, (I'm referring to the library, not the kid; Though he looked pretty safe, too.) but you can never fully let your guard down. Sunday I was enjoying a beautiful sunny day walking around the upper west side, checking out the street fair with the roasted corn, and this creepy middle-aged man said as he was passing me by, 'Hi miss, can I pet your doggy?' Needless to say, I don't have a dog. So here I am, living in the big apple, and I'm so content to be here. This is my world.

And I'd like to say a prayer for the people of Myanmar. I can't think about the magnitude of that disaster without tears coming to my eyes. 22,000 people were killed as a result of this terrible cyclone, and thousands more displaced, without homes, clean water or food. What can you wish for the survivors that will help them through the loss of loved ones and the threat of loss of their own lives? I wish them hope and future prosperity, and to know that many people around the world are wishing them the same. May the people of Myanmar be blessed with future healing and strength.

I'm Routing for Blake

2008-04-18T19:22:00.000-07:00

Any of you diehard running fans will know that I'm referring to Blake Russell, who is one of the 150 American women who qualified to compete in the Olympic trials this Sunday in Boston. The top three finishers will be sent to Beijing to represent us in the actual Olympics. Why does this runner get my vote? Well, the last marathon trials was four years ago, and she took the bold approach of running alone for the first 2/3's or so of that race. She ended up finishing a heatbreakingly close forth place (a mere 35 seconds behind the third woman). In an interview later on, she was quoted as saying she'd almost rather finish 15th than 4th in this race. I'm sure her thirst for this win is stronger than the rest of the field, since she's been closer than any of them to placing on the team. To help her stay focused, I'm going to put someone else's lyrics here. Mr. Mathers from Detroit seems to know a little about wanting something very badly too.

Album: 8 Mile Soundtrack (2002)Song: Lose Yourself
Look, if you had one shot, one opportunity To seize everything you ever wanted…One moment Would you capture it or just let it slip?
His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti He’s nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come out He’s chokin, how everybody’s jokin now The clock’s run out, time’s up over, bloah! Snap back to reality, Oh there goes gravity Oh, there goes Rabbit, he choked He’s so mad, but he won’t give up that easyIs he? No He won’t have it , he knows his whole back city’s ropes It don’t matter, he’s dope He knows that, but he’s broke He’s so stacked that he knows When he goes back to his mobile home, that’s when it’s Back to the lab again yo This whole rap shit He better go capture this moment and hope it don’t pass him
Chorus X2
You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo
The soul’s escaping, through this hole that it’s gaping This world is mine for the taking Make me king, as we move toward a, new world order A normal life is borin, but superstardom’s close to post mortar It only grows harder, only grows hotter He blows its all over, these hoes is all on him Coast to coast shows, he’s know as the globetrotter Lonely roads, God only knows He’s grown farther from home, he’s no father He goes home and barely knows his own daughter But hold your nose cuz here goes the cold waterThese ho's don’t want him no mo, he’s cold productThey moved on to the next schmoe who flows He nose dove and sold nada So the soap opera is told and unfolds I suppose it’s old potna, but the beat goes on Da da dum da dum da da
Chorus X2
No more games, I’ma change what you call rage Tear this mothaf***in roof off like 2 dogs caged I was playin in the beginnin, the mood all changed I been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage But I kept rhymin and stepwritin the next cypher Best believe somebody’s payin the pied piper All the pain inside amplified by the fact That I can’t get by with my 9 to 5 And I can’t provide the right type of life for my family Cuz man, these goddam food stamps don’t buy diapers And it’s no movie, there’s no Mekhi Phifer, this is my life And these times are so hard and it’s getting even harder Tryin to feed and water my seed, plusTeeter totter, caught up between bein a father and a prima donna Baby mama drama’s screamin on and Too much for me to wanna Stay in one spot, another day of monotomyHas gotten me to the point, I’m like a snail I’ve got to formulate a plot fore I end up in jail or shot Success is my only mothaf***in option, failure’s not Mom, I love you, but this trailer has got to go I cannot grow old in Salem’s lot So here I go is my shot. Feet fail me not cuz maybe the only opportunity that I got
Chorus X2
You can do anything you set your mind to, man

My Father Was Right

2008-03-21T18:51:00.000-07:00

'Do wind sprints', he advised one day a few summers ago as I was telling him about my then goal to run a certain time for the NYC marathon. My father was an 800 meter runner in Brooklyn in the '50s, and has told me that there was a back page Daily News photo of him beating two guys named Lipschitz and Rosenblatt (who knew there were so many good Jewish runners?) My father is very intelligent and competitive, making him a ruthless Trivial Pursuit opponent. And though I believe he was a fast sprinter five decades ago, I didn't really think his training advise was going to benefit a marathoner. Physiologically, the most important system for a long distance runner to develop is their aerobic capacity. Sprints were anaerobic. The very idea of running a faster than mile pace sprint made my already tired leg muscles spasm. So I continued following the training plan I carved out for myself, ran personal records in the 10k, 1/2 marathon, and did pretty well for my first marathon. But I still had not broken 20 minutes for the 5k. That's something I've been trying to do for the past eight years. A 6:26 pace for 3.1 miles. I came within 30 seconds of it in 2001, and in 2005 within 32 seconds. There's a delicate balance between fanaticism and passion that you have to juggle to keep these goals alive and exciting. My method has been a tactical one of stark patience and determination, combined with some extremely challenging workouts. I believe I am on the path to breaking 20 minutes, and each year of training I'm slightly closer. I've incorporated all the major types of training needed to reach my goal- working on both my aerobic and anaerobic systems, keeping a long run in my weekly workouts, eating a balanced diet, etc. This week I found an article in Running Times magazine about leg speed by Greg McMillan. He said that by doing short intervals of 90% of your top speed with a long enough recovery to clear any lactic acid from your muscles, you will, quite simply, get faster. After reading the article, and the science behind the reasoning, I felt confident that this workout was going to be the possible missing link to my training. I went out the next day to execute my first leg speed workout. Three mile warm up, then 10 x 20-second intervals at nearly all-out sprint pace. Short enough to not fatigue my legs, and therefore maintain form and get muscle memory for fast leg turnover. A 20-second interval feels a little like a joke to me. Just the other day I had struggled with my one mile repeats, hating every labored step of the last three minutes. This appetizer was over before the waiter came back to ask if I'd enjoyed it. And yes, I had. To me, running at a slow pace is healthful, a good habit, sociable- but not beautiful. Running fast is a thing of great beauty. By the time I was done with my final interval, I couldn't believe I'd already knocked off six miles. I had planned on running an additional four miles to bring my days' mileage up to ten. My breathing felt even and smooth as I went through the first of the four miles. My normal running pace when I'm not doing a special workout is around 9 minutes per mile. I glanced at my watch to check what pace I had done that mile in. 7:52! How was that possible? Now, I've run enough years to know that it takes a few weeks at least to witness the training effects of a new workout. But this was astonishing! How could I have run that mile in under an 8 minute pace without my breathing changing? The next three miles were the same result, all under 8. So maybe it was a fluke (there are none in running; you get exactly what you put into it).
I have a good feeling about this year.

More Kimchee, please

2008-03-12T18:47:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I finally made my way over to my Bruderhofer friend's home. They had been inviting me for weeks, months even, via a friendly voicemail. 'Hello Tamar, this is Caroline Kurtz. Just wanted to let you know that we'll be having a Mexican culture evening, and you're invited for supper.' Since there is only one phone amongst this commune of 300 or so people, I couldn't really return the call. The day I visited them, they prepared a beautiful pot pie, with two decorative hearts made from the crust in honour of Valentine's day. They had saved these Israeli songs that I had brought over last Summer, and to my amazement, they not only remembered the tunes but also the words. These are singing people, a sort of Christian version of the pioneering kibbutzniks in Israel who spent many a desert evening around a campfire singing the old Zionist songs at the kumsitz. I was most impressed with their daughter Grete who had decided for her senior class project to teach herself Korean. I told her I'd look out for Koreans in my travels, knowing that in my secular lifestyle, the chances of me encountering one were far greater than one stumbling onto their isolated compound. Some selfish motives were also at play, as when given the slightest nudge towards an opportunity to learn about a different culture, I am off and running. So within hours of my hunt, I find my first specimen of desire. Well, it's not human, but rather an article in the New York Times about how the South Korean government has finally, for the first time in history, agreed to send one of their engineers into space to become the first Korean astronaut on April 8, to the ISS (International Space Station). And since Koreans are very attached to their native condiment, kimchee, a multi-million dollar project was put into place to produce and package a special edition kimchee that would be safe in space. Kimchee, for those not familiar, is a very spicy fermented cabbage, usually found in jars in Asian markets. According to the article, for this culture, a day without kimchee is a sad day indeed. I can kind of relate to the pickled food addictions. I remember when my brother Josh introduced me to pickled okra. I couldn't believe I had lived as many years as I did without ever having tasted this mouth-watering food! I ate it every day for a month. Then I ran out. I hastily searched some local farmer's markets, and found a new jar. This one was terrible. All vinegar. I was over my pickled okra fetish. But after reading this article, I was determined to test this postulate. Surprisingly, we have an Asian market in a neighboring town. I didn't know what country the employees there were from, but I had a hunch. I walk in nonchalantly, barely containing a grin at my anticipated mission. I head over to the dried fruit section. My dried peaches are gone! This happens every year, yet I'm always shocked and dismayed. This market is the only place that carries these incredibly potent and delicious dried peaches, and they simply run out every March and don't re-order til the following year. I settle on some unknown darker orange fleshed fruit called a 'sharon' fruit. I suspect it's a persimmon. Then I walk over to the sushi display. There are various other delicacies made on the premises. I see a container of kimchee sold by the pound. Wow, it's really expensive. I pass on it. I bring my few items to the check out. The man standing there is the one who is always there. He doesn't smile, and never has. At least not that I've seen. I had a conversation with him the previous year when I tried to find out when they would be re-ordering the dried peaches. It didn't go very well, and he seemed very indifferent. Still, as he rung up my items, I sussed out an opening for me to talk to him. He told me my total. I got out my credit card, and casually asked him where he was from. 'Korea,' he answered. I asked him if he'd heard about this man, who was chosen from a competition of 36,000, to be sent to outer space. He backed up and looked off to the side, trying to gather the words he needed. He told me that he had heard of this, and in fact they had also chosen a woman to pose as an alternate in case something happened to the man. I believe that's what he was trying to convey to me, as it seemed this was the first time in a very long time that he was put in a position to use his English. I was so glad that he had already known this information, because it would have been very tricky for me to convey this via pantomime, and what's more, he didn't appear to be the sort who would have enjoyed the display. Then I mentioned the bit about the kimchee. And how they spent lots of money perfecting a version that would not be harmful in space due to the bacteria. He made sure that I knew that it was good bacteria, lest I think his people were enjoying hazardous snacks. I conceded that it was good on earth, but the effects of radiation in space could render it dangerous, and that was the reason behind the costly research. We both stood there nodding, like we had just solved some weighty political issue. As he gave me my receipt, I said, 'Millions of dollars spent on this kimchee.' He had already gone back to his work behind the counter. I wasn't even sure if he had understood what I'd said. Then as I walked away, he looked up and said to me, 'Koreans have to have kimchee.' We both laughed hard. The sushi chef looked alarmed at this unfamiliar sound coming from behind the counter.

Men: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

2008-02-06T19:29:00.000-08:00

Armed with my exciting, never before performed by me speed workout, I strutted myself down to my running hole. Yes, the warming effects have been good to me and my running friends, and have rendered our precious trail runnable once again. We'll worry about our polar friends another day.
As I approach the trail, I see in the distance a man who I had deemed a pervert long ago. So long ago, in fact that I'm not too sure what earned him this lowly title, but the feeling I get when I see him does not lie. Whatever perverse act he performed however long ago will not be forgotten in my impressionable psyche.
Smoothly I veer off to a side entrance to avoid contact with this bulky white-bearded person. I start my run, knowing that I will pass him and his buddy as they talk casually in the parking lot. I keep my focus straight ahead so as not to invite any comments. Of course this fails. Like Poe's black cat, pervy is drawn to my loathing. His face lights up at the sight of me, he leans past his friend to make sure his witty comment will be heard, and yells out, 'You're DAWDling!' with his repulsive curmudgeon geniality. I wasn't sure what he said, and replied in my coolest tone, 'I'm sorry?' He doesn't miss a beat. 'You're DAWDling there, pick it up!' As I pass him I say loudly so he will know in the future that conversing with me is not meant to be a pleasant affair, 'OK, I'll be sure to do that.'
I don't know why I feel so extremely annoyed. I guess because I really despise this man, and his ignorance to my reaction to him makes it seem like he's intentionally goading me. Which is more annoying than unintentional ignorance. I think. Anyway, I realize that I need to lighten up, forget the perv and start focusing on a far greater pain: The three sets of two-mile repeats that I intend to do.
So I do my two mile warm up, and start in with the first interval. The pace isn't too hard, but I've just reached the mile mark, and am already 23 seconds too slow. My watch reads 7:43. Time to pick up the pace. I guess this will hurt after all. As I head towards the mile and a half mark, I hear someone on a bicycle slowing pedalling behind me. Then he shouts out, 'ON your left', a little too loudly and suddenly, and I jump in a startled response. Now I'm annoyed again. First perv attacks me with his corny humor, and now another insensitive clod has increased my heart rate for no good reason. When he catches up to me, he pedals alongside me. Oh great. 'I'm looking for my friend, maybe you've seen him?' Somehow I'm capable of a full sentence. 'Sorry, I'm doing a speed workout.' This has no effect on him. 'He's a big guy.' I realize this man won't leave until I give him his desired information. I remember seeing him now at my turn around point. He actually followed me on my interval run to get information from me! 'Does he have a big white beard?' 'Yeah, that's him!' 'I saw him in the parking lot'. I tried to pick up the pace, thinking my assistance was no longer needed. Silly me. 'Which way did he go?' 'He was in the parking lot doing absolutely nothing.' The guy was satisfied. He turned around and thanked me. 'Oh, you're so welcome,' I managed in my sweetest voice. It's situations like these that make me really appreciate sarcasm. You know, when you're half dead from running a race pace, and random people come up to you to get detailed information about their biking partners.
I was starting to feel very fatigued, and fully planning on blaming any loss in time on these two clowns. I was shocked when I finished this mile in 7:12. The rest of the workout played out like a dream, giving me at the end exactly what I'd set out to do: 3 sets of 2-mile repeats averaging a 7:20 per mile pace.
As I walked up my driveway, I see two unknown men surveying something outside my house. They're from my landlord's business, and they greet me pleasantly with the news that tomorrow I'll be out of water for a few hours. I go inside to my dark apartment, and glance up at the light socket that's been unusable for a few weeks now. The bulb melted into it, and I tried to take most of it out, but then was left with a partially removed bulb. I left the broken bulb and the burnt pieces I'd managed to remove on the mantle nearby. I'm not sure why I was saving all of that, maybe I thought it would help whoever ended up fixing this problem understand how this occurred. It made a curious little pile for my friends to glance at upon their entrance into my home.
I didn't want to call the landlord to fix it because I figured I could do it myself, and also I really hate unexpected visitors. Strange, I know. Living in the country has given me some queer ways. But knowing these guys were right outside my door, I bounded back out and told them my situation, thinking they could take care of it right now. Sure enough, they came in, knew exactly what to do.. I watched them in total fascination, as I'd tried to do the same thing and didn't succeed. I even asked the guy how he was able to do it and I couldn't. He said with a smile, 'Cause you're a girl!' Somehow, coming from him, I felt flattered. I am a girl. How long had it been since I'd thought that about myself? I'm always trying to conquer the world, an attribute that certainly doesn't FEEL girlish. I liked the sounds of that. Then one of the guys did an astonishing thing! He quietly scooped up the little pile of broken pieces I'd left on the mantle! HE WAS CLEANING UP MY MESS! I was so touched by that gesture. After they left, I thought about how these guys just came right in and took care of the matter at hand. Manly men. I liked that! Who knew? Definitely something to consider for future reference.
Finally, I made my way out to the library to do some math work. Don't ask. After an hour, I felt it was time for lunch. I walked to the local pizzeria. I used to go to this place when I worked at the phone company. I love these guys too, with their Italian accents; they always treat me like family. They had this incredible looking freshly made pie with fresh basil and garlic on it. I ordered a slice, and then sat at a table to eat it. That was one of the best pieces of pizza I ever ate. It tasted like a four course gourmet meal in one triangle.
Who are the people in your neighborhood?

When is a loss real?

2008-01-17T18:19:00.000-08:00

Death is surreal by virtue of its timing. It can only occur once, so therefore you can never relay to curious friends and neighbors how it felt, if it was your own; If it was not your own, you're still in that unexperienced realm of not knowing how to react. Many feel nothing initially. During the men's marathon trials on November 3, 2007, according to USATF, 131 of the fastest American male marathoners got on the starting line at 7:35 am in front of NYC's Rockefeller Center to compete for one of three spots for the American team that would be sent to Bejing for this summer's Olympic marathon. The results roster shows the dry facts. Of those 131 competitors, 104 finished, 26 received DNF (did not finish), 3 received DNS (I'm assuming this is 'did not start'), and the last on the list, bib #13 Ryan Shay, had an empty space where his finisher's designation was suppossed to be. The assumption is that a competitor is not suppossed to die during the competition, and therefore an appropriate acronym has not been created. My reaction to the news of his sudden death, I'm sure, was not too different from that of other competitive runners. A bit of unreality about it. How can someone in such phenomenal condition, and who had years of experience putting his body through exactly the same or tougher stress than this event, suddenly cease to exist? Only 5.5 miles into the event? As a fellow runner who is passionate about running and racing, there is an immediate sympathy. But not having met the guy personally, well, it's kind of an impersonal sympathy. So when my friend Valerie asked me if I had read the article in Runner's World about the incident, and highlighting Shay's life, I kind of shrugged it off. 'No, but I read a lot of the newspaper coverage after it happened.' She said it was really good. I kind of forgot about it, probably in no small part due to the difficulty of the training run we were doing that day. Another hilly course to torture Tamar's hill-worn legs. At least this one was in Sullivan County.
That night I flipped through that issue of Runner's World. May as well go over whatever I missed before I recycle it. I came across the article. I really wasn't feeling in the mood to read it, didn't think it had anything to tell me that I didn't already know. I started reading it. I didn't feel anything when they talked about how tough a competitor he was, what a hard worker he was, how his devoted wife waited at the seven mile mark in Central Park for him to come through, and he didn't. These were all just disconnected details of the life of a grounded, competitive athlete. None of this had anything to do with me. Then I read that his family held a memorial run around Central Lake High track, where Ryan had gone to school. People were invited to walk, jog, or run on the track; whatever distance they wanted to cover was fine. A father and daughter came to show their respects. The girl had met Ryan at a local race, and he had encouraged her to pursue her dream of competing. They wanted to honor him by completing 20.7 miles on the track. They wanted to cover the territory that his untimely death did not allow him to.
As a passionately competitive runner, I understand, live, and breath those numbers all the time. The intricate web of numbers to calculate, manipulate, and masticate is forever revolving in my head as I plod forward to turn the seasons of training into a now decades old dream. I've often thought about the obstacles that would try to stop me in mid-run. A machete. (I think I've been reading too much of the Kenyan crisis, but this is a remote fear.) A deer in mating season jumping in front of me. Falling flat on my face on some ice. And if any of these maladies should befall me and cause my ultimate demise, would someone be there to finish my run? That journal entry space would demand it. So yes, this was the point in the article, and in the whole death of the runner story, that brought out those tough-guy tears. The idea that someone will complete your dream for you is really all we need in this world.

Winter friendships

2008-01-01T17:16:00.000-08:00

It's Tuesday, and where am I supposed to do my mile repeats? The track is covered in frozen snow, the trail is a deathtrap of patchy black ice. All I need is a 1600 meter stretch of flat ground, and I'll be happy. The answer is so obvious, it escapes me. There's a back road right next to the trail that fits my criteria perfectly. It's a quiet residential road that parallels my precious trail. My friend Marty announces that he will only be doing part of this workout with me, as he needs to save his energy for a race this coming weekend. No complaints from me. Truthfully, I get anxious at the thought of another human next to me as I struggle to adapt to the stress of the faster paced mile. I know it's good for me, I know it will make me a stronger runner mentally, I know all the great runners practice running fast in training with groups of people next to them.. But I really just find it overwhelming. What if the person starts to talk to me? What if the person picks up the pace? What if their foot grazes my foot and sends me crashing to the ground? No, I really prefer my own company when it comes to doing the bitterly difficult workouts. But I relented and agreed to let Marty run with me today. I was relieved at his announcement of only joining me for part of the workout. We warm up with an easy paced two miles, and then start with the first mile repeat. I set the pace. We're striving for a 7:10-7:15 mile. The first couple of minutes go by. My breathing is steady, Marty's keeping his thoughts to himself; everything is so far not too terrible. We get to the turn around point, and head for the second half of this first mile. My breathing has become more labored, and I'm feeling the effects of the endless hills of Goshen from last week. I'm surprised that Marty is keeping up with me. How can he keep up with me? He doesn't do any speed, and I've been doing speed for a few weeks now. Then he has the audacity to lead! I remind myself that he will be cutting this workout short, while I still have another three of these things to complete. We pass a house with a green cutout Styrofoam letter 'J' lying on the lawn. My ability to hold this pace is running out. I note the numbers of the mailboxes that we pass. They are descending. I tell myself this mile will be over by the time we reach mailbox number 5. This ends up being true. I press my stop button on my watch. 6:58. Well! Now it's OK that I was feeling tired, I was going a little too fast. Marty puts his hands up and says that's it for him. I laugh, as I knew he was going to say that. I try and stay focused, as I only have 20 more seconds before I have to start my next mile. I say good-bye to Marty, and start mile two. I'm happy to be alone again. But I know I won't go as fast. Freedom versus community. They both have their contributions, but this is an argument not suitable for an oxygen depleted brain. I return to simple thought units. Mailbox number 33. There's the green letter 'J'. I pass that house. I hear a female Brooklyn accent call after me. "Hello. How are you." The voice sounded tired, like its owner had been trying for hours to strike up a conversation with passers-by to no avail. I did something I've never done while running mile repeats. I smiled. I almost laughed, but I was just too tired, and couldn't get it together. On my turn-around, still running at the faster speed, I determined to scan the area to locate the owner of that voice. As I approached the house, I see no one. I passed, and again the voice called out, "Hello, how are you, how is your day going?" It kind of sounded like an adult playing a prank. The accent made me want to laugh again, but I still couldn't. I finished that mile, took my minute recovery walk, and got right back into the next repeat. Just as I passed the voice's house, a woman comes out, peeks her head out of her front door, says, "Hello, I like your shirt and your gloves.." I think she was listing other things she liked about me, but I couldn't stop to chat because I was still doing my mile. Now, I must have the ugliest pair of running gloves in Orange County. They're oversized wool workman's gloves with leather pads that I bought at the gas station for $2.99. Was this woman making fun of me? I knew the gloves looked ridiculous, but they really kept my hands warm. I finished up my workout feeling a bit tired. I never saw that woman again. I was disappointed. I wanted to see if she would notice my new pink athletic gloves I bought that week . I only wore them once. I really hated them. I kept worrying about getting them dirty, and wouldn't even wipe the sweat off my forehead with them. It felt great to put my hideous wool man-gloves back on the next day. Nothing like an old work glove to remind you of who you really are.

The Last Song

2007-12-13T11:09:00.000-08:00

It's quiet now
On your little street
With the one way sign
How many travellers, missing the sign
Came up your street.
You smiled as they kept on
Driving the wrong way

It's quiet now
You thought it'd be best
To end things here
You felt him breathe in
Your scent
He felt your fear
Still you let him in
But not too close

It's quiet now
His voice touched your resolve
And parted it with conviction
You sat open mouthed and waiting
For more food to sustain you
Too late to take back
The power you gave him
To fill you with his
Intoxicating promise

It's quiet now
The embers turned to ash
Drivers now see the one way sign
You said good-bye to the one
Who made your pulse race
And blushed your face

Too close to love, too far to touch
Was it the false Messiah?
This wild rose cannot hide her thorns
A worthy soldier would find his way
Between them

Show and Tell

2007-11-28T08:54:00.000-08:00

Thank-you for being here and reading my stuff! Everyone who has visited my blog and commented or thought about commenting has been part of my support team that I could not have continued this writing journey without.. I participated in NanoWrimo project this November (http://www.nanowrimo.org/), and the concept is to get 50,000 words of novel completed in one month. Things were looking really dubious for this procrastinator, but somehow I got it together after Thanksgiving.. Here is an exerpt from "Runover Dogs"..

It was a warm, late summer night with a light wind blowing through the campus trees. Noa exited her dorm and saw her friend Shoshanna sitting on some steps. 'I'm waiting for Smadar to bring my pizza.' Noa wanted to avoid the subject of classes, because Shoshanna would lay into her for not taking it seriously. She wasn't in any mood to be lectured, so she asked her friend how the linguistics classes were going. 'They taught us about bilabial fricatives. Do you know where your bilabial fricative is, Noa?' 'Not really-but I bet YOU do!' Shoshanna started laughing and Noa could only imagine what her friend was thinking. 'You coming with me to Ima's tomorrow?' Ima was their mutual friend Tsivia's mom. They met Tsivia on the kibbutz. She was a tall, friendly girl with dirty blonde Shirley Temple curls, who played the guitar, loved Suzanne Vega- and was from an orthodox family living outside of Haifa. Shoshanna would go home with her every Shabbat to spend with her family. They had 5 biological daughters, and 3 adopted ones. The goal was to have them all married off eventually. Shoshanna, being over 30 years old, was their biggest challenge. She was a large woman, and this was an unusual state of being for this culture. So with those two marks against her, age and girth, the matchmaker had to dig deep to find a Chattan for her. She came back one Shabbat and announced to Noa that she wasn't going back to the Dan's again. What happened? They fixed her up with a divorcee, she was sitting down at a table at the restaurant where they had agreed to meet at. This short bearded man with a limp walks up to her and asks if she is waiting for someone. She wasn't 100% sure he was talking to her because he had a lazy eye which was looking in an entirely diffent direction. She followed its path and saw it led to a little old man dining alone, and decided he must be speaking to her. Now she wasn't picky. The lazy eye, the one leg being shorter than the other-these things didn't bother her. But wasn't it considered in poor taste to talk about sex on the first date? Wasn't this suppossed to be a religious man? It was too much for her, and she needed a break. Smadar appeared with a slice of pizza on a plate in either hand. She was always smiling, and she had short hair and glasses and reminded Noa of a Weeble Wobble. She tripped and dropped a slice of pizza. It fell face down. 'Your pizza fell, Shoshanna!' Noa started cracking up. 'Why was that Shoshanna's slice?' 'Cause I put garlic salt on the other one.' The girls ate their pizza quietly and Noa reminisced about her shidduck last year at the yeshiva. She shuttered at the thought, and would rather die of desperate loneliness than have to relive that time. Shoshanna announces she has to get to her linguistics class. 'Watch out for flying bilabial fricatives,' Noa warns her. Smadar and Noa are sitting next to each other. There's an awkward silence, where it suddenly becomes apparent that they've never had a need to hang out together before. 'I'm going downstairs to the Moadone, do you want to come?' Noa asks. 'Iv'e never been there. Sure, I'll come.' The moadone is a bomb shelter in one of the dorm buildings converted to a late night hangout with snacks and music. Noa was intrigued with Chaim the slender senior sociology student who often worked there. He was Persian, and had mocha skin and light blue eyes. It was an unnerving combination. They got there, and as usual, there were mostly Americans hanging out. There was one Israeli girl in the middle of a group of Americans talking loudly about some bakery in a nearby neighborhood. They only baked breads and rolls, and if you came by very early in the morning, you could buy them fresh out of the ovens. Noa said she'd like to go, and before they knew it, a small group had planned to go that very morning. Noa went back to her table to get her soda. Chaim was sitting there staring at her. 'Where are you all going?' 'To get fresh bread at 5 am at the bakery. Why don't you come with us?' He made that clicking sound with his mouth that Israelis make to indicate negative. 'Why would I do that? I have fresh bread in my apartment.' Israelis were always so practical and lacking in that childlike sense of adventure that travelling Americans often had. 'But it's not warm!' Noa protested. 'Why don't you come over and I'll warm it up for you?' he said with a completely serious look on his face. Noa sensed something sinister about this man. How could you trust someone who didn't think running around Ramat Gan at 5 am in search of fresh hot bread was fun? It was probably those strange blue eyes framed by the brown skin. No, she thanked him, she's getting her hot bread the right way. 'As you wish,' he said coolly, and slunk off somewhere. She felt a coldness to the air around him, and she suddenly felt a very creepy feeling. She was so glad she was not planning on going to Chaim's house to eat his bread. She rejoined the lighter group of Americans plus Tamar the token Israeli girl. They were getting their jackets on and taking off to get the best falafel in Tel Aviv. That bread would not be ready for another six hours, and that was too long to go without eating. They waited for the #6 bus. Noa and Tamar started talking about astrology, and they realized they both had the same thick red book, 'Love Signs', by Linda Goodman. Tamar switched to Hebrew now, as she got more excited and talked faster and faster. Noa's brain raced to understand everthing this girl was saying. She could feel her Hebrew improving. The bus finally arrived, and the group sauntered on in. Before she knew it, Noa was teaching Tamar a chidren's song she had learned from Sam as a child. Tamar was thrilled to learn it. And why not? Cooka Burra was most definitely not part of a typical Israeli child's repertoire of songs. All of a sudden Tamar grabbed the string to indicate this was their stop. 'Rega! Anachnu tzricheem laredet, bavakasha!' and the bus driver pulled over. Out the group went. They were dropped off on a dark street. Tamar led, and everyone followed like baby ducklings. In the distance was the light of the little falafel stand. A 45 minute bus ride for this? Wait, Tamar assurred, you won't regret it. A little falafel guy looked weary but pleased to see this big group of customers so late at night. Tamar showed them what to do. She paid her 2 shekels and was given a pita bread with 3 hot falafel balls inside. She ate one to make more room for the salads. Then she proceeded to pile on the goods. Mini pickled eggplant, fresh baba gannouj. Sauerkraut and even french fries were fair game for this delectable treat. After everyone loaded their pitas, the group got down to the business of savoring their caches. Happiness was in the air. All agreed that this was the best falafel place in Tell Aviv. Since the buses only ran once an hour, the group headed back to the bus stop to wait for the return bus. Noa and Tamar, at 2 am, started singing Cooka Burra as a round. The others were too tired to join in. The bus finally arrived, the gang piled on. Tamar had a bus ticket. 'Pa-amaaim,' she told the bus driver, translated as 'double' meaning she was also paying for Noa's fare. Smadar wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to practice Hebrew and get a free bus ride at the same time, so she entered the bus and said 'Shloshaaim,' to the driver, translated as 'three times', eventhough that word did not exist in the Hebrew language. The ride was long, and everyone fell asleep. 'Bar Ilan!' the bus driver yelled out, not wanting to take these kids back to the central bus station. They groggily woke up and exited the bus. Tamar announced it was a perfect time to walk to the bakery. A few people were too tired and went back to the dorms. Tamar, Noa, Smadar and Daniel were the only takers. It was getting cold and the sky was overcast so there was an eery lightness to this 4 am night. They walked through some very religious neighborhoods, and saw an occasional chasid walking the street. They wondered what anyone would be doing up at this hour? The neighborhoods started getting more and more beat up looking, until finally they arrived on the block of the bakery. The main door was the size of a wall, and it was slid open allowing a good view of the operation. Noa peeked in . She saw some humongous ovens that looked pre-WWII. It was very hot in there. All of a sudden, an old man with a scaly red face and stringy white hair came out. Noa was alone with him, as her 3 friends already entered to find their precious bread. The man looked like he had come out to smoke a cigarette, but he had none. Noa felt strange, as he was standing very close to her and staring at her. She couldn't stand it anymore, and had to break the silence. 'It must be hard to work so early in the morming.' 'Oh yes,' he answered in a high-pitched hollow voice, 'Iv'e been here all night. It's very hard. Sometimes I bleed.' Bleed? That's pretty severe. Why would someone bleed while making bread? 'Here, do you want me to show you?' And the man started to unbutton his pants. 'No, thanks anyway,' Noa turned to find her friends, and just then they came out. She was so happy to see them. Tamar said it was very scary inside, but apparently not as scary as it had been outside. After Noa told of her creepy experience with the bleeding man, Tamar conceeded, 'It's really a gross place, but the bread is so good, I'd still come back.' Noa wasn't so sure any bread was worth forced viewings of bleeding ulcers. She did love the bread though. She ripped another piece of crusty bread from Tamar's bag. Nothing like steaming hot, freshly baked bread on a freezing Tel Aviv morning.

PS Yay!! I submitted my draft to nano for final word count: 50,943! I did it!!

Avoiding nanoing, avoiding it all..

2007-11-20T10:35:00.000-08:00

George Costanza has nothing on me, as I sit typing on an abandoned workstation computer. I am at my friend's job today and tomorrow, she invited me, and I thought it would be inspiring. The building is in a great spot near Central Park, perfect views of prewar architectural detailing visible from every window. I've been entrusted with the company door codes, invited to join in on the holiday pies, and introduced to the big boss and several cheerful co-workers. I can barely contain my mirth as I help myself to the break room amenities. I feel like screaming out, 'I AM A CHARLATAN! I'M NOT EVEN ON PAYROLL!!' but everyone seems content with my presence. I wonder what would happen if I kept showing up for work, day after day? Would I be placed on payroll by default? This computer was running slow, so I joked with my friend Sandra, 'Do you guys have an IT person? I can't get any work done like this..' She started dialing his extension.. 'No, I was kidding.. ' The rain just let up.. Sandra and I will be heading out for our afternoon run in the park soon.. I'm trying to remember why I found office life so painful before, this is really a hoot..

From the annals of intuitive living..

2007-11-03T20:42:00.000-07:00

Bless my friend who asks me on a regular basis how my intuitive living is going.. Poor soul is haunted by the same office existence that I once was shackled to.. These photos are dedicated to her, taken at the world's best pumpkin carving contest.. My entry won a ribbon.. First place for 'Adult Scene'.. ?

Me and Lily Shee

2007-10-08T15:33:00.000-07:00

My freshman year of college I was given an assignment to interview people on their views of welfare recipients. I didn't have any solid friends yet, but I wasn't going to let that stop me. I was sitting at a table near some vending machines, and I see the pretty Asian girl from my Calculus class. We smile at each other, and I introduce myself. Then I ask her if she minded if I interviewed her for this class. She took on a serious/comic face and said, 'Uh, o-kay', in this mock dramatic tone which I was to learn was her trademark during the course of our friendship. I asked my question. 'How do you feel about people who are on welfare?' 'Oh', she answered. This time there was no acting. Her face showed a genuine look of consternation. 'They're lazy'. Her answer took me off guard and I laughed. 'Really?' I asked, giving her a chance to recant. 'Yes', she continued, 'They can get a job at McDonald's. When I was in high school, I worked all the time'. I don't know why I wanted to change her opinion. Maybe she was right. Every single one was lazy and there was no circumstance where someone could legitimately be accepting government assistance. I guess that's what triggered my defense reflex. There was such a finality about her stance. As I came to know Lily more as a friend, it was clear that all of her opinions, from men's behaviors to visiting relatives from China were either good or bad, there was never any ambiguity in her world. I found it hilarious. One time we were at the mall shopping for a dress for her to wear to her sister's wedding. 'Do you have family coming from China?' I was curious. 'Yes', she looked glum. 'Aren't you excited?' 'No. I hate my relatives. They're disgusting'. Whoa! That was so harsh. I laughed in amusement. 'Why are they disgusting?' I couldn't resist. 'They pick their nose in public. They're always embarrassing me'. Well, that was that. One day we were lounging about my apartment discussing her views on men. She had a boyfriend. An American named Bill who took her to nice restaurants and bought or made her expensive jewelry. Bill would always get mad at her because she preferred the cheap, trendy jewelry from those little jewelry kiosks at the mall. Again she surprised me with her views when she told me that she is expected to look beautiful all the time, and that if she doesn't look young and beautiful, no man will marry her. She completely believed that these two attributes were the only ones necessary for such a union. I sometimes felt like I was watching some 19th century soap opera when listening to her. I realized then that life had been hard for Lily. She said her parents always called her ugly. I met her parents. They lived in a little apartment in an all Chinese neighborhood in Queens. Her father bought this big bag of fried chicken wings on the street, we went back to their place and all sat around eating them. No one talked. Later Lily had to go to the Chinese bank to take care of some family business. Her father drove us to the bus station to return to school. The road was very bumpy and rough, and I kept bouncing out of my seat. He said something to Lily in Cantonese. She looked flatly at me and translated, 'You will lose your virginity on this ride'. I cracked up, and her father smiled at me. Over the summer I found myself with lots of idle time. Lily and I spent hours lazing around, braiding our hair and being vain. She had this other side which would come out on these such days. It was completely different than the stoic, judgmental Lily. This other side was pensive and innocent. She would talk about dreams she'd had of butterflies and reincarnation, floating through time like a candle. I didn't really know what she was talking about, I just knew that this was the only time she seemed really happy and content. I guess it was like her fantasy world. And then she met Seamus. Seamus, whose real name is Steve, looked so Irish I had to call him Seamus. We met one Winter night at Bacchus. Bacchus was the only bar in New Paltz that I felt comfortable in. It had a long wooden bar, hardwood floors and a pool table. They had over twenty beers on tap, which to me spoke of their respect for all tastes. So I was sitting there at the bar, in the midst of believing that my date had stood me up, and there was Seamus, sitting next to me. He had a wool hat on pulled down to his eyebrows like he was hiding from the world. He looked a bit abandoned himself, and as the hour approached 45 minutes from the time my date was supposed to have arrived, I felt this woolen-hatted man would be a good audience for my anguish. 'Did your date stand you up too?' I asked him. 'No. I'm here with my friend. Some guy stood you up?' He asked incredulously. 'I would never do that to you! Do you want me to call him and yell at him?' he offered. I felt better already, now that I had an ally. 'No thanks, it's fine. It's just snowing out, and I never would have driven all this way in the snow, and it's just so rude'. Seamus invited me to play pool with him and his friend. I did, and their company was greatly appreciated. We ended up going out on one date, and I decided I wasn't attracted to him. So I fixed him up with my friend Kerri, who really liked him, but there were no sparks on his end. A few months went by. Lily and I went to Bacchus one night and Seamus was there. We hung out and played pool. Lily and Seamus spoke a little. On our drive home, Lily seemed to have fallen in love with Seamus. She revealed that she has never been physically attracted to any man (not even Bill, her current boyfriend) but she felt a huge attraction to Seamus. Somehow, the attraction for Seamus became contagious, because suddenly I too had a huge crush on him! We spent the next few days discussing our mutual crushes, and since Lily and I were such good friends, we didn't seem to mind that there was only one of him but two of us. I guess we didn't think anything would materialize from this anyway. Of course we were wrong. I'm not sure exactly what happened between Lily and Seamus- I sense it never really left the fantasy stage. But something I said to Lily ended our friendship. I don't even remember what it was. Something about a lack of trust, and her being deeply insulted. She had actually already moved to California at this point, far away from me, Seamus, and the nose-picking relatives. But that was it. She couldn't be friends with someone who didn't trust her. That's the only time a man has come between any of my friendships. I'd like to find Lily again. It's been about seven years. Knowing her, she probably hasn't forgiven me yet.

Runners on the Loose

2007-10-03T19:17:00.000-07:00

The night in question had finally arrived and of course, my desire to follow through and join Myriam for an after work Friday night drink was non-existent. Maybe it was the guilt factor- since I was cozily unemployed, I hadn't earned the right to partake in this famous American pastime of decompressing from a stressful work week. Gone were the days of inane emails from a supervisor questioning why I was two minutes late returning from break the previous day. No longer did I have to suffer through the bullying customer threatening to call his lawyer if I didn't remove the bogus charges for the phone call on his bill made to his daughter's cell phone; as he never calls her cell phone. Oh, OK, I guess someone broke into his house and called his daughter from his home. That could happen. In fact, since my joining the ranks of the happily unemployed, my only stress in the past 3 months came in the form of a hamstring injury- brought on by an overzealous attempt to complete a third track workout for the week. So I guess guilt played a role in my trying to get out of going out. Myriam is a very persuasive co-conspirator, and after shooting down the last of my feeble excuses ('But Myriam- I'm unemployed, I can't afford to go out!' 'Oh, I'll treat you to the first drink. Knowing you, that will be twice as much as you'll finish anyway', she ribbed). I finally caved. It sounded like a healthy thing to do, meeting up with a group of runners.The bar was a handsome new one in downtown Middletown, not yet tarnished by the typical boisterous crowds of the area nightlife. It was nice to see a lot of familiar faces from track and local races. Next thing you know, Myriam is whipping out her cell phone camera and delegating photographers and posers. This of course is the most frightening moment of the evening, because you never know when an unflattering photo of yourself will show up in a future newsletter or on the Sullivan Striders website. One day I was innocently viewing online photos from some recent race, and much to my shock was a photo of myself and Myriam's nephew with his arm around me! Luckily, it was a cute picture, and I didn't have a crazed, jealous boyfriend at the time, but still.. A girl could use a little warning. So next Rene, Myriam's husband, comes in. I'm very happy to see him. Rene has a thousand great stories about all the different countries he's lived in. We got onto the subject of animals speaking in Spanish. (Not sure how we got there, as I had mentioned that I was working as a literacy volunteer, and my student is definitely human, but the wine was strong..) So he was telling me his friend had a talkative parrot who would repeat everything his master said. Whenever a guest would pass the cage, the bird would scream, 'MARICON!' at him. About this time, many of the other runners started to leave. I don't know if it was the foreign cursing or maybe when you work for a living you just need more sleep- luckily this malady didn't effect all of us. So Myriam thought it was time for us to move to a different locale. Those Geminis always need new stimuli. So off we went. The new bar featured a live band, free buffet, and a really delicious Pinot Grigio. Ha, look Myriam, I'm no longer a lightweight! Somehow the subject of singles meeting other singles in the running community came up. Someone mentioned it would be a good idea if in addition to displaying your age group on your race number, your marital status should also be available. Then the women reflected for a moment on the near non-existent pool of single men in the area, and someone said, 'I guess it wouldn't make a difference', and we all burst out laughing. We spent the next few minutes brainstorming for other valuable information along these lines to be included on bib numbers. How about if a guy's a good kisser? 'Oh yeah', someone said, 'I'd like to know that up front'. Apparently, this woman had kissed a few clueless frogs. Something about a dead, frozen, open mouth. I don't know, it didn't sound very appealing to me either, but I didn't want to depress the woman any more, she sounded fairly traumatized from the experience. So the general consensus was in favor of this new category of info to be taken for upcoming races. The only problem was, who in their right mind, when filling out a race application is going to answer 'no' when asked 'are you a good kisser'? So we decided we may need to discuss this more at the upcoming Sullivan Striders meeting. Those meetings are overdue for some livelier topics, anyway. Just then Rene, not having brought up the subject of 'the great match of me and his nephew' in over a year, thought that now would be an excellent time to do so. 'You know Tamar, I recently had dinner with Jesus. He told me that when he met you, he's never had this feeling about anyone before, but he said he could really see himself having a son with you'. Now that's quite a loaded statement to feed to a woman who would one day like to have children, not to mention she was on her second glass of wine. 'Well Rene, that's really nice', I said, 'But I feel a little suspicious about the sincerity of this story, since you once mentioned to me that Jesus could really use a green card'. Rene explained this conflict by means of reinforcing why a green card would be so valuable to Jesus. Huh? Let me get back to my girls. The girls had that glassy-eyed look of 'if I have any more excitement tonight I'm liable to poke an eye out'. Myriam, Marie and I all walked to our cars. Myriam pulled out her cell phone so we could laugh at the photos again. There was one of the three of us where we were all smiling, but Marie was standing about a mile away from us, like at the last second she agreed to appear in it. We parted laughing and happy, despite the baked avocados served in the free buffet. Sometimes you really do get what you pay for, but the evening as a whole was priceless.

Hatchlings: A Love Story

2007-09-26T10:01:00.000-07:00

The sun came up and revealed the dozens of tiny eggs laying on the damp patch of sand. The eggs were from many mothers who lived within the same community, and shared the same customs, and often the very chore of raising the young into independent young turtles. Hatchling A poked his head right through his shell, looked around, and promptly started to cry as there was no one there to tend to his needs. Instantly, his mother recognized his wails as her own offspring, and came forward to tend to his needs. Feeling secure and loved, he followed her back to their den. There was a cozy fire burning, a big pot of savory stew cooking for dinner, and papa turtle sitting in his worn recliner chair smoking his pipe. Hatchling A, which they began calling Frank, sidled up to his father and listened closely to his every word. The elder tortoise loved teasing his brood. It was his nature, and indeed if too long a period went by with no teasing from Papa, his children would grow depressed, for this was how they knew that they were loved. 'Frank my son, what happened to your tail? Why, it's so short, it looks as though a confused fish mistook it for a worm, and bit it off!' Frank smiled, knowing that his father was very fond of him now. The seasons drifted one into the other, and pretty soon it was time for Frank to go out and start a family of his own. There was a rumor going around that arriving into this world on the same day as Frank was a very serious young female hatchling who lived on the other side of the island. Euridice, as she was called, grew up in an entirely different world than Frank. Her parents were very young, and didn't quite know how to care for their little hatchling. They only knew how to take care of their own needs and desires, and this they did very well. There were always half empty bottles of expensive wine sitting about the house from the previous night's party. Her father, being the traditional nomadic polygamist of his tribe, had invited his new wife to come live with them. Euridice was then given even less attention than before, and what's worse, was delegated to wait on the new wife, who wasn't much older than she was. The father was often absent due to long hours spent at the office. This was a good thing for Euridice and her siblings, as he was a moody man, and given to wild outbursts with little provocation. But the family tradition she least adored was that of the constant criticisms. Nothing was good enough for her father, and his tirades when displeased were tireless and exhausting. He could spend hours yelling about how the chicken she cooked for the family dinner was not big enough to feed the whole family, and then he would continue on until a diagram of the anatomy of a full grown chicken was mapped and drawn and hanging from the kitchen wall for all to examine. She couldn't take him too seriously, but still, she often wished that there was someone out there who might appreciate her. Despite her desires, she had a strong mistrust of most people, and who could blame her. When all you knew was criticism and contempt, where does love fit in? But she knew how to love and care for the poor and helpless creatures of the world. She was always rescuing drowning ants, and abandoned baby birds. So one day as she was searching for water for their camels, she spied a new turtle. She hid behind an acacia tree. It was Frank. The community where her family lived had several families, and it was miles away from other communities. She knew everyone well, but this turtle she had never seen before. She peeked her nose out from behind the tree to get a better look at the stranger. He had disappeared! She was so confused, and then she felt a small tug on her tail. She turned around quickly to scold whoever was annoying her (she really abhorred her tail being pulled), and there was Frank, acting non-challant and casual, though a turtle with such a short tail in her neighborhood was certainly an odd sight. 'I'd appreciate it if you refrain from grabbing my tail like that' she retorted coolly. 'If you are trying to impress me, you're not doing so well'.. Frank was not used to such a cold reception, and wasn't sure how to respond. In his world, a nice, firm tail-grabbing is just a way of starting a conversation. He started to walk backwards very slowly. Euridice noticed that the bright smile he was wearing initially had completely vanished and was replaced by a distant look of sadness. She realized that she really needed to see that smile again. She wasn't sure why, but she felt if she didn't see it again, she would die of thirst. So she abandoned her chores, and came over to Frank, and was more courteous. She told him it wasn't so terrible that he grabbed her tail, it just startled her is all. He really didn't understand her, but decided to stay and chat just the same. He didn't have turtles like Euridice in his village, and he thought her soft little shell needed someone like him to look out for it.

Testing the waters again

2007-09-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

Last week I found myself in the office of career services provided for the students at OCCC. The woman who came out of a back room didn't care that I was just a normal person walking off the street, with no affiliation to the college. I imagined being the only one to have walked in that office all week, as classes just began for the semester. Students were too busy to think about looking for a job. The woman who greeted me had a blank expression on her tawny-toned face, and warned me that if I wanted to apply for one of the full time jobs I'd have to bring in my resume and set up an appointment with her. She handed me two thick binders filled with jobs in the area. I've been very casually perusing help wanted sections over the past few months, but the same stock jobs are always there, and the dream job never is: 'Dynamic woman wanted for international travel, must be willing to learn Bantu language and train with elite runners'. I keep checking, but so far, nothing really came close to that. I leaf through pages of clerical positions, dental assistants, the same old stuff.. Then I find it: Teacher wanted for female correctional facility inmates. Why hadn't I considered this before? And why was this appealing to me? I think this is the first time I saw an ad for prison teachers.. I didn't realize prisoners had academic options. And of course the appeal was working with a new culture. I pictured organizing training runs on site, and whipping them all into shape and redemption.. With a few creative writing lessons tossed in for balance. I returned the next week for my appointment with Linda. I brought a cold with me, so I figured Linda wouldn't mind that my resume was not typed. She did. She has a choppy army drill sergeant way about her, and she looked at me deadpan, after dragging my congested self over for the appointment, and told me, 'I can't look at a resume that isn't typed'.. I've stopped taking no for an answer from people of authority a few years ago.. It still feels new and daring to challenge them, but I will never take no again, if I really believe they're being unreasonable. 'Oh, come on.. Can't you just look at it?' 'Well, I can look at it, but we won't fax it for you.. You'll have to type it up'.. 'Of course! That'll be great, thanks'.. I was relieved. It's hard to argue with gumption when your nose is clogged and threatening to leak at any moment. She went into the back to get her reading glasses, and I quickly crossed out the line I had written to fill up space under job duties at the phone company:
. Assisted customers in resolving telecommunications issues in a PSC regulated call center
. Exceeded employee sales goals
. Put up with a lot of bullshit (this one)
Good thing too, because apparently my resume writing style was not jibing with the 2007 standards. Linda went down the page with a pencil marking off everything that needed to be fixed. Her humorless demeanor didn't exactly scare me, but it made it tricky to get her assistance as I tried figuring out how to format this on their PC. I decided to lean on the 'poor sick me' tactic.. Made sure my voice cracked a little whenever I called her over.. Two hours later (for a one page resume), when she realized the position I was applying for, she offered, 'I taught at a correctional facility once'.. I was taken aback a little.. Could I really have something in common with this woman? 'Did you like it?' I asked..'It was alright'.. I prodded more, 'They were probably motivated since there's nothing else to do there'.. 'Not necessarily', she shot down my hopes.. 'Sometimes they showed up and sometimes they didn't'. Wow. Another fantasy job down the drain. Well, I had a feeling teaching inmates for me would be an entirely different experience than it was for Linda. For one thing, I can't imagine her ever thinking anything about the job was blog-worthy. I finished up my resume, tucked it safely in my backpack, then turned to her: 'Thank-you so much for all your help. This has been very productive for me'. And then it happened! Her face lit up! It wasn't exactly a smile, but I saw the subtle change. I wondered how long it had been since someone appreciated Linda. I'm remembering how grim life can be when you are working in the same job day after day, year after year. I unzip my backpack and pull out my resume copy. I exit the office, and then drop the document lightly into the nearest garbage can. I walk out of the building and unto the well-groomed campus. It is a beautiful late Summer day. I find a quiet patch of grass, sit down, and prop myself up on a lone tree. I take out my slim copy of The Little Prince, and blissfully remove all previous notions of trying to be an adult.

Introducing.. 'Bill Senior', my first real comic!

2007-09-05T13:26:00.000-07:00

The word 'pedagogy' gives me the whimwhams

2007-08-23T09:34:00.000-07:00

It's all starting to make sense. The thought of being a teacher has always been slightly comforting to me, and yet another darker thought always accompanys it. Scenario in Tamar's brain whilst contemplating teaching: Oh yeah, I forgot how much I wanted to be teacher. A truly meaningful job, summers off, you can't be a teacher, you'd never be able to stand in front of a class with 30 people staring at you for 8 hours! Or: I wonder why I never became a teacher? Everyone that I meet who is a teacher seems like a genuinely good person, I can't think of a job that effects so many lives in a positive way, what if I'm strict and rigid and treat my students like they're in boot camp and they all hate me?
I've looked for inspiration as an observer in different classrooms over the years, only to leave with more doubts. The whole experience just reminded me of how incredibly boring public school can really be. But not one to give up without a good fight, I'm back to exploring the field again. I took a Literacy Volunteer training class. Three full days of instruction on how to work with adult students. There's something about learning how to teach that makes me want to poke my eye out. It feels overwhelmingly stressful, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it has to do with teaching a language. I've experienced learning a new language in Israel. It was a language/cultural immersion program called an Ulpan that was taught for 5 hours a day, six days a week. I was a terrible student. My teacher Henya would often throw the eraser at me to get me to stop talking in class. I just couldn't stay focused for so many hours. Those ridiculous drills they give you with dated dialogues were a distraction. I did end up becoming fluent later though, when I moved into an apartment with a bunch of Israeli girls. I don't know if it was the Hebrew that I absorbed from my ulpan experience, or the fact that the language I used in this environment was immediate and relevant.. One thing the Literacy Volunteer material stressed. So back to my LV student. I called him, set up an appointment for our first meeting/lesson, and set out to design a two hour lesson that would hold his interest and not have me throwing teaching material at him. I realised in a short time, one big factor in my previous negative experiences on the road to becoming a teacher: Don't wait until the last minute to prepare. There was a 200 page book I was suppossed to have read in preparation for working with ESL students. I waited until the day before my lesson to do this. Halfway through the book, I decided to just use what I already know, and put together a really interesting lesson plan, as it was too late to absorb everything from the book. I looked at my refrigerator. I have an interesting collage of articles and photos that I've collected over the years. One of my favorites is this news story about a woman in Pennsylvania who was walking to the store, and on the way there, was attacked by some man. He stabbed her, and ended up running away, leaving his knife in her back. Apparently, the back doesn't have very deciphering nerves, and she thought she was merely punched. So she continued walking to the store with the knife in her back. She bought a newspaper and a box of Oreos (one of my favorite cookies), and walked home. Later when the police were reviewing the surveillance tape, they saw five people pass right by her, oblivious to the knife in her back. OK, it's a maccabre story, but still very interesting, I thought. So I brought it to class to help Jose, my student, improve his English skills. Now our meeting spot for the lesson was a friend of mine's office building breakroom. She works with a bunch of engineers, and apparently they really love coffee. Everytime Jose would ask me a question about the stabbing, one of the engineers came in to refill his coffee cup. I remember Jose having a hard time pronouncing the two consonants 'bd' together, and he was saying the word like it had two syllables: 'stab-bed'. I had him repeat it several times quickly to get that one syllabled sound. In walked the same engineer that passed through five minutes earlier. I started wondering if maybe I should have picked a different article? Anyway, I loved my student, he was so motivated to learn, and truly appreciative of my time. Luckily for me, he shares my strange taste in reading materials. Not sure how 'relevant and immediate' crime articles are, but I believe if it's interesting, and the student's understanding is improving, then the lesson succeeded.

'How I Spent My Summer' or 'Intuitive Living'

2007-08-06T14:21:00.000-07:00

Well, for the few readers out there who have never found themselves with a little freedom from most major responsibilities.. I'm here to tell you, it's really great. That doesn't even come close to how good it is. I think along with all the other built in milestones in your life as an adult, taking off a few months (or years) to just live intuitively should be at the top of the list. A few weeks ago I attended a creative writing workshop at Omega institute. Lynda Barry was the teacher, and she was everything a teacher, friend, parent should be, but mostly she was extremely entertaining which allowed all 70 of us to relax enough to let the writing process flow. I'm going to share three stories I wrote during the class. They were all part of a simple writing exercise where you have 7 minutes to write on some chosen theme.

1. Walks I've taken..
I am 18 years old and living on a kibbutz. It's a six month program called an ulpan for young people interested in Israeli culture and kibbutz life. My roommate's name is Tikva. (It's really Hope, and she's from Chigago, but she goes by Tikva while she's in Israel). She's invited me to come on a walk of the kibbutz' date groves. Her friend Tzvi offered to take her. He's about 80 years old, and for some reason I question his motives, to myself. I guess it's just that Tikva seems extremely naive, and probably wouldn't know a come on if that's what it was. So I went, and was kind of glad to have something to do. As we were walking, Tsvi had a huge smile on his face as he played tour guide, explaining easily the various flora. We arrived at the orchards, and were standing in front of a huge open truck with crates of dates that'd been picked that day. We sampled them. They were really good, they had a nutty-buttery flavor that I'd never experienced in a date before. We walked further. Tsvi talked on and on about the kibbutz history, Israel's history. I started feeling really sad that I didn't have a boyfriend and couldn't concentrate on a thing he was saying. Before I know it I was crying hysterically. He turned to Tikva and said in response, 'Aw, he mitga'aga'at l'ima shelah'. She misses her mother. That made me cry harder.

2. Bad Food
You are sitting on the couch listening to Anna's call to the vet. Jennifer, her big fat black cat who you love but doesn't love you, is acting strange. She's not eating. She's not using the kitty litter box. 'Yes, Hi, this is Anna Lane? My cat Jennifer has been shitting on the floor'. You can't hold back a burst of laughter. Anna just said 'shitting ' to the vet receptionist. Anna looks nervously at you, and corrects herself. 'I mean she's going to the bathroom on the floor'. She answers some more questions. Then Anna grins, remembering she just said 'shitting' to a stranger. When she gets off the phone, you have a little conversation with her about the cat. How much you love her. Anna's happy you love her, eventhough Jennifer is such a bitch, she says. 'She's not a bitch', you defend her. 'She's just shy'. You love it when you're watching TV for hours and after a very long time of cowering, Jennifer stealthily sneaks a tiny corner of your lap to rest her front paws on. Then you and Anna discuss how you can tell if meat is bad. Anna says if she's not sure if her sliced ham is bad, she'll give Jennifer a little piece. If she refuses it, she knows it's bad.

3.(This story was based on photos of people sitting in impoverished conditions)
I am sitting around the table with Jasmine, her friend Charles, and many children that have appeared from nowhere, and may live in the house. The children are Cuban, and do not understand English. Charles passes around a plate of sliced bread for us. The bread reminds me of this story my mother told me of when I was five, and she baked a loaf of white bread. She took it out of the oven and cut the end off to let it cool. I walked by the bread, and when noone was looking, grabbed my hand into the loaf and pulled out as much of the insides as I could grasp, and shoved it in my mouth. When my mother returned to the loaf, she asked what had happended to her bread? My seven year old brother Josh explained it was probably an air bubble. I asked Jasmine to translate this story for the kids as I told it. She looked very sour at me, and resentfully agreed to the task. She translated into Spanish with her English accented annoyed voice as I excitedly told the story. At the punch line, only one adult laughed. The kids looked off in different directions, not seeming to have heard a word of it.

Unemployed

2007-06-20T10:32:00.000-07:00

Someone finally took pity on me and arranged for the call center where I work to be closed down due to 'restructuring'. I've known about this for about a year, and couldn't believe my good fortune when they made the announcement during an unexpected staff meeting. I had to contain my glee, as this was not good news to all the employees.. Strangely, I've discovered that complaining vehemently on a daily basis about every aspect of your job does not mean that you have any desire to find a new one. For me though, this was the get-out-of- jail-free card I'd been waiting for. Papa kicking baby bird out of the nest, uncle sam doling out some free cash for six months.. What more could a creative dreamer who wanted to save the world and win an olympic medal ask for? Now I could get down to the business of REALLY living my life, no longer stifled by the barriers of a soul-sapping customer service job.
Two weeks into freedom, I'm perplexed as to why I'm behaving as though this is one long weekend.. I will start that new project of designing a drama program for AIDS orphans in Africa on Monday; I will draw the outline of my graphic novel chronicling the struggles to deal with anxiety disorders during my family vacation after the Ellen show; OK, maybe these projects are too big.. I could start off with something really basic yet useful in getting started.. I will just trace someone else's comic to get the feel for correct human anatomy, something I'll need for my novel.. That exercise lasts 5 minutes.. Someone calls, and before you know it, Ellen is back on, and g-d forbid I miss her conversation with 88 yr-old Gladys.. So I consult with some friends.. Writer's block is normal.. Don't worry about it.. Enjoy your time off.. Good advise, but it's hard to enjoy my time off when I'm not doing what I've promised myself I'd do as soon as I left this job that I've struggled with for the past ten years.. But I've been feeling some dizzy spells, so for now, I can abandon both Ellen and the quest for changing the world.. Can't do none of that with dizziness in the repertoire.. So off I go to the doctor's office.. Going to the doctor is always a reminder of my issues with commitment.. I go to this health hub for walk-ins.. You never get the same doctor, and I've always liked that.. This way you can't form any attachments to someone who may not be there in the future.. I had very little faith that they would be able to diagnose my dizziness, as I seem to get it once a year, and they don't really know what it is, and then it just goes away.. But a new doctor walked into my room, and she was just perfect! She read my whole history with the hub, and just seemed to be more commited to getting rid of my malady.. She even gave me a script for at-home glucose testing. That really gelled my faith in her.. Wow, she's going to have me jab a lancet in my finger twice a day- she must really like me! After getting my huge bag-o-blood-letting kit, I realized I may need a little one-on-one instruction for this.. The pharmacist was extremely obliging.. She even asked me if I wanted her to demonstrate on herself! I didn't really think that would help me overcome my own fear of doing it, so I declined, but did allow her to witness me making mini-jabs in my fingers.. How do people do this everyday, I can't imagine.. I wasn't very good at it, and the two of us had to put a chokehold on the pricked finger to extract enough blood to give a reading.. After six tries, we succeeded.. It was really a nice bonding experience with Kathy the pharmacist.. After that, I had to go to the post office.. I had some envelopes with photos in them, and wasn't sure if I put enough postage on them.. I had the clerk weigh them.. He was this really nice, stoic Asian man whom I've seen over the years.. After each one was weighed, he was really flustered that I had put too much postage on each of the three letters.. He was kind of laughing and blushing.. 'You are donating to the US Postal Service!' He really felt bad for me.. I guess I shouldn't squander my money now that I'm unemployed.. Wow, I really don't take after my mother in that respect.. Whenever postage costs increase, instead of buying new stamps, she puts a full stamp and then tears another stamp in half and puts that on there too.. I told her they will return her mail, but she swears they never have..
So today, having a feeling of accomplishment and social connectedness with the community, I feel was a good day. Maybe tomorrow I'll save the world.

Boston

2007-04-16T18:47:00.000-07:00

Anyone who's ever run a marathon has inevitably considered the possibility of qualifying for the prestigious Boston Marathon. It's often the first question a fellow running pal will ask his first time marathon finisher friend: 'Did you qualify for Boston?' At 111 years old, it is the oldest marathon in the world, and holds a great deal of pride and memories for 1,000's of runners. Personally, I was never drawn to doing Boston, I guess because I'm loyal to my precious New York.. Why stray if you are satisfied? But at work this morning, I couldn't help getting swept up in the excitement that this morning's little race brought to my workstation. By the time I clicked onto the The Boston Marathon website, the men's race was already into it's third mile. There was an American in third place! I was tempted to email my friend Dick who knows everything about running trivia, but I imagined him telling me that a marathon is a very long race, and this guy has a lot of real estate to cover, and I shouldn't place any bets until they're further along into the game.. Then I checked out the women's race.. Jelena Prokopcuka, who won New York in 2005 and 2006, was again going out hard from the gun.. (Or cannon?) When I had more time to catch the details of the race, I gleaned this edible little tidbit from the Boston Marathon website:

The pack was now down to four, with Prokopcuka and Grigoryeva [the eventual winner] running side-by-side, Jeptoo and Perez right behind. By 25K, the women had whittled the finishing pace down to 2:32:44, but whenever the wind gusted everyone lined up single file behind the taller Prokopcuka. The Latvian, who lost precious training time to a bout of the flu a month ago, turned around several times, clearly annoyed at the role she was given. [Indeed! This isn't the Tour de France, ladies!]
And then later they had to say of the Russian winner:

As she made the final turn onto Boylston Street, Grigoryeva took a glance over her shoulder to check her lead. She liked what she saw. She looked again, just to make sure. She was clear, running the last mile in 5 minutes flat and grabbing a Russian flag from the crowd just before breaking the tape.

I thought that was cute.. And good timing with the flag. Maybe I have a little soft spot in my heart for Russian runners.. Afterall, my last coach did give me the nickname 'Russian Rocket'.. Hmm, I haven't been living up to that one for a while..
But back to notes on Boston.. I was looking up random results, just because I love checking out the competition.. A lot of women in my age group under 3 hours! Then I thought, let me check and see if my friend Deanna ran.. Deanna is such an incredibly talented runner, if she wasn't such a likeable person, my jealousy for her natural running ability would take precedence over a friendship. She ran the NYC marathon one year, with no serious training in 3:17.. Her speedwork consisted of running for the bus in the mornings for her 2 hour commute to work. She was always late. Even to races. One race I saw her from the starting line, and I could tell she was too late to join in, though that had been her intention. Instead she decided to join in at mile two to help pace me. I was holding about a 6:45 pace, too fast for me to be talking, but she was chatting away, giving calm updates as to where all my competition was at that stage in the race, and what I would need to do if I wanted to catch them.. All this and not even slightly laboring with her breathing.. Good thing she's so likeable.. So after her 3:17 marathon with no training, she developed all kinds of undiagnosable runner's maladies that my guess were simply a matter of her body asking for a break.. And for her to never run another marathon again without training. But she likes her marathons, and she seems to always do the Boston one.. So I looked her up, and sure enough, not only had she run it with the 50 mph winds and rain that caused the elite runners to slow down by a full 7 minutes off the course record, she ran close to the times she normally runs for a marathon.. So Deanna, this post is for you.. Thanks for inspiring .. And congratulations to anyone else who was brave enough to toe the line today for this old run. And to Jason Lehmkuhle, who started off in the top 3, ran his first 5k in 16:20, and his last in over 29 minutes.. That's one painful way to run a marathon, brother..

"People who celebrate Valentine's Day should be pelted with shoes"

2007-04-01T18:40:00.000-07:00

Original post written 2/15/07

This was one of the chants heard by the Hindu extremist group Shiv Sena in New Delhi, India yesterday. It's such a nice contrast of East meets West, Whitman's heart-shaped chocolates rewarded with a good swift shoe attack. I greeted the holiday with my own brand of shoe-pelting, as the heavens opened up and gave us our first big snowstorm this year. I finally had some fiber to sink my new snowshoe crampons into. After careful study of how to harness my foot into the bindings, out I went. I had planned on just walking the first half mile or so to adapt to the shoes, but after a few steps, was curious to see if running in snowshoes was as difficult as I'd heard it was. I took short choppy steps, minding to keep a wider than normal step so as not to kick my ankle.This was actually fun! I felt like a whole different athlete, a younger, less jaded version of myself. There was no clock to compete against since this was the very first time in my life that I was running in snowshoes. Then I kicked my ankle. Ow. That hurt. My legs must be getting tired. I slowed down a little. I saw a four-legged dark brown animal about 100 meters away. It looked at me a lot, and then twisted it's head behind it, as if waiting for back up. Back up arrived, and bambi trotted off into the woods, followed by five of his cohorts. I was happy to see that they didn't look graceful in the snow either. I kicked my ankle again. 'OWW!' I walked for a little bit now, but then got bored with that, and determined to pay more attention and stop kicking myself. I started thinking about this new training plan that I might start. It was designed by an Olympic running coach to lower your mile time. I was concentrating on the logistics of it, and imagining how my legs would feel running at those speeds, I was so focused on those thoughts that I forgot to focus on running wide, and kicked my ankle again hard. 'OH, GOOD NIGHT!',*someone screamed. I looked around, a little alarmed at the sudden anger, then in a hoarse voice started laughing hysterically. I laughed harder thinking about some innocent person taking a Winter stroll witnessing my mishap. I started developing this rhythm with my feet where the foot bed bounced off my heel with each step and it felt like I was alternately dribbling mini basketballs with my heels.. It made me want to run more, but I decided to stop at three miles. Over a 12-minute per mile pace, not bad for a beginner. This was a refreshing twist to my normal running repertoire. I think I'll leave the shoe-pelting to the Shiv Sena, I rather like my snowshoes.

* original quote not suitable for all audiences.. and I'm trying to change some unsavory habits, too..

Reflections of Sensitivity

2007-02-10T09:24:00.000-08:00

During my run today, something I ate was repeating on me (that's how my Grandma Blanche used to phrase it.. 'I don't care for green peppers, they repeat on me'.. I had no idea what she was talking about at the time..) So I was wondering how I was tasting chocolate covered cherries, as I hadn't eaten any such thing that morning.. I had a delicious fresh mango and a piece of toast with marmite.. Food scientists take note.. I've discoverd the long kept secret to re-creating chocolate covered cherries! Just mix a little mango and marmite.. I then started thinking about beng vulnerable running out on the roads alone.. Not a scary kind of dangerous vulnerability, but more of an open target to bullies kind of thing.. The wind was strong, and it was more comfortable to gaze at the ground.. I was imagining the drivers passing me thinking I looked like a weirdo, and that I wasn't confident because I was looking down. I guess that's normal, as you really are vulnerable as a single runner against 2,000 lb moving vehicles. But my feelings I'm sure are not shared by every runner who takes a solo run. My anxiety (though slight, as I've done 1,000's of solo runs over the years with little negative consequence) stems from my unique insecurities that I developed as a child. Showing vulnerability was ridiculed in my upbringing. As though my family were raising a slew of soldiers in preparation for a great war. Talking with others about their sensitivities is always surprising, because our issues are so different.. It's comforting to hear that I have total confidence in the areas that they may struggle with, and vice versa. Comforting because if our issues are simply products of poor upbringing, and not concrete realities of today, we should be able to easily rid ourselves of them. That's the really amazing part. I can spill some coffee on the floor, be stressed because I now have a dirty floor, and then easily solve the problem by cleaning it up in 2 seconds. These childhood issues seem to come back no matter how many times you clean them up. One day my life is great and comfortable and I'm loved and beautiful. The next day, I'm hideous and nobody likes me and I'm stuck belching chocolate covered cherries.. But I'm really happy to find out that this is kind of how it is for all of us. I think. I really don't believe we are meant to be comfortable all the time anyway, when there is so much suffering all around us. A certain balance of both states of mind is important to be able to give compassion for others when they are struggling. I don't mean to intentionally seek out hardships. That's not even necessary, as they will naturally find you on your course of existence. I just mean to maybe recognize that struggle is an important part of the journey.

Impressing Lis

2007-01-26T19:36:00.000-08:00

There's something so comforting and reassuring about having a routine. On most Winter evenings after work, I fly into the office bathroom to change into my running outfit, avoid the cleaning guy on my way out as he really complains a lot more than I have time to listen to.. I have a very narrow window of time between signing off from my workstation and meeting Lis or Jess by the lake for our run, so there's little room for deviation.. See, if we humans didn't instill a little rigidity into our journeys, we'd never arrive at our destinations. I was particularly enthused at the prospect of this evening's run, as I had mentioned to Lis earlier that it was suppossed to be very cold and windy this night, and I may have to don my famous pantyhose face-mask.. She said she may be too scared to run with me, but she'd try to be brave.. I told her not to be jealous as her more traditional fleece face mask trapped moisture and froze on her.. I arrived in the dark parking area where we meet, Lis was sitting in her car waiting.. She looked over and shook her head in fright. The wind and cold was a little alarming, and we didn't do a lot of talking in that hour.. I was wanting to brag more than I did about how comfortable my face was feeling, but you know, I didn't want to risk it.. It's not easy to find someone willing to brave single digit temps on a Friday night..

What do you think about fat people?

2006-12-29T14:26:00.000-08:00

Ten minutes into our run today, I threw this question at my friend Sarah. I've never asked anyone this question before, and very rarely even use the two words 'fat' and 'people' in the same sentence. I always thought I was protecting the innocent, sparing this vulnerable category of people. I was prepared for Sarah to chide me for calling them fat, or comment on what a strange question that was. Sarah's very quick on the uptake, so after a beat, she answered like she had been waiting for someone to ask her this question for years. 'Fat people really bother me'. I laughed, because it was such an unexpected response. 'Why?' I encouraged more. 'Well first they're always complaining that they can't lose weight as they're eating a huge McDonalds meal'. I felt she was being harsh, and wanted to rescue my fat people. 'You know what's funny' I said, 'I think the majority of Americans are prejudiced against fat people, and I think it's mostly because we're scared of becoming them'. Sarah agreed completely, then we both shared stories of how we had gained lots of weight in highschool and college, and later lost it, so we could really appreciate how important maintaining our current healthy weights was. We also both agreed that it would be incredibly easy to get right back in that fat boat.
This whole topic came up because of another friend had just met this great new guy.. They were cyber-dating, she saw his photo and was attracted to him, and they had good email communications. Then he suddenly sent her a recent photo where he had obviously gained a lot of weight. That photo ended their relationship. She wasn't attracted to overweight men. And it got everyone thinking in our group: How do we feel about weight issues? Very strongly, apparently. My little sister Anna is the kindest person, would never say anything mean to anyone. She invented her own language when she was 6 years old. It's called da da da da da's. She has about 20 or 30 of them. At least five of them were created for Zhenya, our father, at various stages of emotional upset. She had one for uncle Steve getting out of the cab to visit us on Shabbos. She had one for me when I had my hair pulled back too tight in a bun. And she has one for fat people. That's just the way it is.
Every human deserves respect and sensitivity to her differences, but as humans, we can't help having a little fun. It's all fun and games until you've gained 10 pounds by eating your whole box of dried peaches.

A few notes the night before the NY Marathon

2006-11-04T16:51:00.000-08:00

Wow.. I can't believe how completely exhausted I have become these last 12 hours.. So much thought and rehearsal and preparation, mentally more than physically, just to get to today, the day before a really big event for so many people. In my exhausted state, it just dawned on me that many many people called me today to wish me well for tomorrow.. I guess they care? And all along I thought I was this anti-social, slightly annoying runner-type that avoids others and vice versa.. I'm truly touched.. Not that I didn't try to drum up some interest in unknown citizens, such as the teenage check out guy at Shop-Rite.. I felt he needed to know that I was running a marathon tomorrow, so as he scanned my fish, gatorade and broccoli rabe, I casually said, 'I'm running the NY Marathon tomorrow, I hope this is a good meal'.. He didn't miss a beat, turned around to the check-out kid behind him and enlightened him too.. 'We have a marathon runner here!' I was surprised, as the first kid looked totally uninterested in the population over 20 years old.. Let the prejudices cease!
OK, being as I have to get up at 3:30, I should cut this short.. But first a few predictions: Lance Armstrong will finish in 3:03:18; Susan Kepchemoi should win, she's been runner up 3 times already; Hendrik Ramaala will win too.. And me? Very bad idea to print my predictions before the fact; But I will be brave.. Hmmm.. This is really tough.. Any shorter distance it's scary how accurate my predictions are, but the marathon is such a different beast.. Tha'ts why I've been so anxious.. OK.. 3:24:12.. But my goal is 3:17:58.. And if I don't come near either of those, I'd like to take my own advise that I've given friends about to run a marathon: Don't beat yourself up, that's what the distance is for..

Marcia Learned Some Valuable Lessons Today..

2006-10-22T19:00:00.000-07:00

(As in Brady..)
Here goes kids:
1. If you're driving in your car and suddenly feel overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness and depression, try changing the radio station; I don't know what my Vassar college dj was playing, but the singer made Morrissey sound like Goldie Hawn on crack

2. You'll never grow up or be happy until you feel selflessly protective of someone else (this came to me in this weird dream where I overcame a fear of heights by being lifted in this ride 50 feet in the air with a toddler, and my total focus was on making sure the kid was safe)

3. If you hate your job but are having a tough time quiting, take on a second job that you really hate, then quit it, and you'll really appreciate having only one job that you hate! (Is this one obvious?)

4. Don't think that if you passed a certain person in a 10k race at mile 5-1/2, you're going to do it each time! Even if you can run the last 400 meters in 1:16..

5. Crispin apples are: a.delicious; b.another reason to be proud of living in New York

6. No matter how bad things get, never EVER watch Laguna Beach, and if you somehow are forced to against your will, make sure you don't watch a marathon of Laguna Beach episodes.. You will definitely suffer irreparable brain cell loss as well as an odd desire to wear strawberry lipgloss

7. It's OK to watch Flavor of Love, especially to offset the effects of the waspy above mentioned program, but please refrain from watching numerous repeats of the same episode.. I know New York's sassy confrontations are particularly irresistible, but who are you kidding.. You just couldn't pull it off.. Could you?

Queen Grete's Great Gallop

2006-10-02T19:09:00.000-07:00

To be transported in total darkness on a Shortline bus from a sleepy commuter town into the pulsing heart of NYC at 6 am.. Is a great way to wake up on a Sunday morning. I was really excited and thankful to be able to compete in today's 1/2 marathon. I had a year plagued with stop and go training due to a recurring muscle injury, and to wake up race morning feeling healthy and ready to test my stuff was really a great feeling. I arrived in Central park with that same thought I always have before a Central Park race.. What the hell is a transverse and will I know if I'm on one?? The park is a city in itself, taking up 6 miles of city space, closed to most vehicular traffic on the weekends.. And just my favourite part of the city.. So the only person I remember talking to before the race was Ginette Bedard, a 73 year old runner who beats most people in races a quarter her age.. She was exiting a port-o-potty (a runner's favourite pre-race hang-out.. 1. because it's warmer and 2. because that way you don't have to wait on a long line for one!) so I did what any normal person would do, went right over to introduce myself to her and see what her gameplan was for today's race.. She said something about wanting the whole thing to be over already, and I really couldn't blame her.. It was starting to rain pretty hard, and the race hadn't even started.. I made my way to the starting area (with over 4,000 runners today, getting there early made a lot of sense).. And then the sky just opened up.. I stood under a tree watching the poor suckers standing on the starting line getting totally drenched.. Then I sprinted to join them before I missed the start myself.. I cramped in near the front.. There was a small group from team Los Compadres that were hovering under a piece of plastic for cover, and they invited me to join them.. So I did.. It was so cute, I was kind of hoping we could all run this race huddled as this little unit, and each share the responsibility of finishing the race with a good time.. Ah, that would never work.. Racing is such an independent sport, each runner has to constantly monitor his own stress level to make sure he's pushing just enough.. For me for that day and that point in my training, I planned ahead of time that pace would be a 7:15 minute per mile .. Off we went.. I felt good and ready for this race.. I was ticking off the first three miles all close to my goal pace.. Then I saw Wanda, another master's woman from my team.. She was ahead of me.. I figured she was starting too fast, because I always beat her in races.. I saw a couple of guys w black t-shirts on with big 'H's' on the back, NY Harriers.. I had talked to one at the start of the race, he says he hasn't raced since Brooklyn back in March.. You could have fooled me I thought.. Every down hill I passed them and every up hill he passed me.. We talked a little.. I was surprised how comfortable I felt, nothing like last year at this race.. More than 1/2 way into the race Wanda passd me again! I was really surprised, and considered chasing her, but I felt now I was really running right at the threshhold point of my stress level.. I checked my watch, and knew I could maintain this pace to keep my goal.. I got to the 12th mile and realized that I had to really pick up the pace if I wanted to break 1:35.. I ran very strong and did my fastest mile with a 6:58.. Still didn't break 1:35.. Ran 1:35:03.. Had the chip time been displayed at the end and not the gun time, I would've seen that a bigger effort was needed, and I would have broken 1:35.. No matter.. I was thrilled that I did end up averaging 7:15 per mile! There's nothing more satisfying than training hard for months and months, having patience through the injury healing process, and then achieving your goals.. I really like that race, it's so well organized, and it's in honour of Grete Waitz, who won the NYC marathon a record 9 times.. She was at the post-race ceremony, looking fit enough to win the race again, and telling us not to blame Norway for our terrible weather today.. Typical Libra, wanting to be in everyone's good graces.. Of course, if a city names a race and a festival after you, I guess you can assume they approve of you.. I felt content enough to not even think about any desire to have a race named after me..

It's not me, it's you

2006-09-14T17:39:00.000-07:00

I met my friend 'Jon' (not Jon from Colorado, though that would have been nice..) at a local cafe last Saturday. We had lots to catch up on. I was reading this book by a Mennonite woman which I was quite enjoying. I read Jon one of the lines to demonstrate that he would like this book too. This father character had just been left by his wife.. His uncle came to visit him and asked how he was doing: 'Oh, unexceptional. Living quietly with my disappointments'.
Jon and I were really taken with that line. We immediately thought of how useful a retort that would be at work. We both work in office buildings inhabited by many people that we have to greet daily, and we are both rather anti-social people. Well, that's not exactly right. We are actually very sociable, love meeting new people.. But the environment of forced sociability is rather suffocating to us.. Yeah, that's it exactly.. And in office buildings when co-workers pass you in the hall as you're silently enduring your own private hell, it's very jarring to be asked 'How are you?' and knowing there's only one correct answer.. But now Miriam Toews has given us an alternative! We can respond, 'Living quietly with my disappointments'.. Jon got that happy twinkle in his eye, like he was really eager to try out this new line.. Then it hit me full force, and I couldn't stop laughing: Jon could NEVER use this line, because he NEVER lives quietly with his disappointments! He wasn't quiet after a race he ran a few years ago when he angrily berated his performance in front of anyone who would listen.. Or who was stupid enough to claim pride in their own performance.. ''Oh, you did good in the race? That's great.. I SUCKED! Yeah, my father got all the good genes, he was fast, but I've been SCREWED!' I must admit, my embarrassment at people looking at us took precedence over feeling bad for him.. No, he wasn't quiet then.. But I'll always stand by Jon. I know where he's coming from. That's why I didn't yell at him too much when he took the entire pan of Debbie's leftover salmon home with him.
Male friends. Give me strength.

Stuck

2006-09-04T09:56:00.000-07:00

I've been keeping a morning journal, a writing exercise designed to unleash creative flow. You may have heard of it, it's called the Morning Pages, part of a program created by Julia Cameron from her popular 'The Artist's Way' manual. It does work, as she said. Artists with artist's block all become 'unstuck', and go on to become successful with their art. I've experienced several small successes with seeing through certain artistic projects.. Like designing a big race t-shirt, putting together a mini-comic strip, finally getting some acting roles.. But all of these came with considerably more effort and struggle than I thought necessary.. Are we all in our own ways? Should this all be much easier to come by and fun, really? But our minds are adding on completely erroneous pressures that weigh the whole project down and make it seem as torturous as our dull routines we were trying to avoid in the first place? Well, here's a close up look at the process.. Cameron warns not to share the MP writings with anyone, as it's not meant to be read or critiqued, simply written to empty out the rubbish that's dancing about in your head to allow for the real good stuff to come out.. Composting, as some call it.. But the hell with that, I'm going to share with you the MP from 9/3/06 at 9:00 am (yes, I time EVERYTHING!) I'm sharing this not because it's great writing, it's not.. But because I need help.. I am stuck and I can't get out..

Morning Pages 9/3/06:
Still raining, a slight drizzle. I have Noam Chomsky's name in my head- I went to Border's before seeing a movie last night and was looking for books on The Bushmen, found none, so took out a book on Linguistics, since I'm mostly interested in the Khosian 'clicking' languages. Can I turn that into a career? I can contact a university head of a Linguistics department and maybe turn it into an MA- or just independently travel to South Africa- Botswana and Namibia and teach English and learn their language. How can this be of value to the world? Does modern America, the Jessica Simpson generation really have a need (yes!) to learn a Khosian language? Our link to history may be extinct if not documented. I could bring it to modern life. And then go to Kenya and run with the elites? I'd have to learn Swahili too. So many languages, so much time. Is this all a big plan for me to avoid doing something realistic with my life? Yes, I suppose it is. I really have no interest, never did, in working and living a conventional life. I need to stop running away from my creative side and embrace it. I've been doing this MP exercise for a long time now, and while I've had creative projects here and there, really not enough to sustain me-I'm still so wrapped up in my job but not investing the time I should be in art or writing. Oh yeah, my blog is good. That's writing. But it's so sporadic. I think the lonliness and isolation of these projects is preventing me from pursuing them, If I had the balance of friends, other artists, say, it would be more- helpful? I guess I thought, with my daily epiphanies on the next big project, that something would just come to me and I'd be off doing it. I think I can't get off the ground. I'm stuck. In so many aspects of my life. No friends, or few; No loves (more serious); a job that's crushing my spirit; The one constant positive thing is my running. It's really tough, especially these mile repeats. They're $!@&%#!$ endless. But I feel really strong and powerful of mind and body after. How many people, even amoungst competitive runners, are going to make themselves do seven times a mile at around their 5k pace with one minute rest in between? Huh?? And though I do them alone, the results will prove themselves in public, in a race. So this dedication, tolerance of pain and patience for a good successful outcome with progressive results is THE SAME PROCESS that I need to apply to- whatever the next phase I pursue. My project ideas are all great, but I need something I can do for a few years, support myself doing it. Teaching overseas sounds good- but I want that creative lement. Living in the city sounds great. All the African, theatre, comic, running connections in the world are right there in the city. Time to do it. Should I buy a condo? I should, And I'll need a job? Unfortunately. Teaching? I don't know. Maybe, Back to square one? Yep. This is what happens but I feel I shook something loose, not sure what. I need a career advisor- a psychic, someone big. If I ask Zhenya he'll say, 'You got me, kid' Dakota will say pursue acting! That'd be very cool. Sigh. Square one and a half?

I'm Really Beginning to Hate Bob Farkas**

2006-08-14T19:01:00.000-07:00

I have no right to be blogging right now, was sitting at my workstation from just before 8 am til 6:30 pm exactly.. Then I went straight to rehearsal to do a run through of the one play where I play a catatonic woman.. Wasn't much of a stretch from the employee I pretended to be today, as I used the back of my business cards as cue cards to help me memorize my lines.. This in between taking calls at the call center where I work.. Ever the focused Tamar, one of my first customers was Paul Ellis.. I do my schmucky greeting, he interrupts me in the middle of it (the only thing worse than saying a schmucky greeting is to have someone interrupt your cadence by cutting you off during it.. Really insulting, in the books of customer service reps, ranks right up there with being cursed at).. 'Tamar', he says, in his big, loud, Brooklyn-accented, business man can't-be-bothered-with-greetings way.. 'I opened my phone bill, and see you're offering $39.99 a month for long distance, and here I'm paying WAAAAAY too much!' As I finish jotting down my lines from page 15 of my script, I matter-of-factly remind Paul that, as I had told him before, unless he was willing to make a commitment, he would not be eligible for that promotion.. I set up phone service for this guy about 3 weeks ago, and since then, every thought that crosses his mind that is telephone related, he calls me and demands I return his call right away, as it's very important.. I'll never forget this guy.. He actually first called for a rep named Melissa, but then discoverd that Melissa went on to greener pastures (collecting payments in our front office.. A little greener, I guess..) So he latched onto my soul, and from then on I was his personal slave.. At the end of our first 45 mminute call (which should have only taken 7 minutes, but Paul needed special attention), he said.. 'So I guess you're my new contact?' 'Yeah', I said, kind of touched that Paul wanted to keep me as his contact.. He ended the call with, 'Don't go getting promoted like Melissa'.. The touching moment was never to return, as he called me so many times, I started saving his messages for future restraining order evidence..
So back to this call on this morning.. As I pull up Paul's account this morning, and realize I've been very flippant with him, reminding him of his commitment fears, and that he is a DSL subscriber, 'as I recall', I said so callously to him, therefore he would not be eligible to take advantage of this promo, for which he tried to bite my head off about not being informed of .. The lightbulb went on. Paul Ellis was not the same customer that I had burned in my memory as public enemy #1.. No, that honor was reserved for a Bob Farkas, who though had a similar accent and manner as Paul, was in fact not.. Paul was in fact.. The man that has been my director for the past month! Ha hahaha! Foiled again! As soon as I realized this faux pas, I acknowleded it.. 'Oh, Paul, the director Paul?' Yeah', he said, relieved that a nicer Tamar was somewhere underneath that stuffy demeaner.. 'You didn't know it was me?' I'm always so impressed when I do that.. And more impressed that no one has been insulted yet.. This even happended with my own boyfriend that I was living with! He called me at work to ask me a question, and I was so focused on my position as a service rep, that my brain never recognized that this was not only someone that I knew, but someone that I lived with! (I never understood why he didn't get mad or think it was even funny that I didn't reconize him? Clearly a doomed relationship..a good chess player, though..) OK, so that was my morning excitement.. It happend around 8:40 am, then nothing exciting happend that day at all.. A torturous 10 hours of taking phone calls.. OK, wait.. Some cute Southern accents thrown into the mix, but really, nothing memorable or sticky note-worthy.. Then on to rehearsal.. My eyes were really burning, had I known that NO ONE had their lines memorized, I wouldn't have stressed so hard about getting my lines down.. The female director of our group gathered us after the run through to quickly go over notes.. I guess I was really tired, and I started swinging my legs under the stage, you know, kind of trying to keep myself awake.. And this woman who is in the plays.. Touched my knees and told me to stop it! Can you believe it? I didn't want to be rude to the director by making a scene, but I felt some response was necessary.. What was this woman, my MOTHER?? I heard her bossing one of the actors during rehearsal, too.. When he messed up his line, he said 'Oh, SHIT!!', And she said, 'Stay in character', and he said 'What?' and she repeated it.. I can just imagine what he was thinking.. Actors HATE to be told what to do, but only tenfold* when it's coming from someone other than the director.. OK kids, I'm really beat.. Til next time..

*yes, I realize this isn't a word.. you word-Nazi!
** The subject title of an email I sent to Melissa after Bob's 3rd callback to me in the same day

A Bronx Tale

2006-07-27T17:48:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to get jaded- this getting up at 4:30 am to run a 1/2 marathon in the city doesn't feel as bold and exciting as it used to. Maybe I don't have the same spark for it as before because I'm not as fast as I was last year. I'm like a speed junkie (running speed, that is!) who's suffering from withdrawal symptoms, and willing to take on any race to get my fix. So off to the Bronx I went. I had my main goal, which was to beat my 1/2 marathon time from England last month, 1:38:58. That should have been an easy goal since it was a pretty hilly race. Then I had about 5 more goals in descending order of difficulty.. A runner's crutch, which I've learned from Bob Glover, my all-time running mentor and Coach of GNY, the team I proudly (but infrequently) compete for. The idea is to not put all your eggs in one basket. The last goal on your list would have to be something absolutely obtainable, even in the unlikely event that a car ran over your legs during the race and you had to roll yourself over the finish line.. Like finishing the race in 4 hours, say.. So my second goal was to not let the Coach beat me.. See, he has his own weird little accounting system, and if you've ever beaten him in a race, he puts an asterisk next to your name, and it doesn't come off til he beats you in a race.. He has a lot of rules.. Like no waving to Coach Bob during a race.. He yelled at us once after a Central Park race, went on for a full page in an email rant to all the club members about how waving to Coach Bob during a race is like giving the finger to the Pope.. It changed a lot of people's racing experiences. I loved the new somberness.. But getting back to my race.. All 3,000+ of us were mushed into the starting area, listening to the final instructions from Mary Wittenberg, the very young CEO of the New York Road Runner's club. She was trying to get everyone psyched for the NY marathon in November, and people were anxious to get started with THIS race, as the sun was already starting to bring out the sweat in us. Then just before the race starts, she announces that she's going to 'hop in', so she doesn't miss the start.. How dare she be so relaxed and casual about running in a race! I have all kinds of pre-race rituals that involve mostly working myself into a frenzy of anxiety.. So this seemed quite unfair.. The race started, and I quickly found a reasonable pace that I thought I could hold for the whole way. Reasonable to me means it's too hard to talk, but I won't pass out after 13 miles. On that day, that meant a 7:35 pace. So you can imagine my horror when I heard the idle chatter of two women coming up behind me! Good grief, man, this isn't a Sunday jog in the park.. We have people working really hard here! If this pace is so easy for you, you should be hustling your little butts a little quicker! It didn't help matters that the one that was doing most of the talking sounded exactly like that cheerleader in the Sprint Mobile commercials.. I picked up the pace a little, but could still hear diarrhea mouth.. Just then a spry woman ran right up beside me. It was the CEO! She said 'Good job' to me, and I labored to get out a 'You too' in .. At least she had the decency to be breathing very heavily.. Somehow Mary and I ran together for a whole mile.. It was exciting, but stressful, because I knew she was in my age group, and at our advanced age, even with a 'slow' 7:35 pace, there was a chance for me to be in the top 3 and get a medal.. All of a sudden chatty Cathy spies Mary.. 'Hi Mary! I hear people were complaining about the cost of that Manhattan 1/2?' Not as much as you'd hear ME complaining if I had the energy to, I thought.. Mary somehow kept a little two word reply conversation going with iron lungs.. I felt really bad for her.. That's when all my fantasies about being the CEO of this running club took flight. And then all my energy drained somewhere, and all three of my rivals whizzed ahead of me, and left me with 5 miles to contend with alone.. Me and 2,500 other tired, soaked runners.. A water stop was approaching, and I saw this young female volunteer handing cups of water to passing runners.. It must have been her first time, because clearly she wasn't aware of the potential dangers of this job.. Exhausted runners, stubbornly refusing to stop and take the cup like sensible people.. Ploughing on and grabbing the cup on the run while dodging other runners.. This naive girl was smiling and talking to some runners, and not looking where she was going.. She happened to have some very Dolly Partonesque assets too, which you really couldn't miss.. And all I could think of as I grabbed my water was, 'If we collide, she will definitely be the one in trouble'.. I missed her by about an inch, and was totally exhausted in the effort of avoiding those twins.. At some point I saw my Coach.. Coaching his team from the sidelines.. I was so disappointed! How could he drop out? He's made of steel, has run marathons two weeks after major surgery.. Was supposed to 'kick my asterisk'.. This race just wasn't one for the records for either of us.. The finish line finally arrives, I sprint in with my usual valiant effort to save face (only so much making up you can do in a tenth of a mile), and finished in a disappointing 1:39:26.. I knew it was a tough day though with the heat, since not only did my coach drop out, but so did his wife.. And she is also quite a warrior.. So I held a little hope that maybe I still got an award.. I wandered over to the results list.. Found my name.. Fourth in my age.. Sigh.. I had to see who took third.. Third female in my age went to: Mary Wittenberg. She earned it, good for her. Anyone but motor-mouth. I limped into the sunset. There'll always be another race around the 'hood..

In the Company of Strangers

2006-07-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

She was driving down the busy road, no expectations of this date that was to be in twenty minutes. How long had it been since she last had a date? A long time, maybe a year or two. Now the cynic entered her mind. He will have nothing to say. She won't be attracted to him. What did any of it matter? He was returning to his country the next day, and who knew when or if she'd see him again? May as well just relax and have a nice evening. Besides, she was the older one here, so what was she nervous about? Nervous! The thought made her mad. Why should I be nervous? I don't have to prove anything, he's the one that asked me out! Okay, now she was starting to remember why it had been so long since she'd been on a date. It was torture, the uncomfortable feeling of spending an evening with a stranger. She reminded herself that she had met him the night before, and he was very sweet. A real gentleman, old-school chivalry, must've been the South American thing. And he had a really cute smile, reassuring, reminding her that everything was going to be okay. She was still nervous. She calmed herself thinking about how she would be like a big sister to him. Oh dear, that's not very romantic, she thought. Back to worrying. She pulled into the parking lot of Hamburger Harry's, it wasn't too full for a Friday night. Must be the rain. She left her name at the front to be called when a table opened up, and planted herself at the bar. She ordered a drink, but had no interest in drinking it. She looked up and saw an old friend who was a singer and was booked for that night to perform. She went up to her. The friend seemd angry about this establishment. She relayed a story about how she agreed to do this gig, but the last time she came here with her friends, the owner made them all pay for their drinks, so this time she refused to give them any business. She would play for them, but they all had their drinks before they arrived. Seemed strange to her, like you're going through with half of a vendetta, but it worked for the friend. Just then the restaurant hostess called her name on the loudspeaker. As she walked to greet her, her date had just walked in the front door.. Great timing. They greeted each other warmly and sat down. Somehow the topic of Americans and neurosis came up. The girl asked, 'Do you know about the great amount of mental illness that plagues this country? The majority of Americans have seen or are currently seeing a psychiatrist'.. The boy seemed very knowledgable in this, and replied, 'Yes, I know about all the cases where criminals get released by pleading insanity'.. She was impressed with his grasp of English as well as his following current affairs.. However, he missed her point. Ah, that may be more a gender difference than a cultural one. More material for the 'I hate dating' files. They discussed some stuff on training techniques, as they were both avid athletes. This was a good topic for them, neutral, no room for misinterpretion, and something tangible that they had in common. A little lull in the conversation, and the girl thought about how this boy was going to return to his relatives that evening. He didn't have a car, and she had a fear of driving up mountains in the dark, and that's exactly what she'd have to do to get him home. 'How are you going to get home?' she asked casually, though it's a tough question to sound casual about, expecially when you're only 30 minutes into the date. No matter, she thought it a good thing to know the answer to, especially since his uncle was still in the vicinity, and could therefore be of assistance here. 'That's what my uncle asked me', he said matter of factly. She laughed nervously. 'Are you worried about it?' He asked her. 'Well, no', she hedged, 'I just like to plan things'.. They both just sat there, him staring at her with a guilty look on his face, her looking down at her plate trying not to look worried. 'Are you worried? ' He asked her again, this time she conceded, 'Well, maybe a little'. 'Don't worry', he said confidently. 'But how will you get home?' she asked again. 'I'm not worried about it', he said defiantly. The girl thought to herself, 'Well then why should I?', but there were plenty of reasons for her to be alarmed by his lack of an end to this date. If he didn't have a ride home, and she wasn't going to drive him home, this date would never end! And she wasn't too fond of dating. It was then that she decided it might be a great idea to drink her entire martini, and that is what she did. She also decided that she truly was not going to worry about this strange turn of events in this date, and just have the best time that she could. They left the restaurant and drove to a spot where there would soon be a big fireworks display. She and her date walked around looking for a good spot for viewing. A corny band played songs from the '50's, and the fireworks begun. They were louder than she's ever remembered. She had to plug her ears with her fingers. A crazed-looking large man walked right over to her and started talking to her. 'Hey lady, wouldn't it be great if they didn't make so much noise? Then they wouldn't be firecrackers!' This guy seemed a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but the girl would never intentionally hurt anyone's feelings. She engaged in conversation with him. He talked about how he retired from playing music when he lost some of his hearing. He was standing too close to her, closer than the two foot comfort zone Americans require. He walked away and she was glad. She was enjoying standing with her date, watching fireworks, having a nice quiet moment where no worrying was happening. She had mentioned how she loved purple ones, and he kept pointing out all the purple ones to her as they went off. They didn't look purple to her, but she appreciated the gesture. Picnic man came back and again stood a few inches from her face. She didn't know what to do or say, but had the distinct feeling she wanted him gone. But she told herself this poor guy probably has no one in the world, and just needs a friend. So she asked him, 'Were you playing with the band?' to which he raised his voice, 'No, lady, didn't you hear me before?! I retired from music!' He looked really scary like he was going to hit her, and she felt embarassed that this stranger was yelling at her. It was so loud from the fireworks that no one else seemed to notice what was happening. She didn't like being yelled at, and yelled right back at him, 'No, I didn't hear you! Don't you remember that I had my fingers in my ears??' She started to walk away and her date followed her, and then in a sweet voice he said to the man, 'It was nice meeting you'.. What was so nice about it, she wondered? He then explained he had seen this man the night before, and knew he was crazy. The girl felt very strange, like she had over-reacted. But that guy was scary.. No, she acted appropriately, she decided. She and her date walked down some little side streets. He started asking her about why she'd never been married. This was always a topic of interest to foreigners. They think all women should be married by the age of 25. The girl was amused. Some young kids were loudly passing by, and the boy raised his hand to her face. 'Why did you do that?' she asked. 'To block your eyes, they were shining a lazer at you'.. 'Thanks', she said.
In the end the boy had called his aunt to pick him up. She had arrived and they exchanged some words, and then he walked her to her car. He gave her a little kiss on the cheek, and told her he'd like to see her again when he returned. She agreed that she would like that, and they went their separate ways. She drove home feeling pleased that everything worked out, and that she had overall had a nice evening. She marvelled at how difficult it was for her to just relax in the company of a stranger. A few hours went by, and as she played back the events of the evening, she decided this was a really nice guy. Maybe dating wasn't so horrible.

Love it or Hate it?

2006-07-08T17:08:00.000-07:00

In the UK (and Australia) there is a very unique condiment that people form very strong opinions about. It's a dark brown, thick, vegetable spread called 'Marmite'.. It looks like molasses and tastes like syrupy bouillion cubes.. I kind of loved it for about a week.. It reminded me of a previous trip to England, and I found it very comforting spread (very thinly!) on a fresh slab of whole grain toast.. Then one day in haste for work, I made the fatal error of spreading it 1 mm too thick.. It was so offensive and salty and murky.. I had to take a little vacation from it.. Tonight, the evening before a 1/2 marathon race, I thought it might be a good idea to load up on that sodium, so I braved a tip of a teaspoon full.. And I actually felt more energetic (after gagging).. So I went to their website to see how much salt I was actually getting.. I clicked on the 'Marmite Hater' section to see how British advertising compares with American, and found this:

file:////Haters of Marmite, it's time to recoil! The spread you love to hate has just gotten worse... the monstrosity that is the new Marmite Squeeze Me.
Just when you started to forget its gruesome taste - it's back. This time it's in a plastic container, so no matter how hard you try to smash it against the wall - it keeps bouncing back. If only it would take the hint and go away..//

Friends, it's salty.. Good night, and good luck..

Flies and Neckties

2006-06-21T16:35:00.000-07:00

Now it's time to get serious and get a blog post in. I've run out of eating excuses.. I've stuffed my face with a handful of dried cherries to satisfy my emotional need for dessert. I'm torn between writing some serious commentary on the state of American politics (having just viewed the PBS documentary The Dark Side, shedding some light on the flimsy reasons we decided to attack Iraq), and the journey of a gnat inside my eye. Hmmm. I'm going to go with the insect, to clarify, the latter topic. (Though in March an entomologist did name a slime-mold beetle after George W).. My entire family has always taken a great liking to the world of bugs and insects and flying and crawling things in general. I myself do an excellent imitation of the common house fly cleaning himself.. Maybe it's my near-obsessive need for independence that makes me find parasites so riveting.. (Warning: skip the next section if you're one of those weak-stomached people).. There was a program on TV retelling amazing survival stories, and they told of this 16- yr- old girl whose plane had crashed in the Brazilian rain forest. She was the sole survivor, and awoke from an unconscious state to find herself still strapped into the aircraft seat which had landed in a tree. With the dense population of insects, she had discovered that any open wound she had received was now covered in bugs. Her journey to safety took several days and several swims through crocodile infested waters, but to me the most fascinating part of the adventure was (here's the gross part!) that she discovered many of the bugs had layed their eggs into her wounds, burrowed under her skin, and she systematically extricated them one by one by breaking the skin open.. I believe she removed over one hundred of these.. I don't mean to turn this girl's trauma into light-hearted entertainment, but I really do think it's human nature to enjoy watching this stuff.. We kind of want to know how to handle this situation, in case any one of us should ever find ourselves in the same predicament.. Well, I can tell you, until you've experienced a gnat thrashing about between your eyelid and your eyeball, no amount of coaching will ease this experience.. So let me be of assistance.. This has happened to me enough times that I've got a small collection of the dead carcasses taped to my running journal as evidence.. My story's not nearly as glamourous as the previous heroine, but I think you may still find it helpful in your travels. OK, first rule of bugs: They love bodies of water, and they always come out when it's above 60 degrees farenheit. They also are attracted to light sources, which may explain why they always go right for my eyes. The trail where I normally do my running passes some little swampy areas, so every Summer a new swarm of flying things has to be contended with. The first time a gnat flew in my eye, I did the completely wrong thing. I slammed my eye shut in an effort to trap it. And my eye just burned like crazy, and I thought if I opened it, it would burn more, so I didn't. Don't do that. The human body is an amazing little medical center all rolled into one skin.. The correct thing to do when a bug flies in your eye is to leave it open! That's right. This takes a lot of practice, because every fiber in your body is telling you to trap that little bastard! But no.. By leaving your eye open, the natural healing process immediately takes over and starts cocooning the little critter into a soft cushion wrapped in eye rubber, preventing him from being able to damage your orb.. So no burning occurs.. But this cocooning takes an incredibly long time to complete, so in the meantime, you will feel every little wing flap and escape technique this little bugger can drum up, all in the cozy environment of your eye socket. Quite unnerving to a girl trying to complete a four mile run knowing that the last two miles will be accompanied by an unwelcome hitchhiker. Still, given the choice of a fly in my eye or a larva incubating under my skin, I think I'd choose the former.

Addendum: (entomologist-types are very big on 'addendums'): Whilst driving to work today, I noticed R&B singer Rhianna's song 'There's a Thug in my Life' sounds amazingly like 'There's a Fly in my Eye'.. Check it out!

I'm Naming Names...

2006-05-21T17:32:00.000-07:00

Who are the people in your neighborhood? Well, I have no idea what their names are, and sadly, if one were to say hi in the grocery store, I'd be clueless as to how I knew him. But put me in a local race, and I'll see faces and legs I've run against many years.. And I don't want them saying hi to me either! During the race, that is.. So a few months ago I was very distressed about folks talking to me during a race.. They saw Tamar running slower than her usual pace, and figured she must be taking it easy, so it's fair game to start a little conversation.. But no, I wasn't taking it easy, I was just germinating a flu that would give me a temperature of 103 later that evening (the same cold which forced Deb to take me to the doctors office and also gave birth to this blog.. No Deb, didn't give birth to it.. That sentence needs revamping..) So.. Ah yes, that fateful day, three people talked to me; One asked if I was training for a marathon, which right off the bat, isn't a compliment.. The logic being, 'well, she's running SLOW, she couldn't possibly be taking this race seriously'; Coming from Tara, I knew she meant no harm, an honest question.. Still makes you aware that people are scrutinizing things, and you best not become too damn slow, or you will hear an even less complimentary comment such as, 'Wow, you must have been run over by a truck, the way your feet are dragging'.. Next comment comes from Steve (told you I was naming names!) Upon passing me, 'Hi Tamar.' No return greeting from me, as I was really working hard, regardless of how much slower it was than usual.. Steve felt he should check on my health, because surely if I didn't answer him, there could be a serious health risk.. He continued: 'Are you OK?' I felt exhausted from the run and the flu, and then degraded by someone that was passing me, and what I thought, playing some kind of a psychological game (don't think this is paranoia, it's actually quite common for competitve runners to test others in mid-competition.. Bill Rodgers, who has won the Boston Marathon four times*, was famous for pulling this trick.. Amazingly, I still think he's a really cool guy..) OK, so I had a talk with both of these parties, and cleared the air.. No harm was intended, I think they were shocked that I had confronted them (Did they not know how seriously I take this stuff?) but that was then, and this is now.. Over the past 2 months my hamstrings have been acting up and not allowing me to get quality runs in, such as speedwork, which of course, is essential to doing well in races.. It was pretty discouraging, but this seems to happen to me every time I try to make a breakthrough in the 5k.. That short little bugger gets me everytime.. So at least, I consoled myself, I can still do normal training runs so I won't become completely unfit.. Just not very fast.. So there was a 10k race today that I decided to run to just see where I'm at.. I figured if my hamstrings didn't give me too much trouble, I could maybe run a 46 minute race, which would have pleased me, because the course was hilly, too.. So I get there, see a lot of people I know.. I'm relaxed, because I have my handy hamstring excuse to fall back on if questioned.. Runners are so insecure.. So the race starts, I'm feeling good.. I keep telling myself to 'run within yourself', meaning don't push the pace harder than what I can maintain for 6 miles.. My breathing is smooth, we're in the first 1/2 mile, and I find it odd that the front runners are still within grasp.. They must be taking it easy to warm up, I think.. Then we hit the first mile in 6:49.. Whoa! I guess all that resting has paid off! So I'm excited.. There's one woman with braids in front of me.. Then another woman, Terri, passed both of us calmly.. Terri will win this race, I already know.. The woman in braids puts more of a distance between us, so I forget about her for now, and continue concentrating on the zen of this race.. We start up a dirt hill, and Steve from the last race catches up to me.. He says, as he passes me, 'You look strong Tamar, keep it up'.. I guess I trained him well.. Then a new guy enters the club of 'talkers to Tamar in a race'! Scott says, as he's catching me up that same hill, 'How are you doing?' I don't answer him, because, buddy I'm here to run a race, and sorry, but breathing is more important to me right now than giving you updates on my state of well being.. He doesn't get it.. He has to add a new inquiry: 'Is everything OK?' Now lets really analyze this one.. Why would you ask such a question during a race? This guy was clearly pulling a Boston Billy.. I waited til we crested the hill to answer.. 'Actually', I said, 'I'm feeling a little tired.. Can you help me out?' That got a good laugh from another guy, and Scott just said, 'This is a piece of cake for you!' as he zoomed ahead of me.. Whatever, I was feeling a real lactic acid burn in my legs between the hill and mustering up that sentence for Scott.. Then a real cool thing happened.. I started getting closer to braid woman, and this guy Rich V. said, 'Atta girl, you can get her!' I had a friend on the course! How rare.. Racing is like feeding with piranhas, NO ONE is your friend! You're as physically maxed out as you're ever going to be in this lifetime, and then knowing that if you slow down, there are five people that would be thrilled to pass you .. Is so mentally stressful.. So hearing this man genuinely cheer for me made me want to stop and kiss him! Of course, I couldn't do that, because then all the other people that I had worked so hard on conditioning to not talk to me would immediately demand they be kissed too, as all groups of people seem to demand equal attention.. That's how it is in my world, anyway.. I remember when I was 10, I had this friend named Tiffany that one day decided she wanted me to kiss her! I refused, but then my friend Tara (different Tara) made the same request on a different occasion! WTF, as Jon from Colorado would say.. But let me get back to the race.. Over 1/2 a mile til the finish, I passed braid woman, and the ugliest part of the race is upon me.. A long long stretch to the finish line.. The clock is so tiny and far away, but I know if I don't maintain the effort, I will either get passed by a woman or risk losing my great time.. So suffer I must.. I run all out to a 44:55 finish.. Second woman overall, I'm so happy.. I shake hands with all the people that helped me.. Braid lady, as she really motivated me to keep going.. And Rich V. especially.. Racing really is like (I imagine) being in the trenches..
I even punched Scott in the arm affectionately, after it was all over.. Maybe a little harder than acceptable..

* Thanks to my friend Quentin for correcting my info on Boston Billy; I had previously stated that Bill has the most wins at Boston, which is incorrect; That honour goes to Clarence DeMar with an amazing 7 wins there, the first one set in 1911 at the age of 22 the last one in 1930 at the ripe old age of 41, which still stands today, SEVENTY SIX YEARS later as the oldest man to win Boston!

Cinderella and the والخفاف زجاجيّة

2006-05-14T08:44:00.000-07:00

Ten dollars to the first person to translate this post title! OK, this one's going to be a little more modern, as far as my posts have been going.. I've noticed my little pattern of telling stories that are slightly dated, chronologically speaking.. So here's a story from my life as an adult.. Just to prove that I have a little more on my mind than running ahead of my competition.. It's subtle, but you may see it..

My best buddy from college, Mike, got in touch with me via an email forwarded from someone in my running club.. Mike and I had completely lost touch.. Back in college we were both math majors, and the long hours spent studying left us in complete need of frivolity during our free time. We often entertained ourselves trying to find Mike a new girlfriend.. No one took us seriously, as our approach was more of the slapstick variety.. I would drop pennies on the floor of the student union building, and Mike would chase after them and as he would pick them up, he'd attempt an uninvited glance up some poor unsuspecting girl's dress.. Needless to say, Mike remained without a girlfriend throughout our friendship, which worked well for me, cause I could keep studying with him.. So back to our reunion.. I was happy to get the email from him, and reminisced about the goofy times we had together.. I wondered what he had been doing with his life these past 10 years.. I had heard that he transferrred to a different college before we graduated, and was studying macrame and dog sledding.. I did a quick search on the internet, and to my complete shock, discovered that Mike had been living in Morocco, spoke fluent Arabic, was employed by the UN, and was devoting his life to humanitarian causes.. This couldn't be the same Mike. Impossible. I called him up.
"Hi, Mike?"
"Yes? Who is this?"
"Guess."
"Say a few words. That voice is familiar."
"Ok, you should know who this is.. "(laughing)
(Giggles from Mike) "I know who this is! Are you naked?"
"Ah, some things never change! "
So Mike was still the same.. Yet he'd also added this completely different dimension to his life. He was involved in an Arabic Culture club, and invited me to his rooftop party in the city.. I was excited to go.. We don't have rooftop parties upstate in the country.. Our roofs are slanted here and everyone would slide off.. But in the city it's romantic.. You can see buildings of all different styles and heights, sprays of neon colors, all in a swirl of urban regalia.. Mike was the perfect host. In honour of my visit, he walked down the five flights to greet me at the door (no elevator in this building).. He looked exactly the same! A serious looking man in a business suit was by his side, apparantly the first guest. Before we knew it, lots of people started arriving. As I was introduced to people, the question of my connection to the Arabic club kept coming up.. My response was the same to each person: Mike is an old friend from college.. And I speak Hebrew, which is also a semitic language.. That line fell flat and generally ended the conversation.. The author of an Arabic instruction book was present as well.. I figured I'd have more of a connection with him, as I am really fascinated with language structures.. I mentioned that Arabic and Hebrew seem to have many similarites.. He agreed, and for emphasis, had me recite the numbers in Hebrew from 1 to 5.. I obeyed, and after each recitation, he would follow with the Arabic equivalent. 'see the similatrities?' He asked excitedly.. I wanted to, but they sounded as different to me as Chinese to Amharic.. I was still pleased with he exchange, and felt a renewed interest in learning Arabic.. It's such a suave, smooth flowing language.. When I was studying Childhood Education at university in Tel Aviv, my favorite class was Arabic.. I had to drop it because I think the concept of learning a new language instructed in Hebrew was too mind-boggling for my brain to process.. I'd stop and think about it, and then start dreaming in Spanish altogether.. So back to the hafleh on the roof.. I met all the women.. Very diverse group.. From 18-40ish, some dressed in traditional muslim attire, some completely modern and revealing.. There was an air of all wanting to meet Mr. Right.. I got that same sense from the men too, come to think of it.. Well let me rephrase that.. The men that looked clearly like Arabic was not their native tongue fell into this category.. Single New York City guys just trying to meet a nice girl.. Some were very odd, but that's to be expected at semi-random gatherings of people.. I had spoken to almost everyone there, when I noticed this small gathering of people sitting in a dark corner of the roof. One man seemed to be looking at me, and I remembered greeting him earlier as I was ducking out of the building for a little bite to eat.. I remembered he had very beautiful eyes, and a calm, intelligent face.. I walked over to him and started a conversation.. I may have been a little tipsy at that point, but the wind at that altitude seemed to sober me up, so I know that my thinking was clear. I'll call this man Said, just because I saw a film with a character with this name, and he had the same, steady gaze.. But that character was very, very serious, and didn't seem capable of light conversations with people of the opposite sex. My Said was very involved in our conversation, or more commited, I should say.. I was aware of being a bit of a conversation hog, but I was just so pleased with this man's ability to follow me.. Somehow I got onto sagas of famous female distance runners.. And this man was completely up-to-date with the BBC'S commentary on the subject! Wow! How many of my recent suitors even watch the BBC let alone follow topics I'm passionate about? Said also had a very centered continence, as though he could survive equally as well on a deserted island isolated from humanity as with a roomful of his closest friends.. But the real sign that he found favor in my eyes, was that I didn't even realize that he was a smoker until after I had left.
I looked down at my watch at one point, and realized that if I ran the whole way, I could make it to Port Authority to make the 12:30 bus back home.. There was no time for any further exchanges.. I said 'goodbye, it was lovely meeting you.. Visit my blog', and the other three men in our circle said in unison, 'We'd like to visit it, too'.. I said my good-byes to a very disappointed Mike.. He was hoping for a help-mate in the after party clean-up (sometimes living far away is a great advantage).. And off I went, down the five flights of steps, the only person running in Hell's kitchen this breezy Friday night..

Sunny disposition continues, even in lockdown

2006-05-10T10:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, I snuck out of the office! I broke rule #47, 'it is forbidden for employees to leave the grounds during their 15 minute breaks'.. And now I'm documenting the deed on my work pc! But I felt this exceptional jaunt was justified, as I had to mail my three Mother's day cards in time for the next mail pick-up.. So I marched myself to the mailbox, dropped the goods, hurried back.. The sun was bright, I had the guilty feeling of an escaped felon.. And I saw a car getting ready to back up.. Oh no! I better not get run over, cause then they'll fire me! I make it back to my desk, notice I haven't pressed the start button of my break-timer.. We are hiring soon I've heard, anyone looking for employment? Gotta get back to work..

The trouble with Sagittarians

2006-04-22T18:47:00.000-07:00

As a 7th grader, living in Manhattan had its ups and downs.. Back then in the '70's, before Giuliani or whichever mayor shipped all the bad elements to the East river, the streets were packed with creepy contruction guys and crude street hooligans, just waiting to prey on innocent girls.. I remember walking down the street one day and a superfly looking dude slithering his arm around my shoulders and saying, 'Yo mama, you lookin' good today'.. I was 13, and not amused.. I removed his arm and said 'I'm NOT your mama', and walked away indignantly.. Nearly 3 decades later (am I THAT old? How did that happen?) my take on NYC is completely different.. I go to the city now to satisfy my wanderlust.. I'm always in the best mood there, the coffee tastes incredible, the pedestrians are fascinating in their ethnicity, the bums are refreshingly candid.. I'm walking down the street, starry-eyed and grinning at how happy I am to be alive and taking in all the excitement that is New York, passing corner stores that carry the freshest floral bouquets from Holland, suave old men walking their jack russells decked out in their little scottish capes.. I'm so content, I almost wish a brick would fall out of a window and kill me, because how can it get any better than this? And I pass a crazy street lady cursing at all the oblivious white people enjoying their mornings.. 'All these FUCKING people!' I pass her, still grinning, because it's kind of hysterical, and then she says about me as I pass 'BITCH!' I'm nearly laughing aloud, because my bluebirds are still dancing around my head in my perfect little world in my perfect little city.

Your Mother's Better than My Mother..

2006-04-08T17:29:00.000-07:00

It was a late night conversation with my oldest friend Lena (name changed so she doesn't get in a huff).. I met her back in junior high school in Manhattan.. I was 12.. We both had extremely unconventional families.. My father and older brother and I lived in a loft designed as a photographers studio.. My bedroom was a darkroom, and my bed the place where photos are suppossed to get developed.. I was a precocious pre-teen who thought she had it all figured out.. Then I met Lena, a really sweet, friendly girl, who always wore a scarf around her hair which made her look about 35.. She wanted me to come over after school one day, but was embarrassed by her poverty.. I reassured her that our furniture consisted of electrical spools used as tables found on the street, so she felt ok about the whole thing.. Her mother was this very sweet little old lady who kept offering me iced tea.. She was eccentric, and often embarrassed her two daughters.. Like when she took us all to see Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman, everytime a suggestive scene came on, she'd put a paperbag over Lena's little sisters head.. Rose was Catholic, and occasionally would just sit and talk to herself aloud about how Lena and I shouldn't be friends because I was Jewish.. Lena was mortified, but I knew Rose was a little disconnected from reality sometimes, and didn't take it personally.. I knew she really liked me anyway, because when we all went to Roosevelt Island, she made sure to buy me Mountain Dew soda and a bag of sour cream and onion potatoe chips.. And I was very touched, because I knew sometimes they didn't even have enough money to eat .. You overlook some things, once someone shows they care about you, especially when you're craving that attention that your own family hasn't given you.. I overlooked the really bad smell I noticed one day in their house, too.. Well, not totally.. 'Lena? What's that disgusting smell?' 'I don't know.. It's that bag.. Ma!! What's in that bag??' 'Oh, I saw a dead bird on the street, I felt sorry for it..' MA!!!' (from both daughters) 'You can't keep a dead bird in the house!!' 'He's not hurting anyone'... Flash to my own mother.. My mother has suffered from depression all of her life, but I never really acknowledged it, and just thought she was absent.. Now that she's nearly 70, I'm faced with it and not sure how to approach her oncoming move into needing a caretaker.. So many different issues.. And my approach is to feel responsible, but also dread at having to figure out what she should do with her life..I'm still trying to work out stuff in my own life, so the prospect of directing a severely depressed woman into happiness is a little overwhelming.. So that night Lena and I agreed to trade mothers.. It's a perfect idea! I instantly felt stress dissipate at the exchange.. Something about perception of hardship intensifies it all, and I think we are all too close to our own situations to be objective.. So my first task as Rose's new daughter was to convince her to move into this great senior housing apartment in Manhattan.. Rose had been living in Brooklyn for about 15 years, and complaining the whole time that she wanted to go back to Manhattan.. It would make everyone's lives much easier, as Rose doesn't get around very easily, and complains loudly when Lena or her sister Jenny try and get her on a senior minibus.. They're so convenient, and come right to her house, inexpensive.. But she yells, 'I'm not OLD, I don't need this thing!' and then when they do get her on it, she scowls the whole time.. And makes loud comments about the other poor, down-trodden travellers.. 'Look at that man, he looks retarded!' Lena and Jenny just duck down and pretend they're not with her.. So Lena makes this big effort with the apartment in Manhattan.. Rose needs to be interviewed by the manager first.. Lena takes the day off from work, is on her way over to Rose's house, and calls her on the cell phone to let her know she'll be over soon.. Rose: 'Yes, that woman called me.. I told her I didn't want that apartment'.. Lena flipped out, 'Ma! What do you mean you told her you didn't want the apartment?? Do you know how hard it is to get an affordable place in Manhattan??' 'Oh, another one will come up'.. Lena was too angry to continue the conversation.. So she relays all this to me.. I tell her 'Let me talk to Rose, she'll listen to me.. We have the same birthday' .. Lena is thrilled someone else is getting involved.. I haven't spoken to Rose in about 5 years.. The last time I spoke to her, the whole family was at my house for Thanksgiving.. We were all having a great time, til Rose realized that the girls had meant for her to spend the night at my house.. They tried to convince her that we'd go for a nice drive in the country the next day..She was furious with them.. She doesn't like her routine disturbed.. Plus I didn't have a clock in my house at the time, and it was driving her crazy.. We all went to sleep by about midnight.. I kept hearing Rose every hour.. I was in a sound, peaceful sleep, then I was woken by Rose proclaiming 'How can you live without a clock? I need to know what time it is!' Back to sleep I went.. Again I was woken by her voice in the night: 'Operator? Can you tell me what time it is?' Back to sleep I fell (a perk of being a distance runner.. You can always fall right back to sleep!) Rose's voice again in the night, musing sarcastically: 'Go for a country drive! You'd think they saw enough of the country on the busride up here!' I had to laugh at that one..
OK, so I call Rose as requested.. I was getting excited about talking to her, so many years had gone by, I tend to lose touch with people, and then wonder why because I remember that I really liked them? Anyway, I figured I'd warm her up a little with catch-up talk.. I told her how I ran my first marathon last year.. I asked her if she'd ever gone to watch the NYC marathon.. She said one year she did, she was up at Columbus circle.. I got all excited, 'Yeah! That's around mile 22 where the runners enter the park!' 'Yes,' she said, 'I took a photo there'.. More excitement from me, 'Oh! Did you get a picture of the elite runners in the front or just the crowds of runners?' 'I got a picture of a nice statue in the park'.. Yeah, she's a sagittarius alright.. So I snuck in the first question about the apartment: 'So I heard Lena found a really nice apartment for you in Manhattan.. You weren't interested?' 'I like where I live.. It's on the first floor'.. That sounded reasonable.. 'Yes, but Lena and Jenny could visit you a lot more if you lived in Manhattan'.. She changed the subject.. I felt bad, I could tell it was uncomfortable for her, but I also knew she was being damn stubborn (typical again of the sunsign!), and that her daughters really knew what was best for her.. 'Rose, I'd hate to see you burn your bridges, apartments are hard to come by'.. I was wondering if she knew how hard Lena worked to get this place for her? Just when I started to think she wasn't with me at all, she said sheepishly, 'Lena came in like a lion and out like a lamb!' I had to hold back from laughing.. Lena was FURIOUS when Rose told the lady she wasn't intersted.. 'Sabotoge! My mother is sabotaging my efforts!!' We talked a little more about our art, and her starting a walking program.. I got off the phone feeling really happy to have talked to her, she's really a sweet person.. But also like my efforts to change her mind were in vain.. The next day I got a call from Lena thanking me, as she spoke w Rose, and she had agreed to take a look at the apartment! I was amazed.. Funny how people take in stuff you've told them and you sometimes think they're not even listening.. *sigh*
And it's 100% easier to help someone elses mother.. Lenas' turn

Dried persimmons and raising Bantus..

2006-04-02T18:28:00.000-07:00

I'm one of the biggest fans of dried fruit.. In particular, dried peaches. When done correctly, they are the most perfect food in the universe. Some fruits however, should never be dried. They can taste like a moist old sneaker. Hence, my first taste of a dried persimmon (a fruit that when fresh is quite delicious), will also be my last. OK, this is quite self-indulgent, this fruit-rant.. If anyone has been wondering where I've been, first THANK-YOU for caring! Second, sorry for neglecting you.. Third, I've been happily just not visiting the computer.. I was working on an art project with an ominous deadline, so I needed time to fret about that a few weeks while doing absolutely nothing about 'getting to business'.. Phew, it's finally finished, and I feel kind of wiped out from the effort, but cleansed and evolved.. But not anxious to get started on another one for maybe another year.. Ha ha, this from a girl who wants to quit her job to do something more creative.. I better find a sugar-daddy if that ever happens.. HA! Next to Gloria Steinheim, (sp?) I'm probably the last person in the world you'd ever find even knowing what a sugar-daddy is, much less hooking up with one.. Luxury to me is ice cubes in my drink.. Socks without holes.. Having all of my limbs.. How would I find use out of a sugar-daddy? (I keep thinking of daddy-long legs when I write that word.. Now THERE'S a useful creature.. Selflessly ridding your house of unwanted other bugs..) OK, I was really going to write about some interesting encounters in NYC this weekend, but the moment passed, and besides, I know you're all getting sick of the running stories.. Well, they'll be back, I just need a little break.. Besides, I just drank a Hoegaarden, so I'm in a festive mood..

4:30 AM Wake up call.. Tamar's back to racing!

2006-03-19T17:33:00.000-08:00

Doesn't that sound a little too early to be doing ANY activity, let alone contemplating running as fast as you can for 13.1 miles? I'm used to it, but just wanted to let you know, that I appreciate how inhuman it sounds to the non-runner.. So this was the highlight of my weekend.. Spending the day with a dedicated group of runners in a van driving to Coney Island Brooklyn at 6 am.. What could be better? A lot of foreign accents were co-mingling.. One man with a British accent named Bill was giving me the scoop on today's race, as he ran it last year.. 'You start on the boardwalk, which is about 3/4's of a mile, and some people fell down last year'.. Oh great.. Something to look forward to.. The man sitting on my right was screaming directions to the driver frantically, in some strange sounding accent.. Sounded transylvanian.. 'No NO!! Make a RIGHT!', he barked.. Tara from my town looked alarmed at the level of aggression.. I was enjoying being with new people.. We arrive in town and exit the cozy little van greeted by freezing cold 20 mph winds.. Dressed in very little, in prep for the race.. The logistics of getting to the starting line are quite complicated, and if you're not good with time-management, you'll never make it.. We have about 30 minutes to use the port-o-potties (very long lines), check our race bags, and get to the start .. I'm leaving out about 5 more things you have to accomplish in that time, but I'm getting bored typing it, so I can imagine how you're feeling (I'm such an empathetic blogger.. ) OK, the race goes off, I instantly hate running on the boardwalk.. There are loose skinny little wood planks that threaten to catch your toe with every step, the wind is so cold it renders our feet frozen, so we can't even feel if they're making contact with the ground.. I'm aware of trotting to avoid tripping.. And all of a sudden, BLAM! Runner down on my left.. I felt his pain.. Right on his face.. Poor guy.. On we continued, no time to help the fallen.. We had our own suffering to deal with.. Two miles later, we finally turn off the boardwalk (I make a mental note to never trust anything Bill says..) .. and we head straight into the wind for eight miles up Ocean Parkway.. To take my mind off how hard I'm working, I keep repeating my goal race pace in my head like a mantra.. 7:30-7:30-7:30.. I study the runners in front of me.. I've never seen such strange running forms.. One man has these long swinging arms, and runs with his feet out like a duck.. Like he's Elmer Fudd, chasin' wabbits.. And he's ahead of me! A very old looking man who looks like arthritis has set in everywhere but his head is awkwardly maintaining a spot ahead of me.. We get into Prospect Park, some man on the side is cheering us on.. 'I'm very proud of you!' he announces to us all.. This has a very good effect on me.. 'Wow.. He's proud of me.. I made him proud..' I pick up the pace a little.. And then I see it in the distance.. A long, nasty hill.. I make up my mind to put no effort whatsoever into keeping my pace up it.. (My coach would be mortified.. He's always coaching to maintain an even effort up the hills).. OK, I finally see the finish, sprint like a banshee to get under 1:40, and make.. Close to my goal, a 7:36 pace per mile.. Yay me! 103rd female out of 1,300.. Not too shabby.. The best part is after, when the group I drove down with all gathers to wait for everyone.. How nice to have support! I usually have to fend for myself.. This is the best.. On the trip home, I discover the transylvanian is actually Israeli.. I'm so excited as I rarely get to use my Hebrew.. We get into a conversation in Hebrew about his running, the running community in Israel, if his wife supports his running.. Funny, conversations with men are the same cross-culturally.. The woman always finds out more information about them than they do about the women.. So I think everyone is impressed and astounded with my fluency in this exotic language.. No one heard a word of our conversation.. An Asian man sitting next to me announced that this was his first 1/2 marathon.. The guy beat me by eight minutes.. Genetics are not doled out fairly.. Why should this man be blessed with more speed than me? And better hair? I bet he was jealous of the Hebrew, though..

2006-03-16T19:24:00.000-08:00

I did it!

Six miles to better mental health..

2006-03-15T19:22:00.000-08:00

Hi, semi-annonymous blog-world.. How is everyone feeling this evening/morning/afternoon, whenever this post finds you? I myself am feeling a little pesto-woozy.. I make the stuff about 4 times a year, because it takes me about 3 months to recover from the overdose of it.. I really make the best pesto, too good.. So irresistible that I eat the whole batch that's designed to last for a few good lunches.. And then those basil leaves expand in my stomache, and make me wonder what I was thinking.. I never learn.. So I hit a hilly running course today, trying to get back into some level of fitness that will put a little more fear into my competitors' hearts.. At least enough to stop them from being able to talk to me during an event.. It is a wickedly windy evening.. 35 mph winds, and I'm pushing the hills, so my heart is pounding away, and I'm totally incapable of talking.. (Who would try to talk to a runner in such a state, you may ask.. Good question.. And in the middle of a back farm road with little traffic.. ) Well, some poor soul found themselves lost on the road.. My mind was so out of it, I wasn't even aware they were slowing down to ask me directions. Directions! It was all I could do to keep breathing and moving forward, directions was about as realistic as flying.. I didn't want to be rude though, so I gasped out, 'I don't know anything around here!', which came out sounding like a snarky fishwife.. Really ugly voice, I didn't know I had it in me.. The woman said 'Oh, that's really nice', or something like that, as I wheezed on.. I felt really angry, and wasn't sure why.. At first I thought I was angry at the woman.. Couldn't she SEE that I was doing a tortured workout on a blustery day?? Why are people so mindless about what others are going through? But then after a little more time went by, and my breathing went back to normal.. I realized that my nature is to help other people, and had I not been running, I would have happily given this woman directions or anything else she needed.. So my anger was really at myself.. For not being the nice person that I know I am.. But then on further inspection of this situation, I decided that training hard is my right, and truly one of the only times during the day that it's ok for me to be selfish.. And if someone has to miss out on me giving them directions so I can get through my workout, that doesn't make me a bad person.. The trick is to treat myself like I'm my own coach, and protect my need to train hard.. While I'm training, that needs to be my only focus.. And it's better to just not engage in any conversing with others, because frankly, I can't talk and run hard at the same time.. So on I went, ran hard up a few more hills, and boom! Car #2 slows down in the opposite direction I'm running in, rolls his window down.. What am I, the Walmart greeter?? Do I have a sign on my back that says 'This way for directions'? I kept my resolve, and ploughed on with no eye contact.. That was easy.. As I pick up the pace to finish the run, this guy actually turns around and rolls down his window again asking for directions! I just said 'sorry' and kept moving.. Do you people reading this go through these same struggles? Is this weird? Am I worrying too much about what others are thinking? Or am I being a cretin runner deserving of all the abuse drivers often throw my way.. Maybe I should run more with other people and let them deal with those direction-seekers.. Or as Deb suggested to me, wear a t-shirt instructing not to talk to runner.. I think I need some suggestions here.. I'm not confident with my new game plan of ignoring everyone, but I don't see an alternative..

Race Morning..

2006-03-12T06:37:00.000-08:00

Fifteen minutes before I'm suppossed to leave my house to run this local race as part of a club championship.. I couldn't be any less casual about it all.. Still wearing my pajamas.. This is not the real Tamar, who normally wakes up 5 times in the night worrying about race strategy and missing the start of the race.. Well, I'm merely a warm body for this event.. I already told the authorities that I'm in no shape to race seriously.. That being the case, I may actually be able to have a little fun today.. Sidle up to all those people that were chatting away to me mindlessly as I was struggling with the pace last race.. See how they like getting roped into a lengthy conversation on their declining state of fitness as they go into oxygen dept.. Yes, runners are a cruel and sadistic bunch.. If you had considered getting involved in the world of road racing, be prepared for more than a physical challenge.. Some of us are normal out there.. Usually not anyone that's very competitive though.. And the tricky part is, most will deny til the end that they have any desire to win.. 'Oh, I was just out to have a good time'.. OK, right.. It's really quite a riot when your inner systems are bordering on very uncomfortable to I-may-pass-out-from-lactic-acid-build-up any second.. So am I looking forward to seeing all these folks at the race this morning? I guess I have some doubts.. Racing always makes me anxious, I suppose that's normal.. A race is a test, and if you've trained hard, you have a lot at stake, so things that are important to you can give you a healthy anxiety.. I guess my real concern this morning is, since I've eliminated that worry of performing since I'm going to take it easy.. My real concern is how to deal with that woman that always has an in-your-face rude comment disquised as friendly comraderie.. I never know how to deal with those people.. I think they're just clueless that they leave everyone in their paths speechless and offended.. Yup, she will be there.. She kind of leaves you feeling like George Costanza.. Two hours later you come up with the perfect comeback line, and the moment is well over to use it.. Wish me luck..

Streaker Dick and the Matzo Balls

2006-03-08T13:36:00.000-08:00

No, I haven't sold out to my true self, trying to get extra hits on my blog with the promise of perversions.. Dick is an old friend of mine.. Actually, quite a pivotal friend, as I met him in my early twenties when I was just making some big discoveries in life. One of them was running. Dick had a little sporting good store in Ulster county, and in addition to having a 20 year running streak (yeah, that's right, he hasn't missed a single day of running.. Not for a broken ankle, birth of a child, lost Yankees game..) .. now it's actually 30 consecutive years.. So in addition to that cool little accolade, and of course, we all want friends that are unique.. I could always get great running advise from Dick.. So Dick comes by last night to visit.. He's got a tight hamstring from too much running and too little stretching.. He asks for a tennis ball to work it out (this works amazingly well, by the way.. You have to just sit on the floor and let your leg weight-bare on the tennis ball, it feels great and painful at the same time).. So then I offer him my very last bowl of chicken soup w matzo balls that I made to heal myself.. He's enjoying his bowl of soup, sporting these snazzy orange wool socks (runners have some wild socks..).. And he's really not too sure about those matzo balls.. 'You know, these would work great on my hamstring', he says.. I swear, they weren't anywhere NEAR the consistency of a tennis ball, I don't know what his issue was with them! I think they scared him..
Well, I took a pic of Dick and the orange socks eating his matzo ball soup, but sorry, my computer's rebeling and not allowing any proof. OK, so the nicest part of today was that I really feel better.. I tested the waters with a run on the trail I usually run on.. I felt great, the sun was out for once this year, and I was so thankful to be able to run and feel healthy again.. Then in the distance running the opposute direction, I saw a slim figure approaching me.. My friend Donna! Our schedules are so different, we rarely are able to run together, but it worked out perfectly.. She was on the final leg of a 20 mile run, so she was really happy to have someone to entertain her for a few miles.. And I was in such a great mood (for once!) that I didn't bring her down.. I was tempted to tell her about all the psychological warfare that took place at my last race.. But I don't want her to think I'm too much of a psycho, especially in the great mood that I was in.. Did you ever notice that once you've discovered some subject that's slightly touchy with a particular friend, for some reason, you gravitate towards it? I know Donna doesn't like to hear about me feeling insecure or untrusting in social situations, I guess it makes HER feel vulnerable.. But I don't seem to be able to stop myself from doing it, like I'm trying to test a theory.. I think that's how marriages fall apart.. We're always trying to test each other, press the bruises.. Just because they're green and purple, and we expect there to be pain when we press down on them, but still, wouldn't it be fun to just test it? Maybe this time it won't hurt if I press it? It's so much fun though, LOVE pressing the bruises!!!!!

It's scary away from work.. Stockholm Syndrome?

2006-03-07T09:28:00.000-08:00

Yes, after 8 years of complaining that I really should find a job that's a better fit for me, something that will allow my creative side to develop.. And just general anquished complaints about how corporate America is not the right fit for a girl raised by hippies and various step-parents in psychedelic VW bugs.. Where was I going with this? OOh yeah, I finally have a glimmer of the freedom I've been dying for.. As I sit waiting for my doctor's appointment tomorrow to give me the ok to return to work.. But I don't feel free at all.. I think I've forgotten what being free means.. I think I was 5 years old the last time I remembered.. Does that mean I'll never be free again? Nah, I think it means a 2 day reprieve from work does not a free woman make. Freedom really is a state of mind. My freedom throughout my incarceration, er, 8 year term at work has always been my running. I put my 42 hours a week into my job, but the dream of running personal records in races always propelled me forward, prevented me from feeling like my soul was not my own.. Running in races brought me to new countries, new neighborhoods, new worlds.. Physically transported me from my excruciatingly routine life to somewhere better.. Somewhere where people were excited about their accomplishments, excited to see what their bodies were able to do.. Excited to show off their hard labour.. And training for a race is one of the most taxing experiences you can have in this life.. Try running 6 times a mile on a track in 6:41 pace with only a 1 minute rest in between.. Well, I couldn't run more than an 11 minute mile when I first started running, and to just string 2 of them together took me a full month. Now I can run 13 of them back to back at a 7:05 pace per mile. Running saved my life, gave me some focus .. Maybe that's why I'm feeling so out of sorts now.. The doc said no running.. Ah, it's good to change your routine now and then.. Gives you a chance to try other stuff, like blogging..

A good day for REM and Math..

2006-03-06T14:19:00.000-08:00

Hello, Deb's loyal readers! OK, how great a gal is she? Not only drags my sick butt to the doctor, after buying me tulips and sick-person goods, but then links me to her own blog! This girl is the most generous-hearted person I've ever met. The bad news is, you all have no idea who you are now stuck with .. And neither do I.. I'd love to stick some random photos in here to liven this whole experience up for those that took the time to meander over.. OK, that took about ten minutes, will have to save that trick for next time. This experience is a bit humbling, as I'm not very fluent with the tools for blogging, and feel like a child in a bad way.. Meaning I feel impatient and would love to just decorate here and there and embellish this post with some fun graphics, but being ignorant to this, am being forced to stick with the writing.. Which in itself is great, but this is a little scarey.. I suppose.. Wondering who is reading this and judging this.. And mostly hoping I'm not boring someone to tears who is being polite to Deb by reading my blog.. It doesn't even feel worthy of the 'blog' title..
A little about me: This is one of the few times I'm absent from my job.. It feels really strange, and I'm putting so much pressure on myself to figure out what other career I should be gravitating towards, that I 'm actually missing my high-stress job! Today was my first official day back at work, after missing 1 full week.. I felt OK, was nice to see everyone, we sit in little cubicles in this call center, the girls that sit in front of me looked relieved that I'd returned.. I'm kind of like the big sister, provide them with a lot of comic relief throughout the day.. I was touched to note several trash gossip magazines made their way to my desk for entertainment.. Brought a toy chicken that lays jellybeans for one girl, Melissa.. Inside joke.. I told her you put the jellybeans in the chicken's head, and then press it's wing and it lays eggs.. Melissa's from the city.. 'You mean the eggs come out of her koolie??' I think that's the word she used, it sounded approriate, so I agreed.. She appreciated her toy chicken.. A few minutes later, while this other woman was filling me in on some meeting I missed, I started getting really light-headed.. Back to the doctor to try and get him to agree to short-termed disability.. He checked all the vital stuff.. Said I'm in perfect shape.. But took some blood for good measure and told me to come back Wednesday.. So it's all in my head! But I was SOOO happy to be able to go back home.. Nothing like the comfort of home after a morning of harsh realities in the office.. OK, exchanging toys doesn't sound very traumatic, but trust me, my job can get really brutal.. Petty politics, whining grown customers that are looking for mental punching bags, constantly increasing sales goals and continual reminders throughout the day of all this.. I'm usually daydreaming about winning a race somewhere on another continent.. But you're pulled back to reality within seconds.. Yeah, it's nice to be writing to you all and listening to REM.. And not doing Math.. I was able to add that to my list of careers I will not choose to pursue in the future..
Good Night, good wishes to all...
Tamar

One Desolate Blog..

2006-03-03T16:49:00.000-08:00

Who but a true Luddite would have accidentally created a blog in a failed attempt to post a comment on a friend's blog? OK, if anyone's reading this, apologies for the emptiness.. I'm too sick to continue with this today.. Hopefully I'll remember I created this tomorrow.. Peace to all..