The holiday turned out to be bittersweet. The sweet was as sweet as anyone could hope. The bitter was as bitter as bitter gets.
My best friend's father, Howard Culla, passed away just after midnight on December 26, 2005. I believe he was 72 years old. He was hit by a car on Christmas Day while crossing a street in Portland, Oregon. It is said that he suffered very little up to the time of his death.
The world should know what an amazing person Howard Culla was. I met him when I was 15 years old and I befriended Kathleen at Ashland High School. She and I had both recently moved from Los Angeles and found we had much in common. She lived in a tiny apartment in Ashland with Howard.
Howard had raised Kathleen and her brother Paul since his divorce from their mother when they were both very small children. He was much older than their mother and what seemed like ages older than Paul and Kathleen, but he was always in astoundingly good health and seemed to have boundless energy despite what had undoubtedly been a difficult life. He was a good father with old fashioned values and a keen memory of an America that my generation could never know as he knew it. Kathleen was an ice skater and Howard supported her as she traveled from one competition after another. He was a really proud, highly literate individual who always had something hilarious to say or an interesting tale to impart to his listener. He could also be a maddening critic and a stubborn disciplinarian. All the same, I always enjoyed going over to Kathleen's for dinner. Howard would often make spaghetti with sweet turkey sausages and white bread with softened butter. I loved that meal. I loved eating at his table and being entertained by his antics. I will make that same meal tomorrow night in his honor.
Howard was funny. Funny as can be. He used to make us laugh until our ribs hurt. I've always told Kathleen that one day we are going to have to put together a book of H-isms. He said so many memorable things over the years. Totally original. That was Howard. He loved books and art and theatre and movies. He loved Greta Garbo and Audrey Hepburn and the Brontes and ballroom dancing and everything classy and ironic and dramatic and poetic. He would grab your arm while walking down the street and recite the most riveting quote from Shakespeare or Oscar Wilde. He told wild anecdotes and made off-the-cuff comments that made you reel with laughter no matter where you happened to be at the moment that he hit you with it.
Even if Kathleen wasn't around I could have coffee or Chinese food with Howard and enjoy every minute with him. I will miss him so much.
As for Kathleen and Paul, he was their everything despite everything. I can only imagine the grief that the two of them are dealing with right now. It's a huge shock that he was taken so suddenly and I know the sadness and mourning has only just began. Howard always said he wanted his ashes scattered on the graves of poets. Kathleen and I always agreed to do it. I pray that we are able to keep our promise. We never expected to have to fulfill it so soon.
I have one very favorite story pertaining to Howard and I feel I should tell it.
Howard was raised in Hackensack, New Jersey in a ramshackle world of poverty and struggle. I can only muster a tiny image of what his upbringing was like. One story I'll never forget was that he'd had to have a great deal of dental surgery during a time when dental technology was not nearly as advanced as it is today. As if enduring these procedures without any modern anesthetic and being stuck with unpleasant dental maintenance throughout his life were not painful enough, he ended up with huge dental bills that he carried on his back for years. Being the proud man that Howard was, he was unwilling to file for bankruptcy, and so instead he chose to live a poor existence while paying his dental bills out of his monthly pension. At one point, after Kathleen and Paul had moved out and were taking care of themselves, Howard chose to live in his car in Santa Barbara (where the weather was nice) in order to garner the money to finally pay off all of his bills. Did I mention that he was stubborn? At this particular time he did not have an address or cell phone or any other way to be reached.
At the time we were teenagers and Kathleen and I took a trip to Southern California to visit friends, get tattoos, cause trouble in Ti Juana, etc. On the way back we decided it would be a good idea to stop in Santa Barbara and see if we could find Howard. The key word is: find. We looked at various places where it seemed likely Howard could be found; libraries, YMCAs, bookstores...we tired out very quickly, as we'd gotten next to no rest whatsoever since Ti Juana.
We went to a park by the beach and fell asleep in the grass. We woke and it was dark and we were still exhausted and now we were scared too because we were in a pitch black park by the beach in Cali without any weapons and we were just stupid little girls with fresh tattoos living on a whim. We hurried back to the car and drove back into downtown Santa Barbara and parked the car. We split up and wandered the streets up and down, looking in every establishment until our eyes were blurry and our legs felt like they couldn't carry us anymore. I went into a bookstore called "The Earthling" and sat down in between the shelves and started writing the sad tale in my diary. It was just then that I saw a pair of feet and heard the words "Hey Kid." When I looked up and it was Howard I felt a flood of relief and the tears sprung right out of my eyes with joy. I was so tired, I'd never been so glad to see him. Kathleen had found him by the piano, listening with his eyes closed, and now we were all together.
We went to get something to eat. Howard was so happy to see us. He insisted that he pay for us to stay in a hotel. We tried to refuse, but his pride would never let us. That first night we never found a hotel room and we ended up sleeping in Kathleen's car, which was fine because Howard slept in his car right behind us on the same street. The next night we got a hotel and Howard still slept in his car. He wanted us to have our space. He was always that way.
I remember when we left him there in Santa Barbara; instead of waving in the normal fashion, Howard put his two middle fingers way up in the air and shouted goodbye in the same cheerful manner that anyone would expect of a father seeing off his daughter and her best friend. That was his way of letting us know how much he really appreciated us coming to see him; with a huge dose of irony.
Words could never convey how much Howard will be missed and how heartbreaking is the loss of his humor and wisdom. These are only a minutia of the memories that I have of him and a tiny tribute to what is now his absence from our lives. He will always, always be remembered.
I finished my last post on a pretty pessimistic note. In fact, the whole thing was a little pessimistic, and I wouldn't want ya'll to think I was devoid of holiday cheer.
It's true, despite my kvetching about recent events, I am a mushy Christmas cheerleader. It has never held any religious significance for me personally, though I am kind of partial to images of the Virgin Mary everywhere. People ask me what it was like during Christmas while being raised Buddhist. My parents gave us Christmas because they didn't want us to be left out. In fact, we celebrated Easter too because we loved the easter egg hunts SO much. I mean, I really, really dug hunting around for easter eggs. I thought it was the most fun ever. Holidays are holidays. None of them really hold a religious significance for me. They are more about being with people that you love.
Unfortunately, I don't get to travel home and see my family this Christmas, but nevertheless I am looking forward to seeing all the people in New York that Robert and I care so much about. I have been shopping nonstop. I have spent money like it is water over the past four weeks. It's bad. I repent. My new years resolution will be to save more. But for now, I am just living like there is no tomorrow. It is so much fun to buy people gifts. Rob is getting spoiled more than anyone because his birthday is the day after Christmas. He deserves a lot of extra loot for that simple fact.
We found a beautiful tree. It reaches almost to the ceiling. Probably one of the biggest trees I've ever had not counting the mammoth live tree that my parents had last year. In one way I feel sad about the dead tree, but in another way it is the only thing that truly completes the warm happy feeling that I get during this time of year. I decorated it with white lights and colorful ornaments and topped it with a tall white crocheted angel. I piled all the presents underneath it and hung all my Christmas cards on the wall and took the cornish hens out of the freezer to thaw. And I am good to go.
Tonight we have a party to go to. Tomorrow we have another party. Christmas day we are opening presents and eating cornish hens and then we are going to visit more friends/family. Monday is Robert's birthday. Tuesday it's back to work for a short, lazy week. Then it's on to quitting smoking and saving money and applying for schools. For now it's all about a little bit of well deserved indulgence.
Okay. Yes. I admit it. I am a bad mother to my blog. It cries and I ignore it. It needs to be fed and I feed myself instead. I just don't have time to take care of this baby lately. Not only have I not had time, but I have not known where to begin. Do I begin with politics? How angry I am at George Bush, as ALWAYS? How fucked his anti-privacy crusade is? How fucked his tax breaks for the rich are? How sick I am about his war on the poor and on the environment and about our government's refusal to engage in a meaningful agreement to reduce pollution, global warming and oil dependency? How I wish people cared enough about these things to impeach this motherfucker. Somehow, a presidential blowjob still elicits a greater sense of outrage than a presidential grape-stomp on the liberties and constitution of the United States.
I guess I could begin with the New York City transit strike which is now officially over. Thank heavens. During the transit strike, nothing felt the same. The whole world seemed askew to me. I felt like the ground was sinking beneath my feet. I felt like I had nothing to grab on to.
I can't say one side was at fault, as it clearly took both the MTA and the Union to tango their way into this strike. The MTA shouldn't be so greedy and the Union shouldn't make crazy threats that lead to crazy behavior, only to end in nothing being gained or solved and millions of dollars lost for the city. The whole thing was a total morass and New Yorkers were furious and I was one of them. I wasn't as bent out of shape about my own ability to get to work as I was about the entire city being turned upside down, people suffering in the cold to get to jobs that they didn't have the luxury of missing, and the thought of Christmas in New York being hampered by the dispute between a fucked organization like the MTA and the uncompromising tactics of a Union. It's not that I feel that the union shouldn't have the deal it wants, but it is hard for millions of people to be sympathetic when they are the people trying desperately to get to a job where they might not have the power and clout to fight tooth and nail for the benefits and wages that they desire and they're being asked to sacrifice so that someone else can fight for their own. I had to agree that it seemed selfish. The union was wrong to punish the people of New York for the shitty deeds of the MTA.
On Tuesday I could not find a way to work. Rob and I couldn't ride into the city with only two people in the car due to restrictions - not that we wanted to brave the traffic anyway - and there was no reasonable alternative mode of transportation to Manhattan from my neighborhood in Brooklyn. So I took a vacation day and went to pick out a Christmas tree and finish up some shopping and I wasn't fussed at all. I was glad for the day off and knew that things were so slow in the office that it didn't make much of a difference. On Wednesday I found a carpool to the office with some co-workers. On Wednesday night, Rob picked me up at work and we went to watch the Spurs spank the living crap out of the Knicks at Madison Square Garden. Go Spurs!!! (I only care because their Rob's fave team.) We went to the Bronx and stayed the night at his old roommate's house and I took Metro North to work and back, which was really the best. Yesterday afternoon it was announced that union members were returning to work and by this morning the city was allowed to return to normal.
I am so relieved. Though New Yorkers have a way of forging ahead throughout all adversity, we would prefer to have unfettered access to our beloved public transportation system which is a part of life here that we take for granted because it is like breathing. The subways and buses never stop running. Or at least, they're not supposed to.
As for me, I feel like since I moved to this city five years ago, I have witnessed some of the most inauspicious events in history. 9/11. Blackout. Transit strike. Republican National Convention. I am apprehensive of what could possibly come next. If we stay on Bush's desired path to total environmental destruction, perhaps we have a massive island flood to look forward to...
Dear Diary,
As you know, I've had my share of mortifying moments and embarassing spills in my life. Though I dreamed of being a ballerina as a child, I haven't always come off as altogether graceful. There have been far too many klutzy incidents, to the point that I would almost say I'm accident-prone. Which worries me. Because I'm also a worry-wart and I worry about things like dying in some freak accident as a result of my own spaced-out stupidity and hectic approach to things, i.e., leaping onto the train that one time, just as the doors were closing, getting my heel caught on the cuff of my trousers and flying face first onto the otherwise quiet morning train. That was one for the books.
So I guess it's no surprise that last night at about 5:45 p.m., I was in my boss's office with another boss and an associate, discussing where we would be holding a litigation luncheon, when I unconsentually embarked on another fantastically embarassing (and injurious! Extra points!) episode in the life of Maria. I start off looking over my boss's shoulder at the computer, turn to walk around to the other side of the desk where boss #2 and associate are standing. I have to weave for just a second between a big box of documents and a guest chair. For some stupid reason, I lift my foot to scratch my ankle; a bad omen for what is right around the corner. As I lower my foot to the floor and open my mouth to make a comment, the skinny heel of my shoe hooks on the seat of the guest chair, sending my body down while rotating in a counter-clockwise position towards the floor. I banged my ankle and slammed my knee on the floor and when it was happening I felt as if I would never stop falling. As I felt a total loss of control over my limbs, saw the floor coming into view and my hair flying around my face, I thought: no fucking way is this really happening to me.
I took the tumble and got up immediately, knowing there was no time to waste in regaining my composure. I felt like such an idiot. I tried to laugh it off and they were all very kind. They didn't laugh, not even the smallest chuckle. I guess I'm used to falling over in front of my friends and just having them laugh at me, so I wasn't prepared for their humorless reaction. They asked if I was okay and I assured them I was. Then they went back to the conversation. It was nice in a way. It made me feel a little bit less stupid. Like these are just things that happen and it's not anything to dwell on. But I don't know how not to dwell.
After it happened I went back to my desk. I was still pretty mortified. I told my friends Babs and Jen what had happened. Babs told me to put ice on my ankle and Jen told me she had a good doctor from when she fractured her foot. I felt okay. Ankle was a little sore, but it didn't feel like a big deal. Of course, it never does, does it? I took off the heels and put on a pair of flat Timberland boots and made the commute home. I iced it all night on and off. This morning I woke up and it was very sore and stiff. I decided to make an appointment this afternoon with an Orthopedist just to get it x-rayed and make sure nothing is fractured. It moves okay and I can walk flat-footed, but I slipped on a heeled shoe this morning just to test it and it hurt like hell. No way can I walk in a heel right now. That worries me. Because I really like heels and this week is the holiday party and I might end up with a fabulous ace bandage or a cast rather than the sexy mary-janes I had picked out. Well, maybe I can have at least one sexy mary-jane and use crutches. Uh, that sounds awful. I hope it gets better really, really quickly. Nothing like the thought of going to the holiday party in a cast or limping around to do my holiday shopping. Maybe it's just badly bruised and I won't even need a cast or a bandage. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
I am feeling like such a homebody because of the serious drop in temperature, all I want to do is stay home and cook and eat and be lazy. It's times like this that I actually miss having to go to school when I was a kid (it's blasphemy!) for the simple fact that we got summers and lots of holidays off during which we could fuck off to our little heart's content until it was time to go back to school. That three months in the summer was pretty awesome, you have to admit. And the two weeks during the winter? Rad.
Being a grownup sucks when you realize that the three or four weeks vacation that your job allows you per year, if you're even that lucky, is the only real break you're going to get. Not that I'm complaining. Life has dealt me lots and lots of lucky hands, but it sure would be nice if the world operated on an elementary school schedule.
Anyway, back to being a homebody. Instead of the beef stew I was going to make last night, I made beef wellington. I've never made it before and it was the easiest thing imaginable. I thought it would be much more difficult since it seems so sophisticated when you have it in a restaurant, but if you buy the pastry already made it's a complete snap. Filet mignon is hard to ruin as long as you don't overcook it and I can't think of anything better to go with a juicy filet than mushrooms and shallots cooked down in wine and wrapped in puff pastry. I was so happy with the way it came out. I also made a huge batch of roasted garlic mashed potatoes. Since I had so much leftover mash, I decided to go with the beef stew tonight that I was going to make last night.
It's a much lengthier endeavor than the beef wellington and I definitely should have done it yesterday when I had the time, but I couldn't stop thinking about this beef stew made with beer that I'd seen a recipe for on foodtv.com. I had the stew meat ready and it needed to be cooked anyway, so I made the stew, bebe. I am telling you...
the. bomb. If you have the time, I highly suggest that you make this dish. It will really warm up your winter. Hey, no one could accuse me of not supporting the evil beef industry (nor the beloved beer industry). Sorry all my vegetarian friends. Sorry PETA. I know. It's murder. You can close your eyes.
Beef Stew with Caramelized Onions and Amber Lager (Recipe courtesy of Tori Ritchie, Cabin Cooking, Time-Life Books, 1998) Prep Time: 15 minutes; Cook Time: 2 hours 35 minutes; Yield: 4 to 6 servings1/4 cup vegetable oil
2 1/2 lbs. beef stew meat, preferably chuck, cut into 1-inch chunks
1 1/2 pound yellow onions, sliced
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 teaspoons sugar
2 tablespoons all-purpose (plain) flour
1 1/2 teaspoons dried thyme
3 carrots, sliced
1 bottle good-quality amber lager or pale ale
1 cup beef or chicken broth
1 tablespoon tomato paste
Salt and ground pepperIn a large, heavy pot, warm the oil over high heat until hot but not smoking. Working in batches, brown the meat well on all sides, 5 to 7 minutes. Adjust the heat as necessary to keep the meat from scorching. Transfer the browned meat to a plate and repeat until all the meat is browned.
Add the onions and butter to the pot and stir over high heat until the onions start to soften, about 5 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium and sprinkle in the sugar. Continue to cook the onions, stirring occasionally, until golden brown, about 15 minutes. Add the flour, thyme and carrots and raise the heat to high. Stir for 1 minute, then pour in the lager or ale, letting it come to a vigorous boil. Stir in the broth and tomato paste and return to a boil.
Return the meat and any accumulated juices on the plate to the pot, let the liquid come just to a boil, then reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer until the meat is tender when pierced and the sauce is slightly thickened, 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve on warmed individual plates.
Copyright © 2003 Television Food Network (Some details omitted.)
The snow is here!
Rob had to go to work in CT today. Knowing that he would be doing a lot of driving, I decided to be a perfectly devoted girlfriend and get up early to make him breakfast before he had to get on the road. We didn't even realize it had snowed until he went outside to warm up the car and saw that a couple of inches had fallen overnight. It couldn't have happened on a better day. I was ready.
One of the things I do love about New York winters is fresh snow around the holidays. It really gets you in the mood. I grew up in California until I was 14 and after that lived in Southern Oregon. We never had a whole lot of snow around the holidays until we moved to the Colestine Valley and those could be pretty difficult times due to the treacherous roads we had to drive to get to and from "town" (a/k/a Ashland). In New York the snow is easy to handle for the most part because of the public transportation and the fact that the snow melts quickly with so many cars on the roads. Many holidays we spent in Arizona when I was growing up, which was always pretty much guaranteed to be a warm one. Likewise, holidays in California weren't much for winter wonderland spirit.
Snow in New York is the thing that lets you know the holidays are really here and you better enjoy them because they're going to pass and the bitter cold will stay on. All the lights and the sparkle will eventually fade into a long, frigid winter. I'm learning to love winter though. I always fought with it and still do, but a part of me has come to enjoy the warm, cozy things that come with it rather than just dwelling in the fact that it's freezing outside. Like beef stew and mashed potatoes - which I plan to make today - and soft things like fleece blankets and slippers. Winter means cashmere and denim and wool and leather and thick comfy socks and tights, not to mention lots of time indoors to apply yourself to your goals. For this moment I am excited about all the things I'm going to accomplish before spring.
Right now I'm going to get bundled up and go check out that snow.
Global Emails
A poem by Maria Carreon
I don’t know who you people are or why I am being included in your email
You’ve sent it near and also far, containing every minute and inconsequential detail
here and there and everywhere
To lots of folks who just don’t care
About your new baby or your wedding shower
And the updates thereto that come every hour
Whether you’re giving birth or getting married
I couldn’t care less because my work life is so harried.
Your malapropisms and misspellings make me sick
Especially when you refer to marriage as kicking the bucket.
So cease your self important drivel
Before I’m forced to come at you with a chisel.
Wasn't there a book called "The Devil Wears Prada?" Why yes, there was. I even read it. It was not such a stellar literary achievement, though I imagine it was a pretty decent monetary achievement for Lauren Weisberger, the woman who wrote it. I wonder if the new pope has ever read "The Devil Wears Prada." If not, I think someone should get him a copy for Christmas. It might help him realize how ironic it seems for the leader of the Catholic church to go around in a pair of red Prada loafers and Gucci shades. Now, I understand that Prada is a wonderful business that started with a family in Italy many, many years ago and that they make some of the best quality leather goods in the world. But in this day and age Prada and many other high design labels signify a desire to indulge in a type of wealth and ostentation that doesn't really become the pope. But that's just my opinion.
There are a lot of things I could say about this current pope that I'll just keep to myself (*cough*hitleryouth*), as I am not a Catholic and I don't take it too personally that he's the wrong man for the job. But reading about his "penchant" for designer goods and the fact that he is snubbing the tailors who have been making the Pope's outfits since the late 1700s did give me pause for a moment to think about what a turnoff that is coming from someone in his position. Actually, reading about his elaborately adorned vestments sort of reminded me of something I watched on the history channel about Caligula recently. Creepy... So much for surrendering to a life of service and humble abstinence. The pope is big pimpin, spendin Gs. Just wait til he gets his bullet proof ride rimmed up with spinning 20 inch B-L-A-DEES. He can have Gucci and Prada, but you can't have condoms, birth control pills or STD awareness. That's nice.
Thank god the weekend is in clear view. I feel like I was practically ejected out of the tranquility of the breathtaking desert and my heartwarming family vacation directly into a packed subway station with smelly strangers breathing down my neck.
The winter is difficult in New York. Difficult in the sense that it gets very cold and no one wants to walk anywhere so the subways are packed to the gills every day. There has only been one day this week when I wasn't a half hour late to work due to train delays. Monday morning was frustrating. My first train came on time, but when I made my first transfer where I usually catch my express train, the train arrived on the local track. After boarding I caught the announcement that due to signal problems on the express track all trains would be making local stops. If you haven't already guessed it, this also means that twice as many trains are on the local track so that each train is forced to stop for an average of ten minutes at each station.
It is an excruciating experience, especially if you are not wearing the most comfortable shoes, which of course, I wasn't. They're not UNcomfortable. They have a wedge heel and all that but my back begins to ache like a son-of-a-bitch and I start to feel grouchy. In fact, everyone starts to feel grouchy which doesn't exactly promote harmony and brotherly love. It totally sucks. So that was Monday. Tuesday I almost managed to get there on time, though the trains were packed and slow moving (as they will be for the remainder of this winter), there were no ten minute stops.
My good luck ran out right there. On Wednesday my express train from Brooklyn was running smoothly and I thought I was home free, except that when I transferred to my third and final train at Union Square the trains were all backed up due to a sick passenger at 77th Street. I am not making this up folks. It took me more than twenty minutes to go ONE stop on the express train. I know. It sounds impossible. But it's for real. And that wasn't the worst thing about Wednesday morning. The worst thing was that I woke up to the sound of my cat Matilda knocking a glass of water off of the nightstand and realized that the reason she'd knocked it over was because, obviously, she was thirsty. Why was she thirsty? Because although I'd asked Robert to give her food and water before he fell asleep on the couch in front of the tv the night before, he had not done said chore and Matilda was very hungry and very thirsty. And I was very pissed.
This is where I will refer to Darcie's post where she helped me to define the origin of my increasingly jacked up emotions this week, aside from the basic fact that living in this city can be stressful for a hormonally balanced individual, much less a temporarily imbalanced one.
I yelled at Robert about not feeding and providing hydration for Matilda. Then I slammed the door on my way out to go to work. Then I got on the train and everything was fine until the Union Square transfer (though I stayed steemed at Rob for awhile). The subway platform was about five people deep on each side with a narrow path leading through the throngs of waiting passengers. When the train finally came, as many of us fit as the doors could hold. But the doors didn't close quickly as they usually do. They stayed open and the announcement was made about the sick passenger and that we were being held due to resulting congestion. It's amazing the hatred you can feel for a sick passenger when they are the one who is making you late for work. Of course we know that if you're sick there's not a damn thing you can do about it, but we all wish you could get off the train and out of the way a whole lot quicker so that the thousands of people waiting don't all have to get fired from their jobs for being late because of all the sick passengers, signal problems and track suicides. How insensitive is that? I think I win the major shithead award for that sentiment.
No but wait, I haven't even begun to tell you how crazy I can be. So we are all waiting there and the doors are open and I am sandwiched between the seat bars and some dude with a giant black case big enough to carry two bodies, when one final woman decides to squeeze herself onto the train right next to me. As I am shoved into an even tighter position between the bars and the coffin and my anxiety level begins to rise, I take my ipod out of my ear for long enough to look at her and say, "you're kidding me right?" Actually, I cursed at her, but I'm trying to make myself sound like less of a bastard. I said the word "UNfuckingbelievable." I might have said it twice.
But if you think a person couldn't possibly be capable of acting like more of a jerk than that, you didn't see me squeezing a path on the escalator and snapping at the woman at the top who was keeping everyone from walking up on the left side. You see, there is a rule in New York that tourists and people who don't have jobs to get to don't quite understand. The rule is that if you're on an escalator, people on the right stand still and people on the left walk up. If you are on the left and your feet are not moving, you're the asshole. That's just the way it works. And people like me think it's okay to enforce that rule when we are in a hurry, even if it means snapping at a perfectly innocent bystander. "Stander" being the operative word. So after snapping at the woman who had to squeeze herself in next to me on the train (which I probably would have done too if I were her), I squeezed by the lady on the escalator, saying, "people on the left walk up." As I was forging ahead I heard the lady on the escalator say in her thick Long Island accent, "Oh. I'm soo sorryy hunnyyy. I didn't knowww." I could hear the genuinely apologetic tone in her voice, with that motherly sweetness that made me melt a little bit, as I walked on and felt my stomach collapsing inside of me with guilt. But I just kept walking because I was late and I couldn't stop and say I was sorry for being one of those people who doesn't have the time or the patience to just be kind.
I walked through the grand concourse and up the next set of escalators and the next one after that until I finally reached my elevator bank. As I stepped into the elevator I was consumed with a feeling of self loathing and frustration. I made my way immediately to the pantry and swallowed a cup of ice cold water before heading to my desk. I set down my things and went into my boss's office to explain why I was a half hour late. As I looked at his expectant face and told him about the train I could feel my lips beginning to tremble. I excused myself and went to my desk. Then I crumpled. I couldn't stop it. I tried to hold it in, but I think Darcie says it best when she describes it as the "tears lining up at the gates." Mine were lined up since the moment I'd stepped foot into the elevator, and they came crashing out as I plopped down in to my chair. I cried because I felt like a horrible person. I had created all of this hostility towards others out of my own frustrations and I had made other people feel bad. There are much better ways to behave. I felt ashamed and devoid of class.
Anya rounded the corner with her cup of steaming tea and a look of sympathy came over her face as she saw what a teary mess I was. She brought me her big box of tissues and listened to me while I told her about my terrible morning and the whole stupid week. She's a good friend. She listened and commiserated about public transportation and getting it all out to her made me feel a lot better. I told her all the jerky things I'd said and done since I'd gotten out of bed that morning and she forgave me, even though it wasn't her that I'd stepped on.
Today was another difficult morning and commute. My emotions have been on full blast the past two days. But I did myself a favor and bought something I've been wanting for a long time that finally went on sale; these super soft Arianne pajamas that I bought my mom for Christmas last year. I've been wanting a set for myself ever since and they were finally at a price I could feel okay about spending. So I brought them home, poured myself a glass of wine, lit some candles, put in a couple of Tracy Chapman cds, and took a bubblebath, which I rarely do because I'm too wound up and I like showers. I got all scrubbed up and put on my new pajamas and it all made me relax and remember that if I could allow myself to be a little bit less influenced by my surroundings when they're negative, and a little more appreciative of them when they're positive, I could really be on to something.
When I was away from my crazy commute, and relaxing by the palm trees in Arizona, nothing in the world could have made me act the way I did yesterday. But when I allow myself to get caught up in the aggression and insanity of New York, it doesn't always bring out the best in me. I look forward to not having any more days like that one in my near future.