Reacquainted

It appears that I suffer from a strange amnesia. I seem to have the same revelations over and over. It astonishes me that I can forget a revelation.

It is a shame, because these insights should be instructive. I should build on them to improve my life.

This week I was in Washington, DC doing a freelance project for a client I had a decade ago. I haven't worked in public policy since 1999. It was strange instance of deja vu to be riding the Metro and visiting Congressional offices.

I was reintroduced to people I worked with while lobbying. We haven't met in ten years, and an unacknowledged assessment of our alterations accompanied each of our greetings.

The things I recall are also strange. While walking in the basement of the Dirksen building I remembered that there was a crummy cafe in the area that had a wonderful veggie burger.

Of course, some things have changed. The staffers seem impossibly young to me now. Security has made access to buildings more difficult.

The gift from this experience is that hard-gained knowledge was submerged rather than erased. While holding discussions with Congressional staffers and my peers, long forgotten points of food safety policy emerged.

The insight I want to recall is that the work of the past always informs the present. The conventional view is that the events of the past are dead. I finally threw away all of my records related to public policy work in August 2008. Now I find myself unexpectedly engaged in it again.

I retain easily the notion that negative past events can haunt a person at any time, but it somehow surprises me to realize that neutral or positive past experiences can influence one's life years later.

I tend to underestimate my power, skills, and resources. What I hope to recall in the future is that my experiences live within me and can be tapped at any time.

The Unfortunate Twin

When I lived in Soho there was a homeless girl who lived in a Spring Street doorway. She stayed there for about a year, then left.

Today I saw her in the streets of Chelsea.

A couple of years ago she looked really young. I estimated that she was about 16-18 years old at the time. She looks like someone in her mid-20s now.

I haven't seen her since the fall of 2007. At that time, I assumed she was a runaway. She didn't appear to be high and I didn't notice any track marks. She had poise, which made her seem unlikely to have a serious mental illness. She also kept herself in pretty good condition. Her hair was clean and her clothes didn't look frayed. She used eyeliner every day.

As I write this I am chiding myself for associating mental health with poise. Words I rarely conjure are emerging in my mind, such as ragamuffin, and it reflects an association of this situation with my mother and her silly views. It is as if unwelcome opinions my mother expressed when I was a scruffy teenager are being echoed in my statements about this girl and it bothers me. Yet, I know from experience that a person's inability to maintain a certain level of personal hygiene is an indicator of mental illness.

When I had left-overs, I used to pack them up in a bag and deliver them to her. I included disposable utensils, paper plates, napkins, and a bottled beverage. If I had enough food, I packed a bag with two meals so she could share it with a friend or have her own left-overs.

It was awkward to deliver these bags to her. I aimed to give her the bag in a respectful way. Usually the bags were shopping bags of the sort I used to bring my lunch to work. I told her I was giving her the bag because I thought she might want some food, and would list contents of the bag. I would close with something like, "I hope you enjoy it." and walk away.

I didn't expect her to thank me profusely and look upon me as some kind of savior. But I also didn't expect her to just stare at me as if she were my teenage daughter and I was annoying her. The look she gave me must have resembled the look I gave my parents when they lectured the teenage me and I wanted them to know I thought they were horrid people.

I suppose her look was a form of karmic retribution.

When she disappeared, I would pass the empty doorway and wonder what became of her. I liked to speculate that she found a better life, if not a happy ending.

I suppose it isn't surprising that she is back on the street, although I am disappointed to see her in this condition again. What seems more striking is the coincidence that, of the thousands of blocks in New York City, we are once again situated a couple of blocks from each other.

It prompts me to ponder whether our fates are somehow connected. In my self-centered musings she seems to manifest a version of my angry and unhappy teenage self. Perhaps she is the version of me who gave up and didn't pull myself through college. She may be the looking-glass twin version who embodied my fear at the time: sliding through the cracks and ending up on the street.

Or maybe her presence raises the issue that there may have been some sense in my mother's poorly expressed views. There may have been a logic I didn't perceive at the time. Perhaps my mother also feared I would relent; that I would tire and stop working three jobs to cover tuition. I wasn't inclined to regard her remarks about my appearance as anything but criticism because they were critical. My mother wasn't doing anything to help me go to school, so the notion that she really cared that I go to school and make a life for myself wasn't strong.

What I struggle to understand even now is that people are inconsistent and express themselves poorly. As an inconsistent person who also expresses herself poorly, I should grasp this concept easily.

Whatever her opinions of me are, I hope the homeless girl isn't here for long. Not that I want her away from me because I dislike or fear her.

I hope she doesn't return because she has established a life for herself. Whatever got her here must be difficult, and getting off of the street is a major challenge. For what it is worth, I wish her a hundred thousand blessings.

Gifted

I have served on the benefit host committee of Coney Island USA for a few years. Each year, I act as a Coney Island USA cheerleader until five friends buy $100 tickets to the annual gala fundraiser.

Fortunately, this year I declined to be on the committee. I suspected I wouldn't be able to raise the minimum amount, and didn't want to be held accountable by making a $500 donation I couldn't afford.

Although I know I made the right decision, it made me sad to miss the gala. It is the best party in New York City.

What a happy surprise when my mermaid friend and former benefit host committee pal informed me she bought a ticket for me! I am blessed with wonderful friends.

We enjoyed the knife-throwing, burlesque, music, fire-eating, sword-swallowing, and trapeze shows. During the breaks in the shows, we danced like our lives depended upon using every ounce of energy in our bodies.

It is a running joke that I try to kill the mermaid's boyfriend by exhausting him on the dance floor. We give it our best shot each year at the gala.

Several of the performers and other party-goers joined us. Such a happy, bouncing group must have been attractive.

I love dancing and welcome others who share the spirit. This pretty girl danced with me for a while. Before taking off with friends she told me that she loved my beautiful smile.

This is the kind of exchange that is difficult to express in the hyper sexualized and homophobic United States. Sometimes you get the opportunity to just enjoy being with people -- even if they are strangers. I suppose my only agenda is to try to walk away from an interaction without unpleasantness. There is no angling for anything like money or sex, and I prefer the same from others. It is so cool when other people are on the same page and we can just have fun.

It was a blast to jump around with my friends and this girl. Her compliment was generous and I am grateful to her for it.

Later, one of the burlesque girls joined us. At one point she dipped me and bit me on the belly! It was quite a surprise, but I thank her for giving me a great anecdote for the rest of the month.

Dinner and Drinks

Last night I met a friend for happy hour at XES. I caught a posting about a hole in his schedule on Face Book, and thanks to social networking we soon had a plan to meet.

We have been close friends for years. Until recently, our offices were a couple of blocks away and we would meet for lunch every couple of weeks. I hadn't seen him in a month and a half and I missed him.

He has put his social life into high gear. It sounds like he is visiting several bars and parties every night.

I met several of his friends and he and I caught up. He always makes me laugh. It was also good to be out and about doing something I would have done prior to being laid off. It make me feel more normal and less like a desperate person holed up at home waiting anxiously for more freelance work or a real job.

I should have saved money and gone home to eat, but I wanted to spend more time with him. We went to one of my favorite pizza parlors, Waldy's. This is one of the places we frequented for lunch, and it turned out they had a recession special: soda, small cheese pizza, and salad for $10.

Hurrah for my friend, Waldy's, and XES happy hour. I got a fun night out in NYC for less than $20.

Unraveling Net

My friends far and wide have been wonderful in helping me look for work. They have provided me with people to call to network, which is the best way to find employment.

A friend from high school contacted me through Face Book and gave me the name of a woman at a PR firm to contact. Today I called her, but she was no longer at the firm. It appears that she was laid off.

This seems to indicate the depth of the unemployment crisis. The laid off are reaching out to the employed network, and finding out their network contacts have also joined the ranks of the unemployed.

Uprising

My mermaid friend in Coney Island often hosts holiday feasts. I took the hour and a half subway ride to the beach on a beautiful Easter Sunday.

I walked the length of the boardwalk to her Seagate apartment. It was a glorious sunny day. I ate a caramel apple and carried a bag containing my roasted potatoes dish for the party.

The mermaid has a wonderful collection of friends. We chatted and grazed until the needle dropped on the Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack.

The six foot plus former Golden Gloves champion couldn't resist doing a John Travolta move across the floor. This was our gateway to bliss. Every song got our bodies moving.

We formed a line and danced. We had duets and solos. Other guests arrived to find us in full swing by 6pm.

An extra long twisting session left us exhausted and sweaty. We put on our coats and walked to the beach.

It was cold but there was a beautiful sunset. The strong wind swept the sand so it looked like a low, moving fog hovering above the dunes. The cold water swimmer took a dip in the frigid ocean.

You never know where the day will take you. This was the best Easter I have ever celebrated. I felt uplifted. None of us expected a joyous dance party. We were all grateful to get one.

Dancing requires more than timed movements. It also takes a nexus of participants, a rare event in the US.

We seemed like a diverse crowd of personalities. We didn't know whether others at the party were the type to risk swaying to the Bee Gees. What an unlikely blessing that all of us shared a love for the music and movement. We created elation.

Anxious

Yesterday was one of those awful rainy days best spent indoors. It actually rained the entire day without stop.

I was waiting for a furniture delivery, which is a source of tension. I am not happy about the furniture for many reasons. I custom ordered it back in September when I had a job. It took way too long to arrive, it is the wrong color, and it appears to be dented from its trip from Morocco. It was supposed to be built out to my specifications, but I haven't seen any evidence of that work. Of course, I also don't have the means to pay the balance of the piece now.

On top of this, I was also worried that a piece I already don't like will get further damaged in the rain. Although the proprietor came to inspect the stairway and doorway, I am also not confident that this piece will fit through the door.

I spent the day cleaning the apartment and doing chores.

I was supposed to go on a date that afternoon, and was feeling even more anxious as the furniture didn't arrive and the time for the date approached.

I felt ambivalent about the date. The fellow is much younger than me. I don't know his exact age, but I know he is too young for me. He is sweet, engaging, and cute but it isn't a good fit.

Finally, the date texted that he would be two hours late. I used the opportunity to cancel the date.

The furniture didn't come and the fellow at the store didn't return my calls inquiring about the status of the delivery.

I felt anxious all day. By the evening, the things I had stressed about had not come to pass and my apartment was clean.

The Obligation

Sometimes too much of what I do seems like an obligation. There are the usual obligations like work and social reciprocation, and there are the daily things that must be done such as washing, brushing, cleaning, paying bills, and preparing food. Somehow meeting obligations takes the bulk of my time.

Getting mail has become a dreaded activity. I used to look forward to getting letters and magazines, but now I get guilt bomb letters from my mother and bills. The bills I expect are fine, it is getting sideswiped with charges I didn't make, fees, and refusal of insurance coverage that is wearing me down. My cell phone bill was sky high last month because I spent hours on the phone trying to sort out these issues I did nothing to create.

The letters from my mother are worse. They usually make me so upset I can't sleep. Then, I am upset, tired, and not thinking properly for days. I should throw her letters away without reading them.

A major cause of my distress is her distorted thinking. She writes things she would never say to me. She implies that she is incapable of surviving on her own and that it is my duty to take care of her. Her arguments are insane; it infuriates me that she is sufficiently devoid of reason to write out her rationalizations and send them to me.

My mother is a 63 years old welfare queen. She enjoys imagining herself in poor health, but aside from being obese, is fine. For reasons I cannot fathom, she is convinced that she is not capable of working. She seems to believe it was her birthright to have others care for her. When she was married, she was a full time wife and mother although she only had one child to look after and the house wasn't exactly spotless.

She is lucky to have gotten a pension of approximately $30,000 a year from my father as part of her divorce settlement. Of course, her view is that she is entitled to more. She is convinced she has been denied what she deserves.

Unfortunately, she was enabled by my grandfather who continuously paid her way when she found herself over her head in debt. Now he is gone, she has squandered her sizable inheritance from him, and she is coming to me with her hand outstretched.

It infuriates me that I worked hard to put myself through college without the help of my family and have scrambled my entire adult life to make a living, and now that I am laid off she has the nerve to send me a six page letter telling me it is my obligation to move back home and take care of her.

I have worked since I was 14 years old. I would be delighted to get a $30,000 check every year for doing nothing. If my grandfather's inheritance had gone to me, it would be earning interest now.

I can't let myself think about what has happened and how stupidly my mother has acted. There is nothing I can do to change her behavior. The past cannot be revisited. It just makes me angry and depressed.

However, her letters thrust her self-created problems on me. It is the ultimate insult that when I am in crisis my mother sees it as an opportunity to get me to abandon my aspirations to do her bidding.

I don't know a way to resolve the problem that is my mother, except through humor. Now I wish I hadn't torn up her letter upon reading it (a fact that would mortify her). In the future I should keep her toxic missives and mine them for their absurdities. Perhaps I could compile them in a book: A Treasury of Letters from the Insane.

Home Delivery

One of the benefits of living in New York is the local paper. It would be difficult for me to be more enthusiastic about the New York Times.

Their reporting is fantastic, but their billing is awful. I've subscribed for about a dozen years. They almost always send bills that arrive after my payment is due to them.

Today I went online to check my account because I suspected there was a billing error, but my password and ID combination didn't work.

I love when access to ID or password information is dependent upon answering vague questions such as: What is your favorite book?

Avid readers of the New York Times tend to be regular readers with multiple favorite books. Choosing a favorite book is like identifying a favored child. Who chose this question?

Clearly, my reply to the question didn't work.

So, I used my new Skype phone to call customer service. This is only the third time I've used the phone.

It sounded like my call was picked up and put on hold. What a shock to hear a recording advertising a sex phone service on the New York Times customer care line.

Did Skype accept a call from some random service? Is the New York Times aware that this sex ad is running on its call holding recording?

I checked the number again.

I had inverted the last two digits. So much for "hot girls open to all you've got" while you are on hold with the publisher of all news fit to print.

City Consideration

It seems ridiculous to say I am being frugal when my post lay-off expenses (computer repair, COBRA, cell phone bill, etc.) have been extreme.

Because I have been thrifty for a long time, I have enough savings to cover these expenditures. But I also have few options for further reductions.

One recent change has been a switch from using a laundry service to using the laundromat.

I hate laundromats. They must be some of the most consistently depressing places on Earth. They are always run-down and grubby. It doesn't seem likely that dirty clothes will become clean in such a crummy environment.

Everyone in these places is a bit down on their luck. The employees are earning little and the patrons don't have enough money for laundry service, let alone apartments with washers or dryers on premises. Some patrons appear to be homeless.

The environment oozes boredom. Everyone is waiting for a cycle to end. One can't get too distracted by a book or newspaper because they might miss the opportunity to add soap to the wash cycle or snag a free dryer.

Since my time is flexible, I try to time my visits for moments when the laundromat is fairly empty. Around 3pm is ideal.

Today there was only one other patron using the triple loader. He looked like another freelancer. He was reading a newspaper and book.

We sat a seat apart while waiting for the wash cycles to end. We didn't engage in any small talk.

His laundry went to the dryer before mine. When he was finished loading it, he asked if I would watch his things. Of course, I nodded yes.

As he exited, he paused at the door. It was raining outside. "Would you like anything from the deli?" he asked casually as if he had been my super considerate husband for the past five years.

New Yorkers have a depth of kindness that amazes me.