Cleaning therapy

I am cleaning my house and I am wiping the slate.

It is the end of the year for me, and I am reaching into the dark corners and wiping them with a wet rag.  I am spraying vinegar and water onto my floors and window sills and commode.  The vinegar is corrosive; it dissolves away the dirt and the grime and the lingering smudges established in the last 365.  Vinegar smells like new things.

This is my spring, my rebirth.  The middle days of June saw me inventorying my work space, moving failures from my desktop into the trash, packing boxes into my closet, saying goodbye to the students I’ve made this year, mentally passing them on to the next grade and the next teachers to handle.  Now it is the end of June, and I am cleaning out my personal space to get ready for my own next life.

I scrubbed the floor so I can’t see any missteps from the year past.  I scoured out the soap scum in the tub so it’s ready for a good, relaxing soak.  I shined the windows and wiped down the blinds and now I can see clearly out into the green courtyard where my neighbors gather to chatter.  I dusted and vacuumed and Febreezed the carpet so now there is no 2011-2012 dust in my home.  I put new pictures on my wall and planned even more to remind me of future good times and positive thoughts.

In this first week of vacation, cleaning up seems like a survival instinct.  I’m driven to de-clutter like there is nothing else worth doing.  Not even HBOgo has slowed me down; only given me something to watch in between tasks.  I am also importing the last of my CDs into itunes, so I can get rid of two boxes of stuff I don’t need.  Throwing away is cathartic.  This evening, I had to tear myself away from the computer and the duster and the hammer and nail to meet a friend for a writing date.  What I was thinking about was:  What about the pantry, which is still a mess?  And the living room has piles of to:goodwill and to:trash items.  And you haven’t even touched the hall closet.  And why don’t you throw away your old tv already.  The tea boxes are so messy crammed into the cupboard!  Organize!  ORGANIZE!

This compulsion to renew the space around me coincides with the desire to forget everything I’ve ever done.  I want to distance myself from work and tired and stress and busy and perhaps if everywhere I look is clean and orderly and fresh, I myself will feel clean and orderly and fresh.  I am painting with the colors of papaya and pineapple and salmon because they are so bright that you can’t possibly think of anything less that happy.

I want to shrug off this past year and dive into a care-free happy summer.  

When my apartment is ready, I will be ready too.

the real me

Reading my writing out loud. It's like a peek inside my crazy, neurotic head. It makes me sound even more insane because what do you think I choose to write about except the most outstanding, ridiculous thoughts of the day. I don't typically put pen to paper about that time I went from morning to evening and nothing fucked up. My happiest times?  I'm too busy having fun or basking in my own glow to crack open the computer and hammer it all out.

And so I end up reading to you about these brief moments of lowered dopamine, because it happens to strike me as an interesting topic days later, when I am fiddling my thumbs trying to come up with something for writing group.

Do you want to hear about the real me?  The me who loves drawing and painting and singing and dancing.  The me who has traveled to six different continents and puts pictures and memories into little booklets so that the trips stay alive during the long year at home.  The me whose apartment is filled with pillows and blankets and couches and cushions for hanging out.  The me who likes dinner parties and hiking and eating cookies and the color gray and has never lost a game of Boggle.  This me wants to meet a man, fall in love, and have a family, but doesn’t want to settle down. 

Do you want to hear about the me I put out there for first dates and old married friends from high school?  She is sweet and charming and laughs easily and likes to talk about herself.  She gets rosy from the alcohol and has a hard time eating because she is so nervous.  She will not kiss you on the first date and she will not like it if you try.

Do you want to hear about the me that my students know?  I have red hair and wear a lot of jewelry. I hate whining. Community Circle is sacred and I do not tolerate when you lie down or whisper while someone else is sharing. I listen to Beyonce every morning; she wakes me up when the caffeine doesn’t.  I judge books by their covers. I am very loving and warm and use pet names like Sweetie and Honey and stay calm most of the time.  I don’t yell very often.  At least, that's teacher me right now;  2010-2011 me was a different beast.

Do you want to hear about me as a daughter, a sister, a cousin?  I am the good girl.  I got the good grades.  I was nice.  I was responsible.  I babysit.  Sometimes I cannot stand my brothers, like when they are acting their age.

College me wrote for the newspaper, ate Shabbat dinner with Hillel, worked at Jamba Juice, started an a capella group, and visited old ladies in nursing homes.  One time I painted a giant replica of Gustav Klimpt’s The Virgin and we hung it in our dormitory lounge.  At the end of the year, one of the boys made an impassioned request to take it home with him.  I was just going to throw it away, so I said sure. 

High school me took every art class offered until there were none left and then they had to offer AP art studio in which I excelled but only earned a three out of five on the AP exam.  This news was less soul-crushing than the B I was given in AP Calc, even though I aced all the tests except the Big One.  High school me hated calculus.  High school me had a crush on Mike Silver for two years until we were finally left in my friend’s bedroom on New Years Eve and got to make out.  This was a formative experience.

Grade school me? Spacey and smart and chatty.  My mother used to stand me up in the backyard with a towel around my shoulders and a butterscotch candy in my mouth while she cut my hair.  I slept in a bunk-bed above my brother and read books way past my bedtime.  I had several best friends. 

Me as a baby? I learned to crawl backwards before I could crawl forwards. I wouldn't fall asleep unless I was in the car.  I was an only child back then.

****

Nowadays, I find myself teetering on the edge of a giant abyss, tip-toeing my way around the crack in the earth that waits and waits and waits for me to fall in.  There is nothing in that empty canyon, just darkness, but I’m still curious.  I know that if I try to peek, if I lean over too far, I’m going to pitch forward and my body will float down down down lightly until I hit the bottom.  The fall isn’t hard; you don’t have to think about it.  Gravity takes over.  It’s once you have stopped and are looking up at the bright sky above and thinking how high it is and how slick the walls that you remember you prefer the sun.

I long for the warmth of the sun.

I am stuck.

Vortex of Despair

My neighbor is playing a piano sonata and I can hear it through the window. It makes me remember that the world is lovely and how nice it is to be alive and young and able bodied. This is of course in stark contrast to the previous day, when I was waiting and waiting and waiting for a response to a text message that DIDN’T COME fast enough, and I got so worked up that I ended up crying on the phone in an emotional frenzy to my friend Kathryn.

“I know it’s stupid and irrational, but I’m going down the vortex of despair! I know it’s ridiculous, I know, because earlier in the afternoon I was fine, but now I’m waiting for a stupid response and my heart is just falling and there’s probably a million reasons why he’s not writing me back – like he’s asleep – but I feel like I can’t be happy on my own and my every feeling hinges on whether some guy likes me or not.”

When I told her that I felt emotionally handicapped by my dependence on men, she replied, “I know.” And then, after a brief pause, “Adina, when was the last time you ate?”

I had to admit that I had skipped dinner the previous night (because I was too busy sleeping with the aforementioned dude), and I had not yet eaten this evening because I was too busy being depressed about the aforementioned dude. I sat there thinking. I guess I was sort of hungry. I also realized that I was up to my neck in hormones, having doubled my birth control pills so that the aforementioned sex could happen whenever I wanted.

Duh. I am hangry and hormonal. This depression has absolutely nothing to do with reality.

A similar situation happened the previous week, in which I was involved in a very competitive game of Words With Friends. You can already tell that my moment of despair was as serious and life-threatening as a tube sock. It’s embarrassing to admit that what sent me over the edge was that my partner didn’t play his turn for several hours. I know. First world problem. In case you don’t know, Words With Friends is a Scrabble game that you play on your phone when you don’t have anything else to do or you have a lot to do but are procrastinating. The game board doesn’t sit in front of you – it’s an application on your phone that you have to repeatedly refresh or else stare at the screen every three minutes to see if the pop-up message appears letting you know that it’s your turn. Let’s say you’re a sixth grade teacher and you’ve made a resolution to keep your phone in your purse in your desk during class. You’d then only be able to play in the early morning before the kids come and in the afternoon after work. And maybe during your lunch break and your prep period. Maybe once while the kids are busy writing?

Is the part where I tell you I was beating him by over 100 points? Is that relevant? Or that I sent a message about having all vowels in my hands for the third time in a row? Or that his response (without actually playing his hand) was to tell me that I “fucking brag much?”

Another time, I found myself spiraling down the vortex when my Saturday and Sunday plans both got cancelled. I hate being flaked on. I know, everyone hates being flaked on. It’s pure rejection. Unless you have some good excuse like you thought your husband could watch the kids but it turns out that he’s still in Houston for work and you read the calendar wrong and you wish you could drive up to LA but you have a six year old and a four year old and therefore aren’t at liberty to do what you want anymore. So sorry! Ok, I’ll feel fine after my friend Haley flakes out like that, because it makes me feel sorry for her and feel better about my own life, but for everyone else – LAME. I am rejected. And added bonus – now I have to OCCUPY MY TIME.

Last weekend when that happened, I managed to internet for several hours before I reached the crazy place. I called up Kathryn ready to whine and before I could finish the phrase, “….sooooooooo fucking bor—“ she invited me to come over to hang out.

We are kindred spirits. She was bored too. We sat on her couch and ate raspberry licorice and watched a movie about Black hair. I felt 300 percents better.

Back to the Words with Friends. It’s probably appropriate to point out here that my game partner in question (who happens to be the aforementioned sex man) was on vacation in Denver. To watch football. This is the real crux of the despair. His phone scrabble game was not the most important thing. And I am not the most important person. And it’s this big irony because obviously I do not want to be with a guy whose favorite activities in life revolve around virtual games. Or one who does not have other friends. It’s a true fact that I am attracted to people who have too much going on.

So you – I – who’s telling this story? Isn’t this universal? Doesn’t everyone freak out when their not boyfriend goes on radio silence for a few hours while watching football on holiday? After sending a sarcastic message that I misread as plain-old-mean, he carried on and had a life for a few hours. And meanwhile, I sat in my living room and melted in a pool of despair until I called Kathryn and she advised me to eat and stop self-regulating my hormones and--

Ding!

What is that. Is that a text message. Is it better than a text message. Is it a WORDS WITH FRIENDS text message, yes it is.

“Girl! Sorry sarcasm doesn’t come through on here. I’m not mad you fucking hottie.”

Plus, he played his turn.

And with that, my spirits rose one hundred feet in the air and suddenly I was flying amongst clouds and rainbows and unicorns and fairies and I am smiling and happy and the world is lovely and how nice it is to be alive and young and able bodied.

A Not Love Letter

I do not love you. But I do lust for you, and I also miss you. When I think about getting up in the morning, I think about climbing out of your bed and tip-toeing to the bathroom in the blueish light that shines through the window. I think about climbing back under the covers and wrapping myself around you, feeling your heat cover me, feeling your arms and your legs fold into mine, closing my eyes to the happiness that is being next to you.

I smile at you. I smile because you are so human. I knew your faults before I knew your charm or your sweetness. I remember every time you have dropped belongings out of your hands; I keep a picture in my head of the laughter afterwards. I remember every time you have walked ungracefully through the door. I hope it is because you know I am watching. I remember all the humbling things you have told me about yourself. My favorite part is your bashful smile when you realize you have told me more than you expected, again. I like that you want to impress me but you don’t know that I like a work in progress.

I do not love you. I am scared of you. On a Sunday afternoon, I lie on my carpet and think of seven reasons why you don’t call. On Thursday night, I wait for you but you don’t come and my heartbeat gets faster and heavier and louder until I can’t hear the voice in my head that says it’s all right, because the voice has been drowned out by hot tears starting to fight their way down my cheek. I feel foolish and embarrassed, like I’ve worn the wrong outfit to school and everyone is pointing as I walk down the hallway. Do they all know that it’s the first time you’ve disappointed me? I excuse myself to wipe off the tears and there you stand, by the door, drunk. I can’t bear to be here in this room, but you run after my car and kiss my neck and that makes me feel better and worse. I am scared of you because you don’t even know how much you might mean to me.

When I think about weekends, I think about your soft couch and lying all over it with our feet touching and our hands touching and our lips touching. I think about the acronyms we’ve invented as excuses for staying in bed. One more hour, ten more minutes, thirty more seconds. Instead of going home, we go to lunch. Instead of going to sleep, we talk. Instead of doing work, I daydream because it is Saturday and Sunday and I don’t have to be responsible and I can wear your clothes and eat candy in the movie theater and hear about what you were like as a boy. The whole day passes and I am in awe that I have been smiling since yesterday.

My feelings are quiet even though I wear them on my face. You have seen me cry over hurt feelings and hurt electronics. I know I am grown up and I have a career and I pay my bills on time and my haircut matches my wardrobe, but I need lots of hugs. You are quick to hug. You are quick to apologize. You are quick to tell me all the stupid things you’ve done that are even worse than my stupid things and that turns my sadness into giggles. It makes me wonder if my not love could turn into yes love.

I hope you read this and don’t know at once that it is about you. I never show you what I write because it is too personal, even though you know all my other personal details, like my favorite vegetable, or how I drool in my sleep, or the restaurants I have taken all my first dates in the past. I hope that deep down, you understand that I do not love you today, but I will later, or soon. Maybe you understand why the idea of you is scary and why I smile when I answer the phone and the difference between then and now. I hope your now is better than your then. I hope I am better than your then.

I hope you do not love me just as I do not love you.

Stickers and Stamps

I have never believed in monsters, but I do believe in the power of stickers. I have a whole pack of brightly-colored, fat, furry, monster stickers sitting on my desk, ready to give out to students who complete assignments perfectly or are the first to finish. I’m not talking essays or book reports, here, more like geography competitions and which group can locate all six pages numbers corresponding to “semi-colon usage” in the index.

I wasn’t a huge sticker fan when I was younger. I think maybe I collected stamps once, those tiny colored squares with ridged edges marked with cancellation notes in foreign languages. I would cut them off envelopes and store them in a little box in my desk. My tiny paper art collection.

This year, I’ve discovered that even six graders like stickers.

The first day, I started with simple stars. Slightly metallic, various colors. I offered the team that did the best a star sticker on their face. There were a few scoffs, but when the time came to score, you better believe there was some jealousy among the audience when I pressed the shiny stars onto four students’ cheeks. An attentive gaze that lingered on the wearer’s face.

The following day, I gave out happy faces. Many kids bore their happy face award right smack in the middle of their forehead. Even though most of the stickers were torn off by the end of the day, I still saw the odd pink or green circle sticking out of the crowd. Like a badge of honor.

They like the monster stickers the best. These monsters with their fat bellies and green fur and red tails and orange bouncy eyeballs. Maybe they see themselves in the grotesque forms. Gangly arms, too tall, too short. A body that doesn’t look like the others. Twelve is hard. Everyone feels like an outsider in middle school.

Firsts

My first car was a red, tiny thing. Almost plastic-like, she had roll-up windows and punch-down locks. I named her “Juegato,” which means something like “little toy” in Spanish.

I paid for her in cash. Three thousand dollars. I remember spending weekends crawling through the automotive section of the Recycler, hoping to find something cheap and also cute. My first car was not going to be a mom’s car. When I found the compact section, and then the cheapo Hundais, and then a red one at that, I was sold. I crossed my fingers all the way to the mechanic. She cleared the inspection and I got to drive my little toy away.

Having a car in La Jolla meant freedom. I was in my last year of college at UCSD and that city is not fun for pedestrians. Sure, we could spend our Saturdays at Ralphs and AMC, rolling shopping carts down the aisles lazily and then staying for double features, but in order to get to the real action, you had to drive.

My first job off campus was north, at a synagogue, helping a six-year-old boy with Autism through Sunday school. It was the worst. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. He didn’t talk, he couldn’t write, and when he was being wild and I was supposed to calm him down by putting him into a bear hug, he pinched.

I drove home down the 5 every Sunday afternoon with the windows cranked open, air blowing over my face, hair whipping around, country radio blazing out of the tinny speakers. As the miles added up, my spirit rose. It was good to be in the driver’s seat.

labor day

I spent today and last night and Saturday morning and Friday night in bed and on the couch and rolling around and eating out with my new friend who might become more. Or, he might just be a good time. We haven't decided yet. We talked about everything and nothing and did a fuck ton of snuggling. I need to keep him because oh my GOD, where else am I going to find a man who considers a weekend of spooning a good time? I mean really, he rubbed me down on every single inch of my body.