A Step Outside

I've walked out of the bubble for a weekend of rest and minor contemplation. Wednesday I took the train down to Philadelphia running into a friend, a printmaking colleague and 3 aquaintances in the Penn Station rumble. As the train pulled me into New Jersey, I realized that I hadn't left the city or my current state of mind for several months. It is always a bit jarring to match the thought of a breath of fresh air, a break from New York hustle in a greener and cozier place, with the reality of suburbia's lack of sidewalks and feeling like the one dressed a little bit like a mismatched thriftstore enthusiast at each and every family meal.

My brother introduced his new girlfriend to the extended family, a welcome addition. She is smart, lively, willing to interject comments and questions at any point. They glossed their new collaborative project which researches some aspect of lasers and chips and physics and electrical engineering—though I listened to details on the research this is all I can really repeat—a match made in heaven. At this point I also realized that though I am the oldest grandchild on my mother's side of my family I am also the only one currently unattached—New York, luck, timing, choice, oddities in personality? I'm not sure if an answer exists but as questions were fielded about a cousin relocated to London with her boyfriend, another cousin dropped comments about a possible proposal this summer, and my brother's girlfriend circled the kitchen and living room with confidence, I initiated the removal of corks and caps from half a dozen bottles of booze.

My aunt and I encouraged the second annual family single-malt tasting, cleaning a dozen glasses and passing them around. After the first round of tasting, a game of touch football came together and we headed out back. My grandmother lives on the remains of a farm. In the large field behind the house there are 4 bee houses from her beekeeping days and the fall remains of a beautiful tomato garden. I know nothing of football rules or traditions but wanted to get some fresh air, and joined a team with my cousins Alex and Will and a warm belly of scotch.

Alex is tall and fast and intercepted most passes while I ran after a high school freshmen in new Adidas that I hadn't intended to get dirty. My skills did improve however, my brother told me to hold the ball further back because my hands are small, and Alex explained that I should pull my left arm across my chest when lobbying the passes. We took water (read booze) breaks and during a second-half huddle Alex had some words of wisdom for the team, "Alright, so after this, we go inside, drink a lot of beer and criticize our parents, BREAK." We won after my brother was picked off by a grape vine post.

Thanksgiving dinner was delicious, and I ate too much, and slept for a very very long night. This morning, to continue to meld traditions with the rest of America I went to a mall to find a new pair of jeans for my cousin, Will. This was like entering a foriegn and yet bizarrely familiar planet. I remembered stores such as Deb and Claire's Boutique from my middle school years. The entire population of South Jersey had decided to pour into the Cherry Hill Mall...some parents apparently thought it was a good place to allow their toddlers to learn how to walk, anorexic high school girls balanced enormous heads on top of nonexistent frames and Ugg boots, and chubby poof-haired moms filtered into a temporary new store called "A Christmas to Remember." I was ready to run screaming as soon as I saw a boy my age wearing a shirt that said "Jersey Girls Aren't Trash (trash gets picked up)." When we returned to the house I decided to rake some leaves in a meditation to cleanse myself of the mall experience.

I'll spend the rest of the weekend doing some more shopping, driving to and from airports, talking with my parents. And then I'll head back to the bubble and back into round-the-clock studio hours. The thought of returning to the smell of etching hot plates and ink is quite comforting, the way I was longing for suburban simplicity last week. My New York bubble might be a bit anxious, sleepless, and laced with mental gridlock right now, but I'll take it over lunch at Bertucci's, Hollywood Tans and parking lot gridlock anyday—flying over the punched-out rectangle of Central Park at night, back into long walks to the train and flourescent lit cars.

Singalong

The Artist formerly known as 

This morning Ava and I went to a singalong. On Wednesdays at 10 a.m. Park Slope’s original 7th Avenue Tea Lounge turns off its rambling Grateful Dead and allows approximately 800 nannies, moms, and babies to congregate on the sofas to sing about alligators and body parts. Ava was not entirely vocal but seemed to enjoy herself. The half dozen aspiring novelists parked since early morning with French press coffee pots however, did not. They tripped over folded double-strollers, nearly losing their black rim glasses, on the way to the toilet while Good morning to you was repeated around the room.

I love Ava and certainly think that music is very important to toddler education but I really felt like a fraud this morning. I simply didn’t have the energy to jazzercise through Head-shoulders-knees-and-toes or the extra verse of Wheels-on-the-bus added for the “nannies on the bus.” It’s a strange mashing of worlds—the stroller-pushers, usually relegated to tucking their vehicles in corners and hushing their kids into “indoor voices,” break through to say “Goddamit, this is our coffee shop too, I will order my decaf-skim latte and my child will clap loudly through BINGO and you will not complain, because there are more of us than you.”

Ava sat on my lap, happy to observe and lick a key lime cookie. And I attempted to learn a song about catching a taxi...something like “it’s easier than a walk crosstown.” Eventually the nannies filed out, with irritated glances from the writers. I started wondering what it might be like if grown-ups regularly gathered for sing-alongs, and then I realized that I guess this is the phenomenon we call karaoke. Maybe most of us find joy sitting in a 4 by 6 foot room singing along to highlighted words on a screen because it reminds us of when we learned the new verse of Row row row your boat and slumped on a lap, drooling as we gazed across the room at future finance guys, writers, stay-at-home moms, starving artists, bar flys, teachers, and socialites before any of those barriers were built.