Visualizing Shakespeare

I must confess I broke my own rule recently. One afternoon last week, I walked to the grocery store in my yoga pants. This is not a particularly earthshattering confession, I admit. But it caused quite a bit of angst for me. Although I am flexible about most rules, I aspire to adhere to the ones I set myself. (This is an inherently Italian trait.) Thou shalt not be seen in public in exercise kit unless exercising or making thy way to exercise, including but not limited to yoga, walking the dog, running, hiking, snowshoeing, etc., etc. Leaving the house to do chores in clothes intended to soak up sweat is strictly verboten.

A friend from school agrees. She says, she always dresses like she might meet her worst enemy on the street. For her this rule is intended to avoid the pain of jealousy and embarrassment if she finds herself face-to-face with that girl in college who made her feel small. Who know that person, the one who knows the whereabouts of that money tree you’ve been searching for your whole life. And she knows how to spend it on looking fit and fabulous.

For me, it’s about the possibility of meeting a client or prospective client at the grocery store, which happens quite a lot more often than you might imagine. As a freelancer with a work-at-home job, the temptation to sit around in baggy pants and a ratty t-shirt for three days can be overwhelming. But when I leave the house in the middle of a workday, it is imperative that I appear dressed for work. This doesn’t mean a suit and shiny shoes or even a skirt and heels. Jeans are acceptable—the good jeans though, not the faded weekend jeans. Because the potential for running into a client is very real, I would rather look like I’m just dashing out during a break from a serious design challenge than racing to the store for yet another chocolate bar between binge watching the latest PBS Masterpiece costume drama series.

So there I was, walking down the sidewalk, carrying a grocery bag, browsing the aisles, pulling foodstuffs off shelves, placing them in my basket, checking items off my list, standing in the checkout line, exchanging pleasantries with the woman behind the cash register, and so on until I retraced my steps and arrived home. I reentered the house in a sweat. I guess technically that means I had not broken my rule. Except I really had, and in so doing I had invited agita upon myself.

To some this rule would seem silly perhaps and not worth the stress it produced on this occasion. But imposing a set of guidelines intended to pilot yourself through life’s tiny pitfalls is a worthy cause. Putting your best foot forward, even on a walk to the grocery store, is one of those minor victories that ripple outward, affecting your whole day, your whole outlook. As the old adage goes, you gotta dress for success. And if that’s not enough to convince you, remember those tops and pants you sweat in do not smell good, no matter how well you wash them.

As any good Italian-American will tell you, the role of the godfather is an important one in any good Italian-American family. Am I stating the obvious? This could be a truth universally acknowledged by anyone who has ever caught an episode of The Sopranos or reruns of The Godfather. I couldn’t say. This may be true for other families who practice the ritual of baptism. I couldn’t speak for them either. I only know my own experience.

Here is what I know. The road to Schenectady is a long and desolate one, through the barren wasteland that is the Massachusetts Turnpike in its final countdown to the New York state line. Exit 4: West Springfield. Exit 3: Westfield. Exit 2: Lee. Exit 1: West Stockbridge. One begins to anticipate the end of the road—a rock wall perhaps, a precipice for sure—around the next bend. Not this one, the next one. Or is it the next one? The road rises and falls, crossing the Catskills and the elusive Appalachian Trail, an intangible pursuit carved into the bedrock of the northeast. If a person didn’t know better, she might think she had reached the end of the known world upon sighting the You Are Now Leaving Massachusetts sign. Alas, the road continues. What once seemed dark and looming stretches out into a strange flat—a no man’s land—between the last waypoint and the next, the Welcome to New York sign.

From November to April the ground is frozen, frosted, and forbidding. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas a perpetual snow blankets the divided highway. Overpass May Be Icy signs, so easy to ignore in August, loom like a threat over the holiday season. And the overpasses themselves are unremarkable bridges, allowing wildlife to cross under the road unhindered, barely noticeable but for the warnings. There are exits for humans too. They are marked and signed. The signs marking the exits are the only signs of life. No lights. No cars. Snow on the grass. Black ice on the road. Snow on the radio. Nothing to do but wonder, What’s the bother? What’s the use of driving this road, this far, this time of year (or any time of year)?

For the godfather, that is why.

He summoned.

“Did you make plans for Thanksgiving yet?”

“Yes, I’m cooking for [him] and [them] and [her] too.”

A spreading silence at his end of the phone.

“I was really looking forward to seeing you.”

An almost imperceptible pause at her end.

“I’ll be there in the morning.”

She drove.

Why, you wonder? Why go all that way alone? Just because he asked?

Yes, just because he asked. He is the godfather. She needed no other reason. He taught her how to fish, how to play tennis. He vetted every boyfriend, threatened to break knee caps at every break-up. He stuffed cash in her pockets when she graduated from high school, from college, and when she got married. He paid for her post-wedding family brunch just because he wanted to, not because anyone asked. He called her a rat-fink traitor when she moved to Colorado. He said it was “about time” when she moved home three months later. He stuffed a basket full of wine and candy and bracelets and scratch tickets and socks when she moved into her own apartment at Easter. He made her run the Turkey Trot and watch bad AMC movies when she lost her job at Thanksgiving. He bought her more wine and scratch tickets and a new running jacket and warmer socks at Christmas when she signed the divorce papers.

So she drove.

She drove to his daughter’s (her cousin’s) wedding shower, to the family barbeques, to her cousin’s wedding. She drove to her cousin’s baby shower, to more family barbeques, and to more holiday dinners. She drove because he expected her to. Because it was the right thing to do.

He knew right from wrong. Not in a high-handed way. He was capable of moral relativism, but only where it applied to others. He held himself to a higher standard.

I’ll give you an example. It was about four years ago now, when his ex-wife became ill. She was diagnosed with lupus and something else chronic and fatal. They had split years ago. Not a few years. Like 20 years. And then the strokes started. Her health declined steadily. Her cognition slipped away. Her legs slipped out from under her. She was confined to a wheelchair first, then a nursing home. He took care of all of it all, in his uniquely superhuman and understated manner.

He handled it in a godfatherly way. Not in an overbearing, hefty Marlon Brando or James Gandolfini sort of way. He handled it in a modest, unprepossessing, Al Pacino sort of way. He was fit of frame, slight of build, his dark hair thinning in the front, his Italian beak of a nose suspended over a kind smile. (I bet you’ve never noticed that: Al Pacino, king of the fictional underworld, has an unassuming smile.)

Hmm, did you catch that? I almost missed it myself. I said “was.” He was fit. And then he wasn’t.

So she drove on Thanksgiving day, then again four days before Christmas, and then again two weeks later, for the last time.

It all happened too quickly for her. The pancreatic cancer had spread too quickly. But he handled it the way he handled everything—with strength and dignity and decisiveness. He decided when it was time. He told her at Thanksgiving that he was done. He told her he loved her. And he checked into the hospital after she left. He made all the arrangements and said all the goodbyes. And when there was nothing left to do, he waited for her that Friday before Christmas. He waited for her to complete the drive. And then, a few hours later, he was gone.

At Easter I caught myself musing about that drive. I was missing it—longing for it—in a way that seemed irrational at best. Then I heard it. “Duh, Sah,” he said.  (He had a way of diminishing my name to something childlike, his New York accent sinking the r. It always amazed me that an act of reduction could fill me with such love.)

“It’s not about the drive, sweetie.” I heard his voice in my head.

I keep hearing his voice in my head, over and over. And I keep wondering, What does it mean? I mean, really, What is it all about? It’s not about the drive. It’s not about the bike. It’s not about the nail. Please don’t tell me it’s about the hokey pokey, because I will just give up right now. And anyway, I thought it was about the drive, like in that, “it’s about the journey” kind of way. Well the drive really…the drive is kind of shit. I drove because he asked me to. He was my godfather, my moral compass, the one who always knew what to do, the one who always knew what to say. And now he’s gone.

I think what he meant (and yes, I do know the voice in my head was just me talking to myself), he meant there should always be at least one person in our lives for whom we will go to the ends of the earth and who will go to the ends of the earth (or Schenectady) for us. Without that person, everything seems pointless, directionless, and well…just less.

(Note, the supposedly fictitious events described herein may or may not have taken place in August 2013.)

Diversity in relationships, like diversity in the workplace, is great. Variety of opinions, experiences, and perspectives enhance creativity and overall satisfaction, in my opinion. As usual, I’m sure I’ve read this somewhere so it’s not just my opinion, but also a well-researched and documented fact. Heterogeneous groups learn from each other and grow individually and as a team. There’s really no down side, except when someone forgets that there can be extreme variation in communications among English-speaking people, which can present challenges in any relationship either professional or personal. For instance, a pep talk does not mean the same thing to a Brit as it does to an American.

This too is a well-known fact (although I can’t prove it because Google is failing me). So I’ll talk us through a hypothetical situation. Say for instance, there’s an American girl up late conversing with her British boyfriend. Despite her very best efforts, the conversation goes off the rails, and she finds herself doing some defensive dialoging. She’s pretty sure he’s picked a fight for no reason, but she’s trying to patch it up so they can both get some sleep. It works, eventually. The conversation ends. He sleeps. She doesn’t. She’s too upset that he picked a fight for no reason. When the sun finally trickles through her gauzy curtains (despite her fear that it would never rise again, trapping her in the torment of the previous night’s conversation, stuck on repeat in her head), she decides that she’s angry. Not just angry, she’s livid.

He checks in with his usual, “Good morning,” greeting a little later than usual. She’s happy for the extra time to prepare her reply. As soon as he says, “Hello,” she pulls out a steady barrage from the drawer marked, “What the hell is wrong with you?” She reaches for a curve ball from the, “Don’t you know I have a big day today,” shelf. And clinches it with a bit from the cupboard labeled, “I’m not speaking to you right now.”

Before you accuse her of overreacting, let’s review the Relationship Rules of Engagement. Rule 47B Statute C Paragraph 3 clearly states that if a man picks a fight with a woman past 9:00 pm on a school night (note a “fight” is defined as any argument, debate, or disagreement that occurs for any reason between any man and any woman in any small r or large R “relationship” regardless of who is right or who is wrong) he should expect to receive the Silent Treatment from said woman for a span of time equivalent to the length of the aforementioned dispute.

He fumbles an, “Okay, I will talk to you later,” and silence ensues.

When the count runs down on the penalty box timer, she checks in with a work-related issue signaling that she will speak to him but he’s still in the dog house. At this point, the conversation could take several turns. Let’s say, he’s well-intentioned and not a complete idiot. He might reach into his bag of tricks and attempt The Pep Talk. The classic post-row Pep Talk is a dazzling move. It opens with the Pep Talker in a position of power. He is the first of the two combatants to say something nice, and therefore he is the more generous of the two. He attempts to placate the Pep Talkee, washing away any bad aftertaste from the quarrel. And, if she is won over, the contention dissipates in a brilliant rhetorical twist wherein he gets away without admitting he was wrong for picking the fight-for-nothing in the first place.

So back to our hypothetical scenario: it might go something like this.

Him: You know I think you’re great, right? (10:34 am)

At this point, if she’s not a complete idiot, she likely will pause for a deep breath, pondering an appropriate response. She will think to herself, Great? You think I’m great? You think pizza is great. Another pause before replying, realizing that’s not the right tack. If she goes with the pizza thing, he might confess that, Oh my god, he loves pizza. Then she will have to punch him in the face, which she can’t do because he’s six time zones away, and they are having this conversation over instant messenger goddammit. One more deep breath and then…

Her: You think I’m “great”? Don’t you think last night’s conversation warrants a response a little less British? (10: 41 am)

And now we’re at the crux of the issue. If you’ve ever been an American at the receiving end of a British pep talk, you’ll know what I mean when I say, it’s the most unsatisfying attempt at encouragement devised by man. The British hone their un-enthusiasm like they are training for the Olympics. I was shocked to discover (when conducting very little research for this article) that the Brits do in fact have a cheerleading association; and it was founded in 1984. The commentary must be the most dispiriting play-by-play ever encountered. When the team performs very well, they are told they are “adequate.” Trophies are handed over with a pat on the back and a dry, “well done.”

In contrast to the British pep talk we have the American Pep Talk. America is the home of the Pep Talk. We invented Pep. It’s in the water. We are a nation of cheerleaders. Even those of us who may have suffered the self-loathing of an angst-ridden adolescence, the kind of teen years that triggers the involuntary upturn of a nose at the mention of the word “cheerleader” and the images it evokes. I mean the kind of high school dreariness that makes a girl say, “Vampires are cool outsiders who love girls who hate cheerleaders” (The Simpsons, Season 21, Episode 15). Even an American like that hypothetical person knows how to give a pep talk, i.e., a proper Pep Talk.

When faced with a British pep talk, this hypothetical American girl will change the subject rather than being baited into a conversational cul-de-sac (yes, a cul-de-sac, you know because the only options are circling the unsatisfying loop of the pep talk or heading back out onto the street that led you there, i.e., the wrong-road fight that started it all).

She might say something like, I spoke to the clients for you, or I checked on the cats. If she were smart, that’s what she would do. Because then his only reply is…

Him: Thank you. (2:52 pm)

If she’s really, really smart, she will go to a meeting for hmm…about two or two-and-a-half hours, triggering what he believes is another long Silent Treatment. Although she knows the rules governing the Silent Treatment (for a review of the rules, I recommend Coupling Season 1 Episode 4, “The Inferno”), I mean, even if our hypothetical woman knows the rules of the Silent Treatment, she may yet be surprised by what happens next.

Him: I’m hopelessly in love with you. (4:49 pm)

While the butterflies in her tummy do backflips, she might not resist the urge to nitpick. Why would she do this, you ask? Obviously it’s a misguided attempt to “win” the original argument and cover for the fact that he’s caught her unawares.

Her: hopefully. I’m hopefully in love with you. (5:10 pm)

And now he, wrong-footed by his vulnerable confession, will attempt to get the last word.

Him: you know there’s an implied double entendre in that statement. (5:14 pm)

She won’t take the bait though, because our hypothetical girl is sharp.

Her: I love you (5:18 pm)

Him: I love you (5:19 pm)

I’m just saying, things like this could happen. They might happen every day. Diversity in relationships is responsible for all kinds of zany goings-on. And many these madcap circumstances turn out to be positive. For instance, the woman in our hypothetical scenario now knows that when her British fella’ says that she’s great, it means so much more. Isn’t that great?

If you haven’t yet read Tim Kreider’s excellent post called The Busy Trap, you should. With care and humor he describes this wave many of us are riding, labeling ourselves as “crazy busy.” It is no longer just the Type As among us who are overscheduled, frazzled, tied to our mobile devices, and stressed out about all the things we are not doing. It’s a phenomenon, and it’s taking over our lives. This trend could be a product of unrealistic expectations, too much screen time, or plain old FOMO (it’s what the kids call fear of missing out). Whatever is happening, it’s made me wonder when we all became too busy to do the things we like to do. When did hobbies, playtime, and downtime get deprioritized or penciled into vacations we’re not taking? When did it become uncool for kids to play in the sand after school? When did it become a waste of time for adults to make time for a glass of wine and dinner with friends?

I admit it: I find myself guilty of this. And I have many, many boy and girl friends who succumb to this mentality as well. And yet, often I find myself wondering if this is a planning problem—not just a planning problem, but a project management problem—attached to the Y chromosome.

I’ll give you a few examples while you’re deciding if you should call me sexist.

I ran into an old friend a few weeks ago. We hadn’t seen each other in over ten years. I was delighted to run into him and happily turned over my email address so we could correspond. My expectation was that we would make plans to have coffee and spend an hour trying to sum up the last ten years of our lives. And so I eagerly awaited his email. I waited. And I waited. I waited so long for his email that I went through all five stages of grieving. After a couple days of anticipation and excitement, I started worrying my writing was illegible or he lost the paper with my email address. Then I thought maybe he didn’t want to hang out with me. But how could that be? Maybe I was remembering all wrong; was he a complete jerk? A guy who can’t send an email is a waste of my time. Then I thought maybe I didn’t want to hang out with him. I had better things to do. And then acceptance followed by forgetfulness. I waited so long for his email that it was a shock when I finally received it.

Receive it I did. It was a friendly hello with some non-specific information about his schedule. Drinks were mentioned, as was lunch. Instead of fussing over the time it took him to write, I took the initiative and sent three dates, times, and locations to choose from. And then I sat back and played the waiting game again. He wrote back the morning after not the first, not the second, but the third date passed. Regarding the timing of his reply, he included some lame excuse like, “I don’t check this email often.”

It’s not a Hotmail account, I thought with not a little snark from the voice in my head. He’s writing to me from his spam account? WTF?

Apparently I am a glutton for punishment. I tried again. This time, I took a different tack, employing the classic combo: Tough Talk with a side of Hard to Get. It went something like…”I made it clear I want to hang out…if you can’t get specific…I guess I’ll see you in another ten years…” That did the trick. Sort of. His reply time went from nine days to 22 hours. He wrote back the next evening to suggest we get together that night. That showed initiative and spontaneity. Except he sent the email at 8 pm. I saw it during the bedtime email check. Disgusted, I threw down my iPhone and let him simmer ‘til morning. (In my head he was up all night waiting for my reply.)

For whatever reason (see above for evidence of masochism) I bit my tongue when I replied. Instead of saying what I wanted to say (“I give up”), I said something compassionate and gave him one more chance. The olive branch was snapped, the door was slammed, my outstretched hand was smacked away. I don’t know the correct metaphor. Let’s just say, I’m clearly not as smart as I think I am. He said, “I’m off to [some European country] for the month of March. Let’s try for something after that.” He had to leave the country to avoid a coffee date with me.

I can hear my mother now, “Don’t worry, honey. You’re smart and beautiful. He’s obviously not good enough for you.” Thanks, Mom.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe he is a jerk, a dud, a bad planner. So what does it mean when a boy normally good at this kind of stuff suddenly…well…isn’t? Is there something about making plans with girls that makes boys stupid? Here’s another example from about three weeks ago.

Him: “Let’s do something this weekend.”

Me (sarcastic): “Something? Sure! I would love to do something. I have the perfect shoes for something.”

Him: “Are we hanging out or not?”

Me (deadpan): “That depends. Do you have an actual plan?”

Him: “No.”

And from earlier this week.

Him: “I think we should go out on Thursday night. For dinner.”

Me (excited): “Great! Where should we go?”

Him: “Dunno.”

Me (enthusiastic): “Well, what kind of place were you thinking? Fancy? So I know what to wear.”

Him: “Dunno.”

Me (taking over): “How ‘bout [here]?

You know what the worst part of these interactions is? Well that’s a tricky one really. Your answer is going to depend on which side of the X vs Y aisle you’re on. For the women readers, the worst thing about each of these interactions is the implied, “I dunno, what do you want to do?” It spells relationship death.

In my personal experience, the women in my life are just as (if not more) busy than the men in my life, but not too busy to pull the name of a restaurant out of a hat, to make a plan and follow through, to do the things we want to do.

And what are you doing? Waiting for us to make the plan? So that you can tell your bros what a pain in the ass we are? Because we’re always making plans?

Why does every relationship devolve into that scene from Dude Where’s My Car? You want to have dinner somewhere unspecified; we want a relationship with a roadmap. Is it because of that scene from Coupling (at 16:05)? We know one more thing than you do. Hah. Newsflash: we know a lot more things than you do. Get over it. You still rule the planet. Why can’t it be like that scene from Buffy where Oz asks out Willow (at 9:00)? Both parties are brave, open, and honest. That, in my opinion, is how all relationships should start.

This whole “too busy” thing feels like a “Men are From Mars” moment. Perhaps you’re too afraid of letting us down, and we are too afraid to be let down. So we all act like we are too busy. And then nobody gets what he or she wants. On some level I suppose that’s fair. But it’s wicked depressing. And for my part, I hope I’m wrong. And since I would rather have burritos for the third time this week than do 99% of the planning, can’t you just say, “Let’s go to Boca” instead of “I don’t know?”

I know I’m ranting. I do have a point, I swear. I’ll even tell you what really prompted this. I have a friend who swears that nice guys finish last. I think women like nice guys, although I am willing to admit that we also fall for jerks. And that’s because we are persuaded by a man with a plan. Nice guys, jerky guys…it doesn’t matter if he has a plan.

You like to do things. We like to do things. Let’s do things together, okay? Great, now get specific. Because we do want to do something. We just don’t want to call the shots all the time. We’re not your mother, not your coach, not your boss. We expect you to engage. Stop acting like you’re too busy. Get in the game. Nice guys may finish last, but that means they’re in the race. A guy without a plan isn’t registered to run.

There are things about divorce that make it possibly the worst experience of a person’s life. Among my friends who have gone or are going through this and in my own experience it does feel like the hardest thing they or I have ever gone through. Two of those people lost their fathers young. But they insist this is the hardest thing they’ve ever had to do.

It’s difficult on two levels. First there’s all the interpersonal stuff: feeling like a failure, letting yourself down, letting down your partner, letting down your family and friends. Then pile on top of that the feeling that you’ve been let down by your partner, by your friends, and by your family. No matter how supportive your friends and family are they cannot possibly help you. You need more help than you’ve ever needed before. You need so many things. And the things you need don’t have a name. If you could put a name to just one thing, you wouldn’t know how to ask for it. And if you did, and if a friend reached out, it would be like scooping a single drop of water out of the ocean—a remarkable feat, and futile.

The healthy, logical, self-protective thing to do is to not examine all the things you did wrong. It’s overwhelming, painful, and depressing. That leaves you with the notion that everyone else around you is screwing up. Your partner was a bitch or a bastard. Your friends are neglecting you, and your family is failing you. This is not a good place to be when you need the support of nearly everyone else around you. The people who do spend time with you rarely know what to say or how to respond. You’re a broken record, having the same one-sided conversation over and over, venting, rambling, complaining. When they try to talk, you stare blankly, distractedly pondering your situation. As soon as they take a breath, you steer the conversation back to you without observing normal conversation etiquette. You are all about you. You alienate the people around you and then wonder why no one is helping.

All this will be exacerbated in some way or another by friends and family who remember the good times. They recall your failed marriage from a point of view that is inaccessible to you. Looking back, there was nothing good about it. Everything about your relationship sucked. It was doomed to fail. This is normal, and it’s necessary. Because if it didn’t suck completely, then you could have saved it, you could have avoided all this, you could have fixed it. You and you alone see it from this point of view.

You feel isolated and on your own for the first time in a long time. It’s desperately lonely, and there’s no way around that because you are, in fact, on your own. For the first three months you can barely get out of bed. Eat, sleep, take care of the dog. That’s all I could do. Some days all I managed was to take care of the dog. Feeding and walking her provided me with a routine. Without that routine, I had little reason to get out of bed. If you’ve got kids to take care of, then you’re really screwed. They are dependent on you, need you to “be normal.” And you can’t escape your ex. You have to talk to him or her nearly every day about the kids’ homework, play dates, fevers, all those mundane details around which your life together revolved. I can’t speak for myself, but that must be a crushing daily reminder of your failure.

And then it gets worse. Because that was just the separation. Now you have to tackle the divorce part of the divorce. You have to fight through all the anger, hurt, and sadness and find a way to converse civilly with your now former partner. If the split was decided mutually, this can be a relatively smooth process. That will not make it easier. That will make you question why you stayed together for so long. Because if you can’t find something to fight over, then you can’t find something to fight for, and you wonder what your relationship was all about. It was safe and comfortable and not what either of you needed, and why, why couldn’t you figure that out sooner? If you fight about the kids, the money, the stuff, then it’s likely your divorce is going the same way your marriage went. You fight—about everything. Why couldn’t one or both of you see that fighting about everything is bad for you, bad for her, bad for the kids? Why didn’t you see it sooner?

Because that’s not how the world works. That’s not how people work. We are culturally programmed to believe in the sanctity of marriage. This is the second difficulty, and it is a crock of shit. Marriage is not sacred. I don’t mean this philosophically or emotionally. I believe we should take all of our relationships and commitments to the people we love seriously. But the idea that marriage is something above and beyond any other committed relationship in a religious or cultural sense is bullshit. The institution of marriage is a legal construct that predates whatever church or religion any of us chooses to believe in today. Marriage turns your long-term relationship, your promise to each other into a legally binding contract. The difference between a divorce and a break up? The piece of paper. That piece of paper comes with cultural, societal, and, depending on your beliefs, religious judgment.

When you sign that marriage certificate you are promising that this won’t happen. Ever. You promise that you will work out your differences no matter how your lives change.  You promise that you won’t change too much and she won’t change too much, the world won’t change too much, and you’ll always want the same things. That’s crazy. That is not how the world works. You’re promising the improbable, the unlikely, the longshot. And you and everyone around you are crushed when you can’t deliver.

On a good day, before you get closure or distance from your marriage, you feel like The Coyote, Wile E Coyote of cartoon fame. This makes sense when you think about it. The Coyote and The Roadrunner have a relationship that feels kind of like a marriage. They are committed to a daily ritual of mutual destruction. (Okay, if this analogy works then I grant you it’s a dysfunctional relationship at best. But it is a relationship.) They battle each other like it’s their job. They show up for each other, and the outcome is predictable. If you’ve seen enough of these you know what I mean. The Coyote always loses. But that’s not what I mean by predictable. The Coyote is constant. The Coyote is relentless. He tries again every day. He picks himself up again every morning and gets back to it. And The Roadrunner gives him another go.

Because that’s how life works. You are The Coyote. Against all evidence to the contrary, you have to get out of bed every morning and expect today to be better than yesterday. Yesterday may have been the worst day ever. Today might be the worst day ever. But tomorrow…tomorrow you’ll get another go, and it will be better.

 

(For a clearer and more philosophical expression of this sentiment, I highly recommend the episode of Radiolab called The Universe Knows My Name. The best bit starts at 5:47ish.)

It may be obvious from previous posts, Best Tech Guy isn’t your average geek. He’s a technology consultant who also writes code. Unlike pure geekdom, consulting requires interpersonal skills. It also requires a bit, a gag, a sketch, a schtick, a number. Mine is obvious. I do my, “Your virtual space is like your physical space. Think of it like remodeling your home” routine, and clients instantly comprehend my expertise and my place in their world. Appreciating the niche work that I do makes them feel smart, and they hire me to do my thing. Best Tech Guy is popular with our clients too. His thing usually involves arrogance and a British accent. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, he does the number known as, “I read it in the New Yorker, so it must be true.”

Warning: spoiler alert. This is the part where I blatantly rat him out, probably because I can’t compete with the British accent. (I’m well practiced at the arrogance.) Best Tech Guy’s theory is that all smart, well-educated, liberal Bostonians, i.e., 95% of our clients, subscribe to the New Yorker. But because their lives are full of competing priorities and your average New Yorker article is the length of a bible, nobody reads it. So when he wants to make a point that no one will argue with, he confidently cites some New Yorker article he claims to have read, knowing full well that any self-respecting liberal will shrug non-committedly rather than admitting to not having seen nor read the fictitious article in question. It’s better to keep up the pretense that we all have time to read the New Yorker, we just missed that particular article, rather than admitting that being part of the in-crowd means compulsively renewing our subscriptions without ever making time to read past the “Shouts and Murmurs.”

It turns out, based on my own hypothesizing and analysis (totally unsubstantiated by proper research or third-party critical scholarship), he may be on to something. In class last semester, I had the pleasure of reading a range of great comic works from Allen to Wodehouse. We analyzed Oscar Wilde and Monty Python until exam time, aka, the moment I realized I should have taken better notes. The final exam was especially tricky, until I noticed something. The four anthologies on the syllabus shared a common characteristic. They were collections of humor pieces, some or all (in the case of Woody Allen) previously published in the New Yorker.

Here’s the exam question

Focusing on two or three writers—Benchley, Thurber, Allen, Sedaris—discuss the different ways in which they develop the short humor piece. Aspects to consider are style, tone, form, tendentiousness [intention to provoke or promote a particular point of view, often the author’s] or lack of it, etc. [he really did write “etc.”]

Here’s an excerpt of my answer. You can skip this part if you’re in a hurry. I’ll understand. Really. Go on. I’ll never know.

Robert Benchley, James Thurber, Woody Allen, and David Sedaris are all known for their short humor pieces. In addition to the publication of successful anthologies, each reached the height of success in his career—publication in the New Yorker magazine. All four essayists are known for their smart writing. They appeal to elitists and an audience in the New Yorker that considers itself intellectual. And the works of all four men are marked by a degree of tendentiousness.

Woody Allen’s aim is to mock intellectuals. That he does this in the New Yorker is the height of irony. His humor is dependent on his audience’s familiarity with the persons referenced in his essays. Schmeed, Metterling, Helmholtz—these may be household names, if your household is full of highly-educated, New York Times reading, politics-watching, probably Jewish, middle-class New Yorkers who regularly attend psychoanalysis. His humor is not for the masses, but for the very people whom he mocks. Allen is a smart-aleck, and he knows it. His target audience is a willing participant in this game. He mocks them for being intellectuals; if they were not intellectuals, they wouldn’t get the jokes; they would rather get the jokes and feel part of the in-crowd than get offended by being the objects of his jokes. And so the cycle continues.

Robert Benchley’s essays do not require the subject matter expertise that Allen’s call for (the holocaust, Hassidic Judaism, college, psychoanalysis, the atom bomb, Impressionism). His works appeal to a broader audience. The tone is far less mocking than Allen’s, and the language is simpler, making his essays accessible to a wider segment than the audience circumscribed by Allen. However, Benchley’s works are more likely to stray into absurdity. His very serious sounding essay titled Do Insects Think? is so strange it’s almost not enjoyable.  Presumably Benchley is mocking generations of scientists who have asked very ridiculous questions and spent years seriously attempting to answer those questions. This short essay pokes fun at the kind of absurd research that goes on in well-respected laboratories.

But again, a level of sophistication is required on the part of the reader. A familiarity with Shakespeare is required to enjoy Shakespeare Explained. An experience with ennui and an eight-course meal are required to understand Christmas Afternoon. These subjects and emotions may be more familiar to the average audience than the subjects of Allen’s works, but they still require an uncommon perception and a comfortable life. French for Americans may be enjoyable to a person who has never been to Paris. Perhaps a reader might be reassured to know that news from home is available at the American Express and the crullers are almost (but not quite) as good at the Hartford Lunch as they are at home. But it seems more likely that the untraveled reader will feel left out of the jokes. His laughter will have the hollow ring of the poseur.

Ultimately, I examined all four authors (yes, I am an overachiever), but only included analysis of two above to attempt to bore you a little bit less. The point of this ramble is that certain kinds of wit play to certain kinds of crowds. That may seem incredibly obvious, but in the case of the New Yorker, the individuals in question are so obsessed with being counted as the in-crowd, they will act like they get the jokes even when they don’t. And they will laugh at the jokes, even when they are the punch line. It’s writing for snobs, by snobs. Like that classic Seinfeld episode in which Elaine gains the confidence of a fictitious New Yorker editor to ask him why a particular cartoon is funny. He defends the cartoon by being pompous and implying Elaine is not smart enough to understand it. She calls his bluff. He admits it makes no sense. She tells him he should be ashamed of himself for printing it. Adding mockery to her shaming, she says, “You doodle a couple of bears at a cocktail party talking about the stock market, you think you’re doing comedy.” He replies earnestly, “Actually, that’s not bad.” Elaine, flattered, responds, “Really? You know I have others.”

Even Elaine, on a mission to discredit the sacred New Yorker editorial process, standing at the brink of success, would rather go out for the team than be right and alone. Being part of the in-crowd was a bigger success to her than proving them wrong. There are too many ironies to count, starting with the fact that Elaine is the New Yorker’s target audience. If she wasn’t, she would not have seen the cartoon. In an absurdly meta-twist, the cartoon featured in the television episode was drawn by one of the New Yorker’s great cartoonists, Bruce Eric Kaplan, and the real-life editor the television character was based on recently provided a not-funny analysis of the Seinfeld episode and the cartoon. (Yup, you guessed it: published on the New Yorker’s website.) He was bummed because the Seinfeld writing team didn’t use his real name. He wanted to be part of the gag, in with the coolest crowd on TV.

I’m sure I am making a much bigger point about human nature, pack animal mentality, our measures of success, and not being picked last for dodge ball. If it’s not quite coming together for you, I will leave you with this thought. None of this is relevant if you haven’t seen that particular episode of Seinfeld or read these authors. Trust me. I read it all in the New Yorker, so it must be true.

As a diehard New Englander, I love to complain about the weather as much, and sometimes more, than the next person. I believe a week of single digit days will make a complainer out of just about anybody. And I believe a single gal with a dog to walk twice a day deserves to complain once in a while. But I am not complaining. Not this time anyway.

Walking the dog twice a day means I go out just after dawn and again at dusk to experience those idyllically quiet times of day when everything is still. Chilly New England winter evenings mean few people, and sometimes snow. When snow falls at twilight, there is a noticeable hush. All other sounds are dampened by the blanket of white. Sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear the flakes land with a tinkling sound on stubborn leaves clinging to bare branches. It’s blissful.

Imagine a hood pulled up, cumbersome oversized gloves, clunky boots, soft neck warmer, and a dog dragging me down the street to the park. We make fresh tracks on unshoveled sidewalk and head exactly where we are not supposed to be. The park—ok it’s a schoolyard—at the end of the street is an on-leash park, not to be confused with the off-leash park around the corner and down an adjacent street. I know the difference. Leash on, leash off. I get it. A few years ago, I even acted the part of concerned citizen and supported my neighbors who established the Brookline Green Dog Program, the program that designates which parks allow off leash hours and which ones don’t.

I know I am breaking the rules when we play down the street. But I can’t help myself. Apparently it’s in my blood. According to a column in the New Yorker last year (one that I swear exists; I’ve read it, but couldn’t find it again to save my life) rule breaking is part of being Italian. The Italian woman interviewed explained it thus. Italians know the rules. And in knowing the rules, we know where they bend, and we know where they break. Ergo, we knowingly choose which rules to follow and which ones to ignore. Rule breaking by Italians is a long-standing tradition started by the most famous Italian of all, Julius Caesar. If it weren’t for good ol’ Julius* we wouldn’t have the idiom, “crossing the Rubicon” which means committing an act of civil disobedience—rule breaking at its best. Not crossing the river with an army was a rule; Julius broke it. He broke it knowingly, intentionally. On the eve of this egregious act of civil disobedience, Julius didn’t say, “I came, I saw, I thought about crossing the bridge and changed my mind.” I like to believe he said, “I will cross that bridge when I come to it.”** Will and when. It’s a question of intent.

Now back to my story.

The hush of twilight, new fallen snow, a warm coat, and a dog dragging me down the street to the not-off-leash park. I go because the massive and intimidating animal control officer, Francois or Jean Louis (I forget his name, but I swear he’s intimidating notwithstanding his girly name) is a nine to fiver. At around 5:30 there’s no one around but commuters walking home across the park, parents picking up kids from the after-school program, and one or two of my fellow rule-breakers. And that’s how I like it. Although I live in fear of my neighbors’ criticisms or worse, that one of them will call BPD on me, most winter evenings Pepper and I get to cut fresh tracks across the ball field which makes it all feel worth it. Every once in a while, we have an evening like Monday night.

I let her off leash at the top of the stairs so she wouldn’t drag me down the slippery steps. She raced ahead of me to the edge of the field, then bounced around to face me, and waited. Bouncing and waiting, mouth wide open in that carefree, excited doggie grin. A man was walking with his son. He noticed Pepper as she sped past them. He stopped and stared at her, then looked around for her human. I felt guilty and braced myself for the ax of judgment to fall. Conjuring arguments in defense of my rule breaking, I approached him cautiously. I noticed while I approached that he was very intent on solving this puzzle before him. Then he saw the ball in my hand, and something clicked. He smiled warmly, nodded, and called his son over. And they lingered there, in the cold, watching me throw the ball, laughing while Pepper bounded with reckless abandon across the white expanse, legs flying, ears flapping like wings, snow smeared across her face. She exhibited such unmistakably pure joy, it was impossible not to smile at her. The man and his son walked away very, very slowly.

I break this particular rule because these tiny interactions with my neighbors are more positive than almost anything else that happens in my day. It’s better than going to the off-leash park and having my morning ruined by aggressive dog owners. It’s better than driving anywhere in this town. It’s better than going to work where everybody wants something from me (because even doing a job I love for clients I adore can be exhausting). I may be a bit anxious about getting busted, but that is outweighed by the warm orangey glow of the lamplight casting long shadows around us. It’s outweighed by the kids who stare with wonder at Pepper’s impossible energy. It’s outweighed by the man who stopped two weeks ago to ask me if he could have a turn throwing the ball for her. I don’t know his name. I haven’t seen him since. But he made my evening.

It is in these tiny moments that life feels rich and full. The stars shine brightly; the universe sends out a hug. The air, the whole atmosphere, feels tangible and warm. And because my willful, premeditated act of civil disobedience is met with the best sort of neighborliness and kindness, an outcome that challenges the karmic balance of nature, the last thing I am about to do is complain about the weather.

 

*My dad has always referred to Julius Caesar as “good ol’ Julius” like he was a childhood school chum. I have no idea why. I have always assumed Dad knows something I don’t.

** Julius didn’t say this either. Despite years of assumptions on my part that the two expressions were related, the American Heritage Dictionary says the earliest recorded use of this idiom was by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in The Golden Legend (1851). A quick glance at the poem reveals a lot of talk about crossing bridges. And the line from the poem reads, “Don’t cross the bridge till you come to it, is a proverb old and of excellent wit.” It’s possible Longfellow was referring to Julius crossing the Rubicon, the original, fateful bridge crossing. I bet I could prove the relationship if I had the energy to do a lot more research. The story works without it, so I’m leaving it alone for now.

Change has been the norm these last few months. New job, new apartment…everything seems new. Added to that, I have a new primary care doctor. She’s smart, perky, and younger than I am. That’s new for me too and a situation I suppose I have to grow accustomed to, at least until I discover a Fountain of Youth. We discussed my changing personal situation and my medical history. After I rattled off the various ailments that led to the demise of my grandparents, she asked about my parents. In a very doctorly way, she said, “And your parents. How are they?”

She was asking about their health, of course. I knew that. I blurted, “My parents? They’re loonies.”

Nonplussed, the Good Doctor asked a follow up, “Is there a particular psychiatric diagnosis, or are they just being parents?”

I hesitated a moment, and then replied with a sigh, “They are just being parents.”

This conversation and many others set me on a steady course of pondering this week. Where exactly would I find a Fountain of Youth? And what does it mean to be a family? The answer to the latter came to me under the elm tree near the lake behind Wellesley College. Pepper and I were sitting in the cool, damp grass after a walk around the water’s edge. The air smelled of hay and lavender. Few noises disturbed us beyond the drowsy drone of insects, a small plane lazily buzzing its way across the sky, a jingling dog collar, and the crunch of shoes against pine needles. Warm sun, blue sky, a gentle breeze…the recipe for a perfect Sunday picnic on the lawn with family. Except it was just the two of us.

Then again, it wasn’t just the two of us. As we sat in the grass, I held a book in one hand and threw the ball with the other. (This is not quite the feat it sounds like. Pepper drops the ball in my hand, and she has a long runway. I can throw the ball in any direction without looking, knowing I won’t hit anyone.) I looked up occasionally from my book and noticed there were people around, watching us, sharing the day with us.

There was a dark-haired boy, about eight or nine years old, a budding photographer with an interest in the natural world, snapping away at everything with his small camera, taking pictures of Pepper. His parents laughed and joked with him in Russian (or some other Eastern bloc language; I admit they all sound the same to me). The father oohed and aahed as Pepper flew through the air shagging fly balls.

There was an elegant Japanese couple who paused on the path to cheer, “Good job!” when Pepper caught one off a bounce, leaping to reach it. They glided on after I returned their smiles.

There was a shaggy boy in a suit and tie, soaking his loafers in the wet grass. He was accompanied by two overdressed young ladies who turned out to be his sister and cousin, his companions for an afternoon wedding by the lake. As Pepper whistled past them, he remarked longingly, “I want a dog.” The girls giggled and the trio wandered toward a celebration under a white tent.

As I pondered the idea of family, I noticed—really noticed—the way these groups of people were families. They met the traditional definition of family. My family has always been different. Or perhaps it’s my definition of family that’s different. It’s been fluid, over the years. Perhaps because of a childhood characterized by family members coming and going. At times I’ve included, in my mental construct of family, friends invited for Thanksgiving dinner, a friend who slept on our couch for three and a half months, friends who asked us to be godparents to their children. Most people (myself included at times) would say these are just friends, not family. They would scold me and fall back on that cliché, “You can’t pick your family, but you can pick your friends.” As I work through the situation with the future-former Mr Snarky, I am increasingly less certain that statement is accurate.

I skipped my cousin’s wedding this weekend. My family, i.e., my blood relatives, all gathered in the middle of nowhere upstate to celebrate her wedding. I opted out. That may seem selfish to some, but it was the right decision for me. I opted to spend the weekend with people who love and support me without judgment.

There was my neighbor, having a tag sale. Although she is familiar with my situation, she and I barely know each other. We know each other’s dogs’ names but not each other’s names. Nevertheless, she sold me a curvy chest of drawers for $15 and helped me load it into my car.

There were the second degree friends (friends of friends whom I hope to make first degree friends) who insisted I take a large mirror off their hands, refusing to take any money for it. They loaded it into my car before I mount a defense. When I sputtered in protest, the spunky wife said with a laugh and a dismissive wave of her hand, “Fine. You owe me a drink.

“I owe you two,” I insisted. It was a large mirror.

“Sure! Two! Whatever!” she replied gamely.

There was a dear friend—the kind of friend who invites me in when she’s having a bad day and then proceeds to cook me dinner. She patiently listened to my ambling rants and wholly silly complaints. I repaid her with cucumber plants. She will repay the cucumber plant with pickles, thereby forcing me to think of some other way to show her I love her.

Our closest friends are the people we choose. They are like family but without the obligations. They are the ones we’re constantly paying it forward with or for or something. Happily doing favors with no expectation of return or keeping score, because if they love you just the same, some other favor will be headed in your direction.

I’ve tried to treat my own family this way for years. And it didn’t turn out the way I expected. So I’m giving up. But I feel neither doomy nor gloomy about it. Because don’t we pick our families all the time? Isn’t that what marriage and having children is all about? We choose to be together and to stay together. We grow a family, nurture, and cherish it. Sometimes, it fails. Sometimes, it doesn’t turn out the way we planned. Sometimes we leave them behind. Sometimes we choose to leave. If we’re good, we seize an opportunity to start over, to start a new family.

It looks like it’s just going to be Pepper and me for a while. But that’s ok. Family is what you make of it. I’m hopeful that we’ll get another chance to choose a new family. Maybe somebody will choose us.