Surgery

I am stealing an idea from Becca and posting work I do in my Creative Writing class here. Please feel free to comment. Constructive criticism is welcome.

***

In-class assignment: Take something that happened to you, using only the facts, but making it suspenseful.

I sit alone in a chair. My bare skin squeaks against the cold blue vinyl. My clothes are locked away somewhere in a locker, down one of these mazes of corridors. If I were to escape, I would have to do so naked but for this robe that barely covers my ass.

They've pulled a curtain around me and I can't see beyond the two-foot compartment in which I am sitting. I hear voices-- two people, mid-conversation, have flowed into the room beyond the curtain. I draw myself up in the chair, as though improving my posture somehow makes up for my bare ass. I try to wipe the sweat from my palms onto my robe, hiding any sign of fear.

I jump at the sound of metal on metal as the curtain is wrenched open.

"Hello dear," the nurse says, feigning geniality. I know the real deal.

My suspicions are confirmed as a long needle and a ribbon of rubber emerge from behind her back.

"Just try to relax," she says. "It's easier to find your vein that way."

That's what they all say.

Houdini Cat

At my old apartment, we had a roof deck. We lived on the top floor, and the deck was up a ladder and through a hatch. When we first got my cat Dixie, we decided to get her a leash and buy some clothesline to fix up a sort of cat run on the roof, so the little urban kitty could enjoy some outdoor time.

Dixie ended up hating the leash, but was actually quite well-behaved off the leash on the roof, so we ended up bringing her up with us and letting her hang out and enjoy her freedom. She loved it-- every time the door opened, she'd try to dash out, at times succeeding. She'd dash down the first set of stairs, then hang out abashedly, rubbing against the metal spindles of the stairway railing.

She loved being outside so much, in fact, that one day she decided to make her escape.

It was a lovely morning, mid-July, during the only month of summer weather in New York. I awoke happily, sunshine streaming in the window. Rolling over to my left side, I looked out the window, taking in the beautiful day.

Like most apartments in New York, the window looked out onto our fire escape. Metal safety bars outside the window had a pop-out for an air conditioner. We had put a flower box on top of the pop-out, and the morning glories had finally started to bloom.

My gaze drifted to the flower box to check the morning glories' progress. I saw something that didn't belong.

It took me a minute to determine what this figure was. It looked like... a cat. There was a cat sitting in the flower box. I looked more closely. It was a Dixie-shaped cat. In the flower box. OUTSIDE. Four stories up. What the...??!!

Sitting up suddenly, I yelled, "Dixie!"

And the Dixie-shaped cat jumped into the window and onto the bed, rubbing against me in greeting.

Our windows opened from the top. The damn cat, at some point during the night, had figured out how to open the screen, dragging it down with her claws and releasing herself into freedom. Who knows how long she'd been hanging out on the fire escape, four stories up.

Maybe she didn't use up one of her nine lives that day, but with the fright she gave me, I most certainly did.

There's a good joke in here...

I grew up in a suburban neighborhood, like any other. Squared in by 2 commercial streets to the north and west and a park to the south and east, it was fully residential. Its grid of blocks was lined with duplexes, ranches, colonials.

On one block, Annie Street, stood a building that was somewhat, then, out of place-- the Polish Social Club. It was somewhat odd to randomly have, essentially, a bar situated smack dab in the middle of a bunch of single-family homes, but there you go.

Growing up, my dad would often go with his friends to "the club" to socialize. When I was a kid, I never really deduced the function of a social club. Which I suppose is a good thing, but it also meant that I came to the confident conclusion that my Dad must be going to the Polish Social Club for the single reason that made perfect sense to me.

I was in high school before I realized that I wasn't, actually, Polish.

The Hero

This one's a classic from the teaching days, and is dedicated to my Spanish 3H kids, and to Leigh in particular.

---

The foreign language department at B.F. was relegated to the far end of the hallway on the basement floor. The classrooms on the north side of the building were lucky, with full length windows looking out to the woods behind the building (well, with the faculty parking lot in front of said woods, but still...) Those of us on the south side were not as lucky. The ground outside came up to within 2 feet of the ceiling of the classrooms on the south side. We were left with a ribbon of glass that let in minimal sunshine. Pipes ran up the wall, preventing 3 of the 6 windows in most of the classrooms from even opening.

During the winter, it was hot and dry. In the summer months, it was hot and unbearably humid. At all times it was stuffy and stale. Still, there were a few precious weeks, in October and late April/ early May, when the light was perfect, and the breeze from the open window and an oscillating fan made everyone refreshed and, if not alert, then at least not asleep (usually).

Our story takes place on just such an afternoon, in early spring. The weather was perfect. It was the second-to-last class of the day, when freedom was within reach and the heavy sleepiness that proceeded lunch had worn off. The faces looking up at me were open, smiling. I was feeling creative, brisk, alive. The energy was perfect.

We were all ready, then, teacher and students, to explore the wonder that is the imperfect subjunctive.

Today, the particular subject was emotion. It was a perfect day for emotion, and happiness in particular. "Estaba contenta que...," I started to write on the board.

My body reacted before my brain did-- my reflexes like a cat. The blackboard-- the old, heavy blackboard that had been in place since the 50s and still the remnants of some random prayer etched at the top as it had when I was a student-- had started falling away from the wall.

The classroom was small. The first row of students was less than a foot away from where I stood. The kids! I had visions of concussions, bloody heads, cracked skulls.

I jumped, spreading my legs on the floor, reaching my arms out, fingers extended, to hold the heavy blackboard up. I was a hero! I saved not only the precious brains of my students, but also the school from the financial ruin of numerous lawsuits.

The beating of my heart as it tried to pounce out of my ribcage seemed deafening within the hush of the classroom. Time stood still.

And then, whispers. Scattered murmurs. Muffled laughter.

I looked up.

Have you ever been on a train, when the train next to you was moving, and it made you feel like you were moving?

See, I had this scarf hanging at the top of the blackboard. It was a Real Madrid scarf-- the football (soccer) team in Madrid. It was tacked to the strip of bulletin board that was above the black board. Also, it was waving in the breeze from the fan and the open window.

I had thought the blackboard was falling down. It was really just the scarf waving. It was a mistake in perception. You know, like when the train next to you is moving...?

I tried to explain this to my students. They had just witnessed their teacher go from droning on about some weird perfect subjective thing, whatever that is, to jumping out and pressing herself spread-eagle against the blackboard, and now she's rallying on about trains? Dude, give me some of whatever she's having.

My sanity may have lost some credibility that day, but at least I got my students' attention. Hey, as teachers, we do what we gotta do.

The Underwear Nazi

In my quest to realize that I do, actually, have things in my life worth writing about, I hereby commit to post a story a day, no matter how short, on this thing. I will start with the infamous, in my circle of college friends, story of the Underwear Nazi, a nickname which makes zero sense whatsoever, but has remained hysterical throughout the years.

----

Freshman year. South Hall-- a monster of a dorm, the newest constructed on the campus, where the golf course originally stood.

In the cavernous basement, a place where you nervously glanced over your shoulder while walking to the stairs, trying to play it cool until you shrugged off the act and bound up to the first floor, praying your story doesn't end up on an episode of SVU, there were about 10 washers and 10 dryers. South Hall has 158 doubles and 51 singles. Competition for the laundry room was fierce and the price was steep. It costs less to do my laundry in New York City over a decade later.

I was relieved, then, to find an empty dryer on a Saturday afternoon. There were even people in the basement rec room, so no need to bound upstairs (needlessly) fearing for my life. It was my lucky day, then.

Which made it all the worse when, an hour later, keen on being timely and polite so as not to piss off whomever needed to use the dryer next, I gathered up courage to descend to the cavern and retrieve my laundry.

Which I found. On the laundry room table. Soaking wet. There were 2 minutes left in my dryer. Where someone else's clothes were spinning around. On my dime.

I was furious. Jerking open the dryer door, I grabbed the clothes of this evil, rude stranger and threw them on the table. This was not satisfying revenge. I now had to pay a further 3 bucks or however insanely much those dryers cost to dry my clothes, AGAIN, and waste another hour of a precious Saturday, because some b**** stole my dryer time. This person deserved more than just their clothes thrown messily on a table.

I poked through the pile of clothes. What could I do? There were an overwhelming number of granny panties in the pile. The answer became clear. It was like an enlightenment. I promptly picked out all of the ugly undergarments, walked over to the trash, and tossed them in.

An hour later I returned diligently to retrieve my clothes. There was a girl, folding the clothes I recognized as the evildoers. (Really? She was an hour late to get her clothes out of the dryer? Laundry room etiquette, anyone? Were you raised by wolves?)

It was my good friend's girlfriend.

If anything, then, I did him a service by throwing out all her god-awful underwear.

And that, my friends, is the true tale of the Underwear Nazi, who, incidentally, I see quite frequently, and randomly. She still has no idea.

Where does the personal end and professional begin?

Even Con Edison ads on the subway entreaty the reader to "join us on Facebook!"

Social networking is omnipresent and unavoidable.

First I used Friendster to keep in touch with college friends. Then I used Myspace to find old high school friends. Then I used Flickr to share photos with family, friends, and people I met in my travels. Then I joined Facebook to keep in touch with aforementioned travel buddies, being that its popularity globally was much bigger than locally-- outside of college populations.

Now we've seen the largest migration ever encountered: the entire world, it seems, joining first Facebook and now Twitter, which have become more than social networking. They are a means for branding, marketing, publicity, public relations....

It was strange enough when my former students "friended" me and, no longer being a teacher, I accepted their requests.

Then last summer, in conjunction with my position at a publishing company, I used my personal Facebook profile to appeal to groups of users who were fans of a particular author, as a means to market and publicize a book.

I was uncomfortable with the invasion of my professional life into my personal, and decided to never use my profile again in such a manner.

But the fact remains, the personal and the professional spheres are more and more seeping into each other, not always seamlessly. Media outlets from the Wall Street Journal to Bloomberg to the New York Times face some very strict policies limiting, or at least guiding, their use of social networking site. Staffers are urged to keep their profiles professional, censor comments from friends and post promotional links.

(As a side note, one can understand concerns from higher-ups over what professionals in the public sphere put out there. Just have a look at the multiple politicians showing their true colors on Facebook. The jury is out, however, on whether such racist stupidity will actually impact their professional career at all.)

But back to why this is concerning me in particular right now.

So, by now there are a few things published out there now with my name in the byline. The ball's rolling; I need to keep momentum. The writers I speak to encourage me to write everyday, no matter what. Hence the increase in posts here as of late. If I am not writing as a freelancer for someone, I should at least be creating material I can use for writing samples.

Meanwhile, as I peruse popular blogs in fashion, in food studies, in wine, there everyone is, advertising themselves-- follow them on Twitter, friend them on Facebook, check out their photos on Flickr.

Web 2.0 offers some fantastic opportunities for self-promotion. I am not always pleased with the results (Julia Allison really bothers me), but if it's done right, without violating any principles or self-respect, seizing the opportunity to brand oneself certainly presents a thoroughly modern avenue to success or, at least, exposure, which, with talent, could lead to success.

Needless to say, branding alone does not a successful writer make. In fact, I think it makes an obnoxious and annoying one. Just because you can manage multiple social networking accounts and have lots of friends and hits on your blog does not mean you are a force to be reckoned with in the literary world. But the exposure from increased blog hits will help. And in order to increase blog hits, two things are helpful: a recognizable and established identity and a means for self-promotion. Hence, linkage of worlds: the professional (if I begin to look at this blog as such) and the personal-- my social networking profiles.

Sorry for all the circular logic. Bloggers are bloggers, not journalists. I think back to my first "blog"-- an e-zine, really, that I circulated throughout the AOL community back when the internet was a baby for us commoners. I called it Brainspew. I find that to be representative to blogging in general.

But back to my point, which I do have.

I am considering jumping off the deep end. Actively seeking increased traffic for this blog-- taking it from something I share with friends and family to something I share with a larger, anonymous-to-me community. Taking it more seriously and using it to build skills as a reporter, establishing my name. My brand.

But how? Should I go full-on anonymous? Or do I go all out? If I go anonymous, I'll probably create a second blog and try to conceal identity-revealing details. Readers who follow me here (few though they are, given my frequent lapses), will know who I am at my new blog, so it's not like I'd stay fully anonymous. And I'd still probably post links to new blog entries on my Facebook profile. But my anonymity would pretty much be controlled by me--I'd reach out to those I wanted to reach.

On the other hand, if I do go public, how public do I go? Do I post a link on my blog to my Twitter? To my Facebook profile? I understand the value of the former-- I can tweet when I've updated and what-not, but I never really understood people who make FB profiles public. Seems a bit stalker-ish.

All this exposure warranted by Web 2.0 really fascinates me. Everyday people become celebrities a la Perez Hilton (whose model is one I most certainly will not follow). It's funny to think of people I don't even know reading my ramblings (note to self: I am not Jack Kerouac. Keep away from the red wine while writing.) Will people really care about who I am, be curious about my personal life, or will they just want to read what I write? Do I even want to broadcast my personal life? I'm sure there's a middle ground, I'm just not sure if the identity I've established with this blog is already a little too personal to bring fully public.

These are the things I think about, with my name out there attached to a few articles, with designs for this blog that would increase my visibility and provide me some more fodder for writing samples. It's like I'm navigating the same waters as the staffers for the Times, the Journal and Bloomberg, but without some higher-up sending me a memo on guidelines, I have to create my own.

Where will my personal life end and my professional life begin?

What say you?

Our Morning Routine

One of Dixie's obsessions is my hair elastic. If I have my hair in a pony tail, when I am sitting on the couch, she will jump onto the back of it and try to claw the elastic out of my hair.

We have also developed a morning routine around the elastic.

Every morning, the second she hears the shower stop, she starts scratching on the door. I open it and she, knowing that when I take the elastic out of my hair to shower, I place it in the soap dish, lithely leaps onto the sink.



Within seconds she has knocked the elastic off the soap dish and into the sink.



Normally, she'll snatch it up between her teeth, jump down, and take off running and jumping to the bed, where she'll drop it in front of sleepy Karel, hoping to initiate a game of fetch.

However, as I am sick of losing hair elastics to kitty fetch, I have learned to place the real elastic I use in my hair with an impostor: the elastic I've given her as her permanent toy.

Thing is she KNOWS when I use the impostor. And she views it as entirely inferior.

Once she knocks into the sink, she sniffs it, sits back up and stares at me.


I'll go into the kitchen, put some water on to boil from coffee, and walk back, and she'll still be there, giving the evil kitty eye, this time from the other side of the sink so as to best magnify the effectiveness of the kitty curse.

And who said cats weren't smart? Mine is-- frighteningly so at times. Good thing she's cute-- even when she's trying to control my mind.