That's What Friends Are For?

About two weeks ago I had to make a quick trip to the pharmacy just a few blocks away from where I work. Feeling a cold coming on, my objective was to purchase a box of tissues, Zicam Vitamin C drops, and copious amounts of Tylenol. As I gazed at the tissue box mountain in the corner of the store carefully contemplating which brand to choose, a little old lady approached me.

If this sounds liked an all-too-cliche expression to utilize for my description-- well, it really isn't. The woman before me barely reached the five foot tall mark (five feet short?). She stood hunched over with a cane in her left hand and a shopping basket in her right. Pointing her cane at a row of sky-blue colored boxes, she looked at me and said in a raspy Brooklyn accent, "The Puffs are on sale, ya know."

Although I consider myself a fairly streetwise New Yorker-- I've mastered a "subway scowl" that successfully creates a facade of toughness, if not the illusion that I'm sufferring from lockjaw-- there is always the occasional internal freakout session that occurs when a stranger starts talking me up. But this little old lady seemed harmless enough. "Oh, really?" I replied.

"Yeah, ya gotta pick up one of these circulars at the front to get the good stuff," she said, holding up her basket, the bottom of which was lined with multiple sheets of coupons.

I grabbed a box of Puffs. "Thanks," I told her.

"They're 99 cents!" she said.

"Wow," I replied, immediately feeling a bit silly after the utterance left my mouth. But I looked back at the pile and noticed that the other brands were $2 and $3 apiece. Any embarrassment instantly evaporated. "Thank you," I told the old woman.

"No problem. Have a good one," she said, turning around. But before she headed back up the aisle, she added "Have a good blow!"

Now, I rarely laugh out loud in public when I'm unaccompanied by a friend or family member, but this case was an exception. Regardless of whether or not the woman knew what she said had sounded like to the outside observer, I cracked up while walking to the cashier, and was still forcing back a smirk during my wait in line. As I was about to pay, the little old lady brushed by me again on her way out the door. "Take care," she said, but not without adding "The Puffs are 99 cents, right?" to the cashier. Any good bargain-hunter has to be sure of herself.

The cashier, a gothy-looking woman only visible from the waist up behind the counter, responded "Actually, they're 88 cents today."

A twentysomething hipster with a fauxhawk and thick-rimmed glasses emerged from behind me (this is Williamsburg, don't forget). "Wait," he said, in a slow, deep bass voice. "Puffs are only 88 cents?" Before anyone could answer, he was bolting to the back of the store to scale the tissue box mountain.

I laughed out loud for a second time. "Told ya so, gotta ask about these things!" the little old lady said. I told her thanks again as Goth Woman rang up my purchases. Halfway out the door, she looked back and said "Sure. What're friends for?"

The ten minutes or so that this older woman and I were in contact with one another was certainly not enough time to create a lifelong, life-altering friendship. But it's funny how a single act of concern about something as trivial of tissues stuck with me (as well as the inherent comedic nature of the situation). I don't know if I'll ever see her again, but I do know I'll be retelling this story again. You know what they say about laughter being the best medicine? Here's my spin on that classic maxim: an anecdote is the best antidote.

And now, I end this entry with a bundle of kooky kat quadruplets. Enjoy.

Aimless Navigation: Wandering a Lost Digital Landscape

AOL Instant Messenger (more commonly and fondly known as AIM) is collecting dust. Since chat functions were built directly into popular sites like Facebook and Google (via Gmail's)-- and also since Twitter took over the world of social media-- AIM is becoming more and more obsolete (and so is AOL). There's no need for an AIM away message on your laptop all day when you can instead simply send out a new tweet, informing your entire fan base (if you're lucky to have one) where you are and what you're doing, if you choose to use Twitter for that purpose.

I remember how magical AIM was back in 1999 when I created my screen name and signed on for the first time. The concept of instant internet communication through IMs, compared to the waiting game of sending and receiving emails, literally blew my 7th-grader mind. Over the years, AIM became far more than a communication tool; it strengthened existing friendships and provided a safer, less awkward way of connecting with my numerous teenage crushes. (Whether or not all that hard work IM-flirting paid off is an entirely different story.) The point is that AIM signified a social revolution for my generation, and its gradual disappearance feels strange and different to me. But the times, they are a-changin'.

Both AIM and Xanga (one of the earlier weblog communities) played a crucial role in my high school social life while growing up in the early 2000s. As an outlet for venting about the woes of adolesence, my Xanga page was both a blessing and a curse. How could someone say so much yet so little at the same time? It's easy when you have an audience of teenagers eager and willing to read and comment, reassuring that all those empty words weren't for nothing.

Actually, the act of posting to my Xanga page as a 17-year-old was not unlike my behavior as a 2-year-old, right after my parents brought my twin brothers home from the hospital: there was a lot of jumping up and down, banging on our cookware with a large rubber spoon, screaming "Look at me! Look at me!" In other words, talking (or shrieking, rather) merely for the sake of being noticed. As high schoolers, our emotionally/sexually frustrated selves sought to be recognized and appreciated just as much as a jealous older sibling. We craved connection without the risk and fear of rejection, and the safety net of the web was there to catch us when we fell.

Let me get one thing straight: I don't regret having a Xanga, because I would have suffocated even more than I already was without one. It's also a hoot laughing at my saptastic, angst-ridden entries (and also embarrasing, but mostly endearing). But while Xanga and AIM did the trick, sometimes I wonder what my high school experience would have been like if sites like Facebook and Twitter had existed. Part of me wonders how easy it would have been to stay in the loop about friends, photos, parties and crushes. Perhaps I wouldn't have felt so isolated from my peers. Maybe I could have found an online community to come out to before the pressure and pain of lingering secrecy did me in.

On the other hand, I probably would've grown up too quickly. There's no doubt that my parents certainly would not have approved of their 14-year-old daughter's membership on one or more social networking sites. I'd probably feel the same too about my own kids-- I already find myself gasping and tsking at profiles of junior high schoolers on Facebook. (A minimum age requirement of 18 would be safest, but it's just too easy for anyone to get around that by lying.)

I'll never know how my life may have turned out if I'd been sucked into the Twitterverse at an early age. Despite being perptetually "in the know," it's quite possible that I wouldn't have felt any less lonely. What happens when you flip through the TV listings on a Sunday afternoon? There are about a thousand channels, yet nothing's really on (until you thankfully come across a rerun of your favorite show). A Facebook friend list isn't too different. Out of 860 faces, I can count the best and truest on one hand.

Thoughts on a Thanksgiving Eve

Weird. For the first time in four years, I wasn't on a Bolt Bus or Amtrak train from Villanova headed back to New York for Thanksgiving.

Instead, I was already here. For the past six months, I've been sweating it out and scraping by in the real world since that pesky little thing called graduation. (Wait, has it really been six months? Shit.)

Having graduated, something's definitely missing this year. The annual journey home for the holiday had a certain warmth to it, and I'm not talking about the grossly overheated Amtrak cars. Eager dreams of food, family and time off from class while in transit have become a ritual-turned-memory left over from the magic of college. (Insert a lengthy, collective sigh from the Class of 2009 here.)

Then again, this first ever post-grad Thanksgiving is like a return to normalcy more than anything-- it isn't too different from most other Turkey Days in my life. Aside from those four golden years on the Main Line, PA, I never had to do much traveling to get to the feast. Thanksgiving was always a Brooklyn thing-- not a huge change from our daily Brooklyn life.

Thus, college Thanksgivings were special, such that they turned my idea of home into a sought-after place of relaxation and comfort. Whereas these days, being at home is constant and familiar. I'm not saying that the holiday fuzziness has totally evaporated (obviously I love my family very much). Rather, it's just assumed a different form. Or I'm just getting older.

Given the situation, I told myself I would make an effort to try something different this year to spice things up a bit. After much thought, the best I came up with was to contribute to the Thanksgiving meal itself. My decision: bake a cheesecake.

Actually, there was no baking involved whatsoever. Thanks to the wonders of pre-constructed crust, Cool Whip, cream cheese, sugar, lemon juice and a refrigerator, I was able to concoct a delicious and oven-less dish. The recipe was no stranger to me, having recently cooked up (but not literally!) the no-bake dessert with my other half just a few weeks ago. But who knew that the process would be slightly more difficult the second time around? Thanks to my top-notch lack of coordination, some sugar cascaded in a snowy-white avalanche onto the table, and later the entire Cool Whip/cream cheese mixture almost flew out of the bowl, narrowly missing the floor. And so I learned the hard way that the duo is a powerful tool in the kitchen, and should be utilized whenever possible.

Nevertheless, my hungry relatives will be blown away by the taste and sass of my sugary-sweet creation. Who needs to know that I stole the recipe from a Weight Watchers-ish web site? A BB original it shall be. And besides, I deviated from the original by adding a secret ingredient: mini chocolate chips (gasp!). And alright, maybe that's not so secret, but they're pretty well-immersed within the gooey cheesy center if I do say so myself.

Tomorrow's agenda is not unlike that of previous Thanksgiving mornings in my house, and you know what? That's totally fine, and I didn't need a cheesecake to tell me that (although it sure doesn't hurt). The plan falls along these lines: wake up. Watch the Macy's parade. Watch the National Dog Show. Realize that it's 2 PM and I'm still in my pajamas and "dinner" is in an hour. Throw on some clothes, head over on the bus to whichever family is hosting dinner. Eat. Pass out. Get up, eat some more. Repeat as much as needed. Perfection.

Happy Thanksgiving, residents of the blogosphere.

WWW: Writers' Workshop Wrap-Up

Six weeks have come and gone. Now that my writing class at Gotham is finally finished, I'm left with a number of afterthoughts.

1) My instructor, Cullen, was smart, witty, and likeable. This might not sound too impressive, but come on-- the guy spent three and a half years in a Korean prison for smuggling hasish when he wasn't much older than I am (and directly led to his 1st published memoir). He had stories to tell and a fun personality, which made it much easier to drag myself to class at 7 PM on a Monday night. (I had also been expecting an air of pretentiousness coming from these Gotham instructors, but I didn't get any of that from him.)

2) The class was a wee bit overpriced. The initial cost was $295, but they tack on a $25 "registration fee" which brings the grand total to $320. The good news is that if I ever want to take another class, I get $30 off as a returning student (and an additional $30 off if I were to sign up before a certain date). But yes, this was no minor investment for a recent college grad living on a budget.

3) The experience wasn't what I expected it to be. The class wasn't a true "workshop" such that our writing assignments weren't exactly, well, workshopped. Each week, a number of us read our pieces and listened to reactions from our classmates and instructor. But this feedback primarily consisted of comments that began with "Well, I liked it because..." or "It was good because..." etc, etc. In other words, everyone routinely refrained from saying overly negative things, and I wasn't going to go ahead and be the asshole to do it first. While it was definitely reassuring to hear praise about my work, more constructive criticism would have been beneficial. Then again, this was only a six-week-long intro level course, and from what I've seen on the website, it appears that it's the ten-week-long class that follows the traditional workshop format.

4) Attendance was choppy, which was disheartening. During the first three sessions, we had a full house of 12 students plus the teacher. For Week 4, only five of us showed, which I attributed to the Yankees/Phillies Word Series game going on that night. But Weeks 5 and 6 resulted in similarly low numbers, and that's when I knew that people had lost interest. I don't understand why anyone would fork over $300+ for a writing-intensive class and then not show up to half of the sessions. Then again, these people were older adults in their upper 20s, 30s, and 40s and clearly had money that they were willing to spend. Still, if I were in the same position I doubt I'd waste my own money like they did. (On the plus side, the small crowd did contribute to a more intimate setting.)

5) I don't regret taking the class. Overall, it did exactly what I initially wanted it to do: get me writing. The in-class prompts and weekly assignments forced me to pick up a pen and paper (or keyboard and monitor) and put my thoughts into words within a given amount of time. I also frequently read my work out loud, a huge confidence booster for somebody as painfully shy as I used to be. A lazy student I was not, coming to each class and completing all of the weekly home assignments. Because of this, I probably stuck out like crazy as an overeager recent grad still mentally trapped in a world of deadlines and homework. So what though? My education isn't over yet. I hope to be back in the classroom in the near future, getting a master's in who-knows-what-ology, so I've got no problem being in a school state of mind. Honestly, I refuse to let my brain waste away.

So that's the rundown. I've spoken with several friends who were either interested in or had some past experience with Gotham, so hopefully this assessment contributes to what current, former or future students have to say as well. And now that I've got my Monday nights back, I'm really hoping to devote more time and energy to this little blog of mine, because I think I've been neglecting it to a degree. Which means it's time to scoop up DTRW in my arms and take better care of this thing. Back to [dodging] reality for me.

Too Close for Comfort

It was a few minutes before 10:00 on Tuesday night. My parents, my brother and I were in the living room crowded around the TV finishing up an episode of Law & Order SVU. My brother had been sitting on the sofa closest to the window. He stood up and stretched, tilting his body to look outside. That's when he half-jumped back, and yelled "FIRE!"

The rest of us shrieked at the same time and bolted to the window. Huge, flickering orange flames were shooting up from an apartment window in the building just next door to us. Less than 100 feet away. On the second floor, facing us-- mirroring us.

My eyes twitched. "Shut the windows!" my mom screamed. Black smoke was spilling from the burning apartment. We all rushed to our rooms and slammed shut every window, sealing off any open nook or space. This was the most we could do. We would've called 911, but the piercing wail of sirens was already fast approaching.

While we were technically out of harm's way at this point, I feverishly threw my wallet, phone, and keys into a bag anyway. I slipped into sneakers and pulled a sweatshirt over my head. By the time I reached the kitchen window to see a crowd of residents from both buildings (including my father) on the ground below-- looking upward, open-mouthed, some pulling out phones and taking pictures-- a team of firefighters was already halfway up the fire escape.

In a matter of seconds, the image of the vicious flames was replaced by gushing jets of water. There was something strangely beautiful about it. Maybe it's because I'd never seen a house fire extinguished right in front of me before. Or perhaps I interpreted the scene metaphorically as forces of good (cool, clean water) triumphing over evil (hot, harmful fire). Either way, I thought to myself, Thank God we're four blocks away from a firehouse.

After the fire was out, the firemen began to spray down the charred apartment from the inside-out. One of the jets briefly hit our window. Good thing we'd closed them. Firefighters were also airing out the apartment directly above the scene of the fire, talking and motioning to the older couple who lived there. Even from a distance I could see that their TV was still on, tuned into Game 6 of the World Series. The Yankees were winning.

My dad, a member of the co-op board, returned from outside. He'd gathered some fast facts-- the fire was contained to the one apartment, so it didn't spread to any other units or floors. And no one was home at the time, which meant that nobody died or got hurt. A true miracle, considering how many people-- senior citizens, families, children-- could have been affected.

Gradually the crowd dispersed, and I crawled into bed. I didn't fall asleep until two hours later.

When I first saw the blaze, I'd automatically assumed the worst: people must have been trapped inside, doomed to a horrible death. And although my dad reassured us that we were too far away for the fire to reach us shortly after my brother's discovery, I had panicked nevertheless. Truth be told, the mere visual of a human structure burning makes my stomach churn.

Is this my post-9/11 syndrome showing itself, nearly a decade later? My mother is convinced, but I'm just not sure. Whether or not I bore witness to terror much worse years ago, nothing like this has ever happened so close to home during the seven and a half years that my family has lived in our co-op. Freak accidents are perhaps even more invasive than organized attacks. Originating from no pre-planned, intentionally malicious actions, they render us totally vulnerable. Our lives become fragile as glass, breakable at any instant in the hands of circumstance and fate.

For the past few days, I've had to walk past the burn marks on the side of the building next door on my way to work. The jagged blackness managed to travel up the wall to the third and fourth floors. Such remnants are a constant reminder: It could've been anyone.

If that gives me some small sense of relief, the feeling is fleeting. It could've been us.