A Happy Birthday, to Two of the Best

On this day, March 25, my father and grandmother share a birthday. Dad is 53; Grandma is 91.

(I can't allow the above sentence stand alone without adding that not only is Grandma 91-- she lives and functions totally on her own, as she has been for the past 25 years. Her secret? I'm convinced it has something to do with daily crossword puzzles and Smart Balance cheese slices, and can only hope that I'll be blessed with a life that's just as long and healthy.)

As a child, I just couldn't fathom the concept of having to share a birthday with a parent or sibling. To my understanding, a birthday was essentially a free pass for all eyes to be on you and you alone-- a day that should be milked for all its worth in terms of presents, toys, sweets, hugs, kisses, etc. In comparison to such an intensely special All-About-Me Day, who could ever settle for All-About-Us?

Of course, I didn't quite take hold of the fact that my father had no say in the matter regarding what day he should be born on. For him, sharing his birthday with my grandmother was simply the way things were, a day that wasn't any less special. And for her, of course, my father was the ultimate birthday gift. I, for one, cannot imagine the physical act of giving birth on one's birthday, but not everyone can exchange candles and cake for a hospital room like my grandmother did.

It's hard to articulate in words what two of the most important people in my life mean to me without getting too sappy. My thoughts almost instantly turn to childhood. You can tell a grandmother loves you when she's willing to knit clothes for your stuffed animals, including a full winter outfit for Hoppy the rabbit: sweater, hat, scarf, and legwarmers (only the scarf remains). And somehow, my father made group trips to the library with my brothers just as fun as getting a push from him on the tire swing at Neck Road Park. Who knows where this blogger would be if that love of literature hadn't been cultivated so early with Spot the Dog books?

It's impossible to tell, but one thing's for sure: without them, there'd be no me.

Happy birthday, Dad & Grandma.

Confessions of a Former [Middle School] Actress

My acting resume consists of three major roles.

#1: I played "Mrs. Elephant" in my 4th grade production of the folktale "How the Elephant Got Its Trunk." After the initial disappointment in losing out on the role of "Baby Elephant"-- the title character who spent the entire show sucking her thumb and looking adorable-- playing Mama Pachyderm gave me quite a bit of pride. If my scanner was up and running (and if I had no shame), I'd post up the sole photo that exists of my all-gray ensemble, complete with cardboard cutout elephant ears and a sewn-on tail (compliments of my grandmother).

#2: My next big year came in 6th grade. First, I was a puma in a production about rainforest conservation. No, wait-- it was a musical showcase about rainforest conservation. Yes, each of the three classes in my program had to perform a song-and-dance pertaining to the rainforest, and predictably, everyone had to dress up as a rainforest animal. My class was stuck with a dreary number entitled "Those Were the Days," a song whose lyrics we had to tweak in order to describe the plight of endangered species. (We actually took time out of biology class to do this.) Anyway, my "moment" came in the fourth verse: I had a solo. I also had a tail.

#3: Just a few months later, I played the Greek god Cronus in a skit that parodied Judge Judy (back when courtroom shows were the closest thing we had to reality TV), one of three skits in the gifted program's "Tribute to Ancient Greece" (stifle your laughter; the best part is coming). During the tryout, I was the only one in the class who read the lines with any trace of enthusiasm. That's how 12-year-old me ended up as a man, outfitted with a beard and wig, in a part that required tumbling across the stage, violently throwing up my children, and dying. Like the rainforest musical, we were given time in class to write the script. (What can I say? My teachers were lazy.)

That gender-bending performance was my swan song. How poignant that my acting career ended as a bearded woman in a toga, faking a massive upchuck in the auditorium of I.S. 234. Is there any better way to go out than on the floor-- err, on top?

In the years to come, I went on to more deeply immerse myself in sports : softball, then ultimate frisbee. It was my own time to shine-- to have all eyes on me, if only for a few moments of glory-- that required no memorization of lines or singing abilities (excluding goofy sideline cheers), just pure energy. And I soaked up every minute of attention on the field, which didn't quite make me the most sportsmanlike at times (so I threw the bat once... sue me), but at least I felt good at something that involved an audience of some sort.

Yet while I comfortably absorbed athletic activities, my interest in theater never did go away. I went to all of the student shows in high school and college (alright, maybe not all, but most of them). Broadway musical soundtracks were a staple on my iPod, circa 2004 (remember when the screens weren't in color yet?). And most of all, I gravitated towards the theater kids. Sitting front and center, mouthing out the lyrics to songs I only halfway knew, I lived through them. I crushed on them. I wanted to be them. Always wishing, wanting, hoping to latch on to a piece of their aura, to have what they had, admiring and envying them at the same time.

Little did I know that the connection I craved would eventually be fulfilled in college by the thespian I'd become smitten with the most. When we finally acknowledged what we'd both been holding in for too long, it was the ultimate dream come true-- almost impossible to fully comprehend at first, but the most logical feeling in the world, when I thought about it a little harder.

And so, I rightfully earned my place as her number one fan. I went to every show she appeared in at least twice (sometimes three times), got to crash most of the cast parties and formals, and brought flowers on closing nights. It took some getting to, having spent years secretly pining to do these things without ever actually doing them. But it became the happy norm that I'll always associate with the second half of my college years, a norm I wouldn't have traded in for anything.

Even then, though, I can't help but wonder even a little bit how life would have turned out if I hadn't succumbed to stage fright. Perhaps the Me in an alternate universe never quit the church choir in 6th grade, tried out for a one-act play at Stuy, and even joined an acapella group in college. Would I be jealous? Yes, probably a bit. But I would love to meet that girl from the twilight zone and show her that everything turned out alright anyway.

And besides, I'll always have karaoke.

Snow Day 2010

On a typical Wednesday morning at 9:00, I'd already be busily typing away at my desk at work, after my traditionally quick Cheerios breakfast and hour-and-ten-minute commute to Williamsburg.

But today-- after a wonderful ten hours of sleep on a Tuesday night-- I woke up to a world covered in white outside my window. Getting up slowly out of bed, I pulled on a sweatshirt, fried some eggs, and switched on the radio to listen to the forecast.

Here I am: my first snow day at home in NYC since high school, which I'm going to put at six years ago. I don't remember any blizzards hitting us during senior year (2005), I'm sure there was a snow day in January or February of sophomore year (2003), and I think we had one junior year (2004), but I could be wrong. Stuy alums, correct me if I am.

Simply put, snow days were a true rarity growing up in the 90s and early 00s in New York City. If high school was relatively devoid of snow days, then junior high and elementary school saw even less of them. I can remember trudging through a wet wintry mix all bundled up with my younger brothers in tow on our way to P.S. 206, one twin on either side of my dad, their mittens gripping his hands. For NYC public schools to close, we needed a snowstorm of monstrous proportions, and we got just that with the whirlwind "Blizzard of '96" when I was in fourth grade. Other than that, it's hard to recall too many others.

If NYC is the "city that never sleeps," I find that to be especially true when it snows. Even in the worst of weather conditions, our city must remain an insomniac. We can't be crippled or thrown drastically off-track-- see what happened in Washington, DC when the snow hit them this past week for a good example-- because in a city with this many people, we just can't afford to shut down. MTA buses and trains are still up and running, albeit less frequently, at slower speeds, and with crabbier operators. That's a lot better than the disastrous DC Metro situation in which only underground subway lines remained open. If elevated rail lines were to be suspended in New York, millions of commuters couldn't get home to the outer boroughs. As flawed as it can be, the MTA just keeps on chugging, through rain, sleet or snow.

At the same time, I'm sure Manhattan is a slushy, snowy mess at the moment, and I feel bad for anybody who had to made the long trek to the urban jungle this morning. Times like these make me happy to live in Brooklyn, a borough that's a bit less chaotic and a bit more aesthetic. For now, I'm going to enjoy the view from my window while I can (pictured above). In New York, snow is about as ephemeral as beauty gets-- all the more reason for it to be cherished.