Allie

Being a natural mother can be odd. I'm often asked about my life, and how I spend my time. Do I ever get lonely? Sure, but not nearly enough to go to a bar in town by myself, to rub elbows with the angry drunk locals who never made it to the city for a career. That was high school for me. Townies are really sensitive about their lack of experience; a trait that is not well-heightened by excessive amounts of alcohol.

They prefer to remain singularly clannish and inbred by pretending an exclusivity that has successively bred the fatal Tay-Sachs disease into their children, offering roadblocks to their status by remaining exactly where their parents and grandparents dropped them, stubbornly adhering to the idea that someone who has only gone to school in one small town somehow has a leg-up on the rest of us Rocklanders. Good luck with that. I found out through their local genetic study that I wasn't "Irish" enough to be considered for their Tay-Sachs research, and my Norman ancestors would be very glad to hear that. Job well done, for a sophisticated merchant family with ancient roots.

Provincial pockets of lonely cousins are still rather common in this area, as a place built before the relative ease of commercial travel, bane as that is to the environment and our collective health. I found another pocket of genetic oddity in Brooklyn, introduced to me through my rabidly social cousin, who drinks like a good time is at the bottom of each and every glass. When I dated a friend of his, the car service driver from Park Slope was astonished at the change in scenery on the way to his house. This is Brooklyn?! He was from the Middle East, and he'd never seen a seaport town with no lawns like the Jersey Shore in a city borough, but that's exactly what it is.

The houses are built right up to the curb, often with no grass; just crushed shells or stones. Everyone was related to one another, and that was the way they preferred it, trips to the green motherland of Eire or not. Most homes had an old-fashioned nautical theme, with anchors or ropes and buoys prominently displayed. My boyfriend John had kept a boat that he didn't use often enough to justify the fees attached to mooring it all year long, and many of his friends had boats, too. The one bar in town had a pier to the jetty; we often went for boat trips to restaurants and bars that were only open in the summertime to boaters who pulled up to the dock.

His family and friends were immediately suspicious of me, because they couldn't tell just by looking at me who I was related to, in their town. Uh, probably the lot of you, though we've had a good deal mixing of the air since then, I'd suppose. Their Irish decor was also everywhere, and I remained (besides my cousin who introduced us) the only person in his crowd who'd actually been to Ireland. Twice. But, that's clannishness for you. I didn't expect a bunch of high school drop-outs who'd married their cousins and/or half-siblings to take a shine to me, and John and I were frequently on the outs from his drinking habit.

He was the only really successful man in his area, which made him both big-headed and a huge target in equally large measures. He made a lot of money with his trucking business, much more than he knew how to spend well or efficiently. I immediately suggested he begin trust funds for his nieces for their college education, to which he cynically huffed, "They ain't goin' ta college. They ain't goin' nowhere." Ah. Keen to help, are ya? And that was that. He was similarly spooked by the subway ride to my office in Manhattan, and the one work-related event where art directors are treated like rock stars, with free food and drink. He could distance himself from my life while at home with me in Park Slope, but not in the bigger world, and that's the place I lived in.

His best friend was an affable short Mick with a round, cheerfully red face who married the prettiest girl at school, and we all wondered about that. She and John seemed awfully chummy, too, which was confirmed for me by my ever-drunk cousin who manages to stay sharp as a whip, G-d bless 'em. He finally admitted that they'd dated for a brief second in junior high, and that was that. With the size of their neighborhood, there weren't a lot of options around. Suffice to say, they were cordial to me and also deeply unnerved by my presence as resident townies, which I respected by staying politely in the background so as not to offend, as I was taught. But their daughter Allie knew of no such barriers that existed between us.

His best friend's daughter loved me from the moment she met me, with her perfect spiral curls and big round eyes. She loved going to the beach with me because unlike her towel-bound parents, I actually love swimming in the ocean. They seemed to be of the belief that the beach was just one big outdoor bar, without need of a cooler, what with all that sand for beer bottles to go into. Allie seemed nonplussed by her parents bad alcoholism, preferring instead to sit next to me whenever she could, at their family get-togethers. My cousin made a lame attempt at making fun of me for playing with her Christmas toys on the floor with her on Christmas Day, but like my stale beer, it fell totally flat among so much dead-eyed, robotic arm-lifting. Ranking on the only adult present enough to enjoy the company of a child wasn't funny in his 40s.

It was like the joy had gone out of all of their lives, in service to a disease that so plagues Celtic people in this century, still. In between our horrible make-ups and breakups fueled by his illnesses, John would relay her messages to me that she missed me, and that it was the first thing she said whenever she came over to his house with her parents. "Where's Marie? Is Marie coming over?" She wouldn't be the first child to miss a mother she never really had. It's not my place to rear the children born to so many sick parents, but it is my fate to do it better than they ever could. I'm right here, Allie. I'll be right here, where you can always find me. Always.

Vive Le Hate

 
While some women had terrifying brush-ups with serial date rapists and other ghouls that haunted the free site Craigslist during its heyday, I famously dated an international explorer and one very lonely celebrity chef. Neither was a good match for me, but I got pretty close to some decent relationships. Francois was an insecure Parisian businessman who convinced himself that I only wanted to date him because he was rich. Au contraire! The sex was as good as his West Village apartment, paid for every month by his firm.

Our first date was on a snowy evening to see "Le Jazz Hot" that I thought boded well for us both. But, soon he was doubting our age difference and language skills (neither true obstacles), and the discrepancy he saw in our looks. He called me a "Petite Modelle" (mannequin) during our first few beers together, astonished that a woman as beautiful as me was single, and therein lies the rub. He was a bit too thin perhaps, with a receding hairline and stained teeth of a European kind, but it was workable enough for me, though his insecurities were not.

At first, he insisted on seeing me more often, which meant I had to hurry home from work to walk my dog and then trek back to Manhattan for our dates. It was a good thing I was in my 30s and more motivated. Then, when that accommodation became intolerable, he said he would pay for my car service rides to-and-from his place, even though technically he had no money. Oh, mon dieu...then, he made a big deal out of taking the subway to see me in "le suburb de Brooklyn". I began questioning his judgment even more. He chipped away at our relationship like a gay man caught kissing a drunk girl for kicks at a soiree. What gives?

He mined the false construct of the Brooklyn 'burbs all the way to calling me "une salope" for my last name (so suburban), then ridiculing his limited palette sexually ("go find a lesbian to do the 'lick lick'. I am macho"!), to finally excluding me from a dinner party for his middle-aged friends because they would only speak French. That was after he accused me of pretending not to be fluent "en francais", so I could get out of reading his bad murder mystery he supposedly wrote on an intercontinental flight while sitting next to a showgirl from "Le Moulin Rouge" who obsessively counted each bite of food she ate because she was paranoid about getting fat. 

"So cute!" he said to me, as he pulled a bowl of chips away from me sitting on his piano, while rebuffing my amorous advances, citing that we should have dinner instead. He unraveled the strands of our relationship one-by-one to avoid an entanglement, because he told me the only successful long-term "affaire de coeur" he ever had was with a married woman whose husband didn't care if she slept around. Oh, how droll. I think I was supposed to be impressed by his utter lack of ability in handling a woman full-time, but, sadly, I was not. As I sussed out his neuroses one at a time, he just threw more obstacles in the way, culminating in a date "with a friend" that he suspiciously gave me the street address to after a series of texts, so I could find him with a pretty older woman with dark hair and eyes who was obviously interested in him, then fly into a jealous lover's rage.

We had our final mis-en-scene in the posh MeatPacking district of Manhattan. I dressed him down for encouraging these behaviors deliberately to get my attention, while his co-worker awkwardly waited down the block to see what would happen between us, finally coming up to us as we were walking away to say her "au revoir". Out of all these negatives, came the results of one inconvenient test that was absolutely positive. He told me Frenchmen were deliberately seeking to replenish their dwindling bloodlines outside of the country, then moving back home to retain custody that would actively cut the foreign-born mother out of the picture, and that was the last straw for me. It was preposterously abusive. You can only jerk around a smart New York woman so much before the "wild child" in her comes out, and that really threw him for a loop. When my patient French Catholicism was finally exhausted by all his trying immature antics, this mama did what any sane woman would do: I ended his line of succession forever. 
Tell me, where's the sin in that?

http://m.nydailynews.com/entertainment/gossip/kelly-rutherford-loses-custody-children-ex-husband-article-1.2466812

A "How-to" Guide for New York

I've joked about creating a pamphlet for new New Yorkers for years, witness as I've been over the years to a certain amount of crimes that are wholly unnecessary, but I've been told by more than one person that "common sense isn't so common" and I've certainly found that to be true. You'd be amazed how many horribly performing people there truly are in the world, major businesses included. Once I quickly got my bearings in business (because I had to), I spent a lot of time observing the human condition as I went about my day.

You see, unlike the "diva" designer who is only qualified to set type in a layout, I was trained to do just about anything, which naturally opened me up to ridicule among less talented workers, after I graduated to begin my apprenticeship. I was prepped for it at art boot camp, where the first salvo of the day was often delivered by that famous author you read at the library, in front of some extremely wealthy diplomat's kid, so shame and embarrassment over something like hard work became impossible for me to feel in any workflow.

Unlike putting on typical "airs" about being a native New Yorker (another way of "separating the wheat from the chaff" among so many avidly striving out-of-towners seeking fame and fortune in our fair city), I just did the work, like my forefathers who built this city. I didn't talk endlessly about it, because I worked with people who wouldn't have been able to understand or tolerate any of our real history (in lieu of so much posing and phony posturing), so most of the time I listened and spoke only when necessary, which is a great survival strategy for anyone working in a town full of strangers that you already own, they just didn't know it....yet. Today you do!

After so much time spent listening to other people's fantasies about who they want you to think they are, I would slowly drink my pint (that was put to scrutiny too, for not "being fast enough" around certain desperate yenta's from Long Island who needed that second round badly to try and keep pace, or conversely for being "too fast" to a certain type of reticent, slow-witted people out west) and take it in, as part of my ongoing studies about the human condition. I became a sort of covert cultural anthropologist without really knowing it, and in your repetition I became a master of the human arts.

And so, without much further ado, I present to you my fairly glib but actually totally valid list about rules to New York City living, for the slow and the stupid, as well as the rich and insane. You thirsty natives already know what to do, so do it.

#1 - Do not spit on the subway tracks. Chinatown, this means you. We will fine and ticket you for it, plus it's totally disgusting, which is part of the point, I'm sure. Next time we're on Mainland China, I'll be sure to spray Lysol around while ripping off your dumb face masks. Getting a fucking grip! If you don't like us "Gweilo", then go home. Good luck not starving to death in a labor camp. NO SPITTING.

#2 - Do not ride the subway after midnight, especially if you are a woman. If you can't afford the cab fare home, don't go out with your co-workers who may want you drunk and vulnerable on a train ride by yourself. Pickpockets like drunks asleep on the subway, too. 

#3 - Look both ways before crossing our city streets. This is mandatory. You can be run over by a passing car, cab, truck, or biker in a second, and not even know what hit you. Dumb-ass. Stay home!

#4 - Stand against a pile-on while waiting for a train to come into the station to avoid the crazies, like rouge slashers (yes, I follow the local news) and phantom pushers of people onto train tracks. Plus, you'll line up with the car doors, because conductors use them to align the trains. You're welcome. Assholes.

#5 - Yes, there are maps and schedules for subways, but things happen quickly to underground trains that are hundreds and hundreds of years old immediately after leaving Brooklyn Yard. Adjust for it, muthfucka, or just fucking leave. People get sick, trains derail, rains flood low-lying areas (duh, you dick) and shit just simply breaks from all the use. Get a fucking grip, and always leave ahead of time to reach your destination. Dick!

#6 - Expect serious delays and re-routing on the weekends, because that's when we service those trains you take for granted, shit-head. Expect to tack on additional travel time, because you will have to run an obstacle course so severe, people get panic attacks over it. Really. We can't do a lot of rail work during commuting hours, because millions of jobs and lives depend on our labors, so again, just fucking deal. Ass. Stay home!

#7 - Watch your bag and wallet AT ALL TIMES, no matter where you are in the city. Urban areas are rife with crime, just like Rome, London, or Tokyo, you ignorant fucking hick. Keep an eye on your purse!

#8 - This goes without saying, but there is NO SLEEPING ON MASS TRANSIT. Shit pops off quickly in the fastest town on the planet, and I know your khaki-wearing, office-working ass cannot handle it. Just stay out of the way while warriors do their jobs.

#9 - Last, and not least, summertime in the city smells bad. Really fucking bad. Get out of there. We're like Europeans: the city shuts down most operations during the summer, so get out of town and enjoy it. Take a bus or train to the beach or the mountains, but just go. What do you think that bum who reeks of piss and crap smells like, simmering to a near-boil in the heat of summer? Yep, that's what it is like underground. Best to avoid it, if you can.

There you go. Now, get out there and succeed! Just think about my rules as you're crossing over the GWB, looking at the massive skyline, and remember this: we conquered all that first. We built this city.



***UPDATE*** In lieu of this morning's snow (combined with your general lack of ability to STAY HOME and have a nice three-day weekend), I'd like to add to my list of rules regarding weather and other typically human conditions:

1A - If you are not an emergency worker or crisis manager for the City of New York, nor part of our government, or the crux upon which an entire business stands, stay the fuck home. I thought that would be obvious with a Friday morning snowfall, but New Jersey, I saw you dumb fucks clogging the tolls to get onto the GWB this morning and by the looks of your vehicles, you are definitely NOT in the leading minority that runs shit, you broke-ass mutha-sumptins. Next time, stay home or the Governor will seal-off town again. Do you really want that?! No?! THEN STAY HOME. Enjoy a freakin' snow day for once...jeez...

2A - ALWAYS PUT TRASH INTO THE PROPER RECEPTACLES. Believe it or not, New Yorkers are not dirty animals who love your filth, you tourist fuck. I know you think this town is here for you to piss away your money on dumb sidewalk crap, but unlike Las Vegas, we do not like seeing topless hookers in Times Square on a weekday afternoon with children rolled around in their prams by their well-meaning parents. That is not our culture. Keep your coked-up hooker shit in Nevada where it belongs! It's legal to die there from an overdose of cocaine and several highly toxic human diseases. Here, we take the time to throw away our garbage into the many, many obvious trash cans that are all around town, along with those pretty flowerpots you see in Spring that are maintained by city workers. We care about our home. We care a lot.

3A - RECYCLE. RECYCLE. RECYCLE. It's the law, and it is mandatory. It's the way to keep our towns relatively vermin-free and our immediate environment clean, with long-term health benefits to every single living thing on this planet. You do not have a choice because (and this is key), recycling is mandatory in New York. Violate our "green-clean" ethos and we will fine the fuck out of you, chasing you all the way back to your much cheaper po-dunk town, because here we don't have time to work through your mental static when a good hard hit to the wallet is much more effective. Get it? Good!