Housework is the new Porn.

The other night I was at one of my two book-clubs, sipping on wine and not discussing the book- when an interesting conversation popped up among the group of wives.

Housecleaning.

Now, we're all educated, hard working, modern women who enjoy Avant-garde films, curry, and our careers. (Well, I don't actually have a career yet, but I enjoy talking to other people about their careers. So, I count too.) BUT YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED at the level of passion that is elicited when the topic of a clean house comes up. One of my friends leaned back against the couch and sighed orgasmically when I described a recent night where I made dinner, froze leftovers, and then cleaned my kitchen top to bottom- taking special care to mop the floors and bleach the counters.

"Don't you love," she started dreamily, "the way a dishwasher sounds at the end of the day?"

A ripple of murmured agreements swept through our small gathering, and we found ourselves trying to top one another with recollections of sexy housecleaning escapades.

"One time, the husband was out of town...and I just got so excited to clean the whole house and come home...to see it still clean."

"Oh, and Meyer's hand soap and dish washing soap? I mean, yes, it is a crime how expensive it is. But, so worth it, right?!"

"God. I just put up new shelving units in our mud room, and I swear to God I came when I saw how organized everything was." (no one actually said this, but I am trying to paint a picture.)

I greedily chimed in: "Even if I cooked dinner that night, I'll insist on cleaning up. He just can't do it like I can...and I swear to God- that last hour of the day, with my glass of wine and the sponge...that hour is the most relaxing."

All of the woman turned to me and nodded encouragingly when I confessed my kitchen fetish, which only made me laugh. "You do realize we are all lustfully describing housework practices, right?"

But, I stopped laughing. Because this was serious. And seriously sexy.

The next night I met a few girlfriends for cocktails, and I almost spit my Moscow mule drink out when the conversation AGAIN, OH MY GOD turned to housework. I held up my hand as I sputtered.

"We can't really be talking about this, right? You all worked today! Tell me about your work day! A guy flashed me on the street the other day, want to hear about that? I finally wrote some poetry the other night...I voted! Want to talk about that?!"

But I didn't really say any of those things because I was excitedly recounting the baked chicken recipe I was going to make that night. And my fool-proof plan for left-overs and clean up.

Maybe I'm getting older.

I actually used wine in my cooking tonight. So, there's that.

But, it's ok.

Because no one...and I mean no one can bring a wooden floor back to life like I can. Or, scour off grease stains with my amazing ability. Or, make amazing cookies with only 2 ingredients.

It's the little things. The sexy, domestic, little things.

I'M A FAN OF YOU!

OHMYGOD

The other day I realized my favorite author David Sedaris was coming to town for a reading, and I casually brought this up with Brett over dinner. And by casually "brought it up" I mean I was jumping up and down in my chair with excitement as I yelled the news in my husband's face.

"DO YOU WANT TO GO?! WE HAVE TO GET FRONT ROW SEATS. OH MY GOD, I DON'T EVEN CARE HOW MUCH THE TICKETS ARE. DO YOU THINK HE'LL HAVE T-SHIRTS?!"

Brett leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a minute. He does this a lot when I am excited. Or talking. Or in the room.

"Are...you going to be weird? Like the last time we saw him?"

"I was not weird the last time we saw him. I was an appreciative fan."

"You held up the line for 20 minutes and invited him to our wedding. Repeatedly."

"That wasn't weird. That was polite."

"You understand the man is in a committed relationship right? And gay?"

"I'm not in love with him, Brett."

"You told him you were in love with him. 97 times. Before we were basically asked to leave."

"That is just something...fans say. I'm a fan."

"Fanatic."

It's true, in a way. I get a little...excited about my favorite authors. Some women go crazy for their favorite band- fainting and screaming and flinging their panties at the musicians as they are pressed up against the stage, sweaty and hopeful and delirious in their adoration.

I'm kind of like that at book readings.

Even the authors that have long since died get the full weight of my frothy fandom. When we went to Rome on our honeymoon, Brett brought me to the Spanish Steps at twilight in a sweet attempt at romance. I was beyond excited, and could barely keep still as he tried to hold my hand. He seemed pleased I was so obviously thrilled, and as he bent to kiss me, he pulled back, alarmed.

"Your hands are sweating like crazy, are you ok?"

"I'm ok." I panted, lifting my gaze away from his eyes and fixing it on the house behind him. "I just...oh my God. Keats died in that house right behind you! Oh God. I can't breathe. This is amazing. Can you take my picture?!"

Which is how, on my honeymoon in one of the most romantic places in the world, I posed for a picture with a house as couples all around us made out like teenagers.

Brett puts up with my obsessive adoration with a level of patience I think is beginning to wane. Last year I had to do a project on Emily Dickinson, and for 3 nights in a row I locked myself in our office, drank wine in the dark, and memorized her poetry. He would pop his head in once and awhile to check on me, shaking his head when I whispered drunkenly that I "just loved her so much."

"Isn't your project a painting? How is getting drunk in the dark helping you with the painting? Do you even have any paint in here?" He asked, trying to flick on the lights.

"I have to FEEL her first, Brett. I can't just paint. Don't be ridiculous."

"So you feel her through a bottle of red wine?"

"It's my way of tapping into her."

"She didn't drink you know. She was a recluse."

"ExACTly! Which is why I am reclusing myself!"

"Not a word."

(I got an A on the project, so it shows how much he knows.)

I realized the other day that if my own husband was nervous about attending a BOOK READING with me, I should probably pull the ridiculousness back a little bit. It's ok to be excited about the artists we admire, but I could probably swing a little of the fandom his way.

On our walk today I told him I was a big fan...of him.

And asked him again to go see David Sedaris with me.

And I solemnly promised to only take 15 minutes in the book signing line.

Because marriage is all about compromise.

"If Music Be The Food Of Love...Play On."

The first time I managed to wrangle a date out of (my now husband) Brett, I cooked for him in my small apartment and promptly burned everything while I sat perched on the counter, babbling away, ignoring the food while drinking wine.

He was horrified, to say the least, and dinner was uncomfortable. He gloomily eyed the "blackened-not-by-intention" chicken and somberly sipped his wine. I sat across from him on my hands, feeling absolutely sure that I would not have a second date with this man, mainly because he was probably going to die from the carcinogenic meal. As we cleaned up, I mumbled that I had 'picked up' (read: BOUGHT. FOR HIM.) a copy of "Finding Nemo." He had mentioned in passing in a crowded and loud bar that he loved that movie- weeks before.

And I went out and bought it, never breaking the plastic. Hoping I could trick him into coming over.

He looked at me, eyes softened. And well...was mine. (Editor's Note: Um. Not in a creepy sexual way. More along the lines of- let's have a second date and then I'm going to marry you way. Ok- carry on.)

It wasn't until I cooked with his family that I realized why he seemed so bummed out over a piece of chicken. To put it simply: Brett loves food. He adores it. It is his heart and soul and the truest form of art to him. He spends hours planning meals, shopping for ingredients, concocting new marriages of flavors and textures...while I still perch on the counter and watch him, babbling. He liked me ok when he first met me, thought I was cute even, but when I thoughtlessly threw wooden chicken on a plate with some frozen vegetables...I basically broke his heart.

For my husband, food is love. To watch him talk about his time when he lived in Italy is to understand this man. He'll look off as his face relaxes and his hands absently travel to his stomach. He'll dreamily talk of how every night he would shave off salty tendrils of prosciutto and enjoy it with a local wine, watching the golden sun dip and shimmer in its fading ballet over the Tuscan rooftops. He'll describe that flank of prosciutto that hung from the worn, wooden rafters of his Tuscan home like he was remembering a gorgeous lover.

What I would give to be a salty flank of prosciutto.

This love definitely came from his mother, and any time we visit I find them in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, drinking tea in the middle of mountains of cookbooks. It's a life I am happy that I joined, and I have been blessed to have eaten my way through two countries with his parents. Yes, sometimes I ate eyeballs. And fish with the bones still in them as they looked up at me through milky, sightless eyes. And yes, I ate a duck heart once, and now I adore a little foie gras smeared on my steak, and I am no stranger to the elegance of shaved truffle on...well, anything. And Brett cooks 99% of the time, so as long as I keep our wine filled and the conversation flowing, I have nothing to complain about.

EXCEPT:

Now I have to cook more because Brett is so busy with school. And I am so busy not with school.

And I am shit at cooking duck hearts.

This morning Brett asked me what was for dinner, and I went into full on-panic mode. "What is defrosted?" I asked warily, praying it didn't have a head or wasn't an intestine of some sort.

"Ground beef." He replied. "I figured you are comfortable cooking that?"

"I am comfortable cooking that." I answered. "Are you comfortable with meatballs?"

He laughed. "Your meatballs are great. They really are. You should try branching out a little though! You have come so far since you first started cooking. Your stuff is really good- you could try a cookbook, see what fun things you can-"

"I am anti-cookbook. You know that."

"You're also anti-maps. And anti-directions. And anti-following rule-"

"Point made. But, I really am NOT opening a cookbook. I'm not. I'll figure something out, and you'll love it." I snapped.

"I will, you're right." And he kissed me on the forehead as I warily regarded the ground beef.
........................

In our 7 years together I have become a great eater and an ok chef. My confidence wanes in the kitchen, and I'm happier letting Brett take the reigns as I volunteer to chop, saute, or gossip. I make a few things he loves and a lot of things he questions, but eats. But, I want to try. If this is love to my husband- if this is the language between us that can quickly convey my gratitude and affection- I want to learn it. I want to Rosetta Stone the crap out of it.

Which is why I found myself plumping currants today.

And caramelizing onions.

And adding lamb with the beef and trying to...make art.

And say I love you.

Sometimes words are hollow little boxes we accumulate in life. We stack them away in the recesses of our heart where they gather dust and sit, forgotten. I chose to crack open one of those boxes- and fill it. Fill it with action and with proof and fill it with manifestations of my love.

Tonight we'll eat something I made just for him. And as I set it down with (slightly) burnt hands, it is set before him with a full heart.

And it has LAMB in it. Good God.

That is not even love. 

It's porn.

I'll live.

This morning, as Brett bounded out of bed to throw on his running clothes and flick on every light in the house, I rolled over and groaned into my pillow.

"Oh my God. I think I have left jaw-bone cancer."

"What?" Brett asked, and then thinking better, ignored me. "Want to go for a run with me?"

"That would be pretty hard to do, considering the jaw cancer I am trying to tell you about."

He rolled his eyes. "Why haven't you made a doctor's appointment here yet? Not for your 'jaw cancer', but you seriously need to make an appointment. Don't you have to.." he gestured with his hand wildly in the direction of my uterus. "Get that all checked out and everything?"

"Is there something wrong with it?"

He shot me a warning look as he laced his shoes. "Please make some doctor's appointments, ok? Some check ups. And your back has been bothering you too, so we should focus on your core..."

He was right, as usual. (However, my "core" is none of his business.) I had not been to a doctor in a long time, and it was entirely irresponsible of me. I had been in a new city and had made no moves to choose a new dentist, gyno, wine distributor, nada. Usually I am passionate about upkeep. I have seen too many people I love in my life find things wrong when it was too late...and as a functioning hypochondriac I always prided myself on remaining MORE than up-to-date on my body's check ups. 

I come from what I will call a "medical" family. My father works for a funeral home, and at a VA hospital- so there is a WEALTH of information there that he can supply me with. My mother has always been known to drag heavy volumes of medical dictionaries to my pediatric doctor's appointments, gently trying to imply through garbled Latin medical terms that I was probably in danger of dying every 5 seconds. She would balance the awkward book on her lap and watch with hawk eyes everything they did to me, slipping tongue depressors in her pocket as we left. (She's now in nursing school. Congrats mom! Glad I could help!) With this sort of rich history, I grew up way too aware of my own body. When my mother started assisting with colonoscopies at her training hospital, I sat down with my doctor a week later, asking him if it was time for me to get checked out there.

"Are you having any problems? Have you noticed any changes?" He asked, worriedly, scribbling on his pad.

"Well, no." I answered. 

He paused and looked up at me as I avoided his gaze to check out a poster on the early signs of melanoma. Hm.

"You're very young, and very healthy. I don't think we need to explore that yet." 

"Explore that? Ha."

"I trust you remember the way out?" He asked, standing.

And I did. Of course. 

.......................

I've come to understand that my fear of disease comes from a fear of not living enough. I lie awake and watch Brett's chest rise and fall as he slumbers, his hands delicately placed over his chest in an x-pattern as he sleeps on his back. (I hate that he does that. It's like a wake in my bed every night.) Last night I woke him up twice, pushing cold toes into his calf muscles until he snorted awake.

"Wha--- WHAT?! ARE YOU OK?!" he would ask, gasping and breaking his funeral mode of sleep.

"Well, I'm fine now." I'd reply primly, rolling over onto my side. 

(That will teach him to sleep like a dead person.)

Lately, life has taken on a certain sort of...uncertainty. We have no idea where we will be living in a few months. We have no idea if anyone wants to ever hire me. We have no idea where we will make a home, if we will have kids, or dogs, or end up with a llama farm.

But, we have a certain sort of control over our heath. Or, I do. I just hope this left-jaw-bone-cancer isn't serious.

Because I'd like to see the next chapter in this very (healthy) life. 

The Elephant In The Room. (Or, in the Book Club.)

Someone asked me the other night, during a book club gathering at my house if I had just gotten married.

"Oh. No. I got married 2 years ago, actually." I sheepishly replied. She just smiled and nodded at me, and I realized I had been going on and on about our wedding. Even to the point where I dragged out our 90 pound album to show to a house full of (lovely) ladies I had just met.

So, you know, I wasn't acting like an insane person at all.

The worst part was, my friend Heather did just get married. And this should have been her time to gush over the details and discuss colors and fun moments of the day and share with us all her honeymoon plans. But noooo. I just kept babbling away about MY day like I was freshly plied out of my wedding dress.

I hate women like that.

I was a woman like that.

The next night Brett came home from a business trip, and as he kissed me hello and sat down on the couch to talk about our day, I immediately blurted out: "I really want to hear EVERYTHING about your trip, but I really, really need to also tell you every single detail from book club last night so you can help me decide if I was a crazy person and have no hope whatsoever of making friends here."

"I missed you too." He said.

"Brett. This is important. I think I was a...little unhinged."

"A little?"

"Ok. A lottle."

"Not a word."

"This isn't helping. I'm kind of embarrassed. I did my frantic-everything-has-to-be-perfect-but-then-just-drank-too-much-and-talked-loudly-about-myself routine."

"Ohhh. That's a fun one."

I covered my face with my hands and deflated into him. "Why did you marry me?" I whimpered into his shoulder.

"Well, for starters, you weren't doing that routine. But, you were wearing a hot pink sweatshirt with a cartoon elephant on it that said "Nothing wrong with a little junk in the trunk." At church."

"That was a great sweatshirt."

"It wasn't." He said, kissing my forehead. "But, what I am trying to say is- you can be pretty charming and fun when you aren't trying so hard. I think the move has you feeling insecure, but you shouldn't be. People will like you. And if they don't, well...who cares? When you just relax into yourself, you're unstoppable. And I'm sure no one at the party thought you were a crazy person."

"I interrupted everyone constantly AND showed them our Christmas card from 2 years ago."

"Oh. Well...we don't need friends here anyway."

......................

Before Brett moved from California to Pittsburgh, we were packing up our belongings in our bedroom and I was wearing that hot pink elephant sweatshirt. I was holding a box, and was about to topple over from the weight of it when Brett quickly grabbed the front of my shirt to steady me- ripping it in the process.

I looked down, horrified. "You RIPPED it!" I wailed.

"Oh. No." Came his flat reply as he tried to hide a smirk. "That's too bad. We'll have to throw it away."

"Like hell. This shirt is special! I'll sew it."

"You don't sew. Besides, the thing is really, really old. Can't we just bury it? In some kind of ritual? A good-bye to the past, a hello to a quieter, less pepto-bismol pink future?"

"Brett. I met you in this shirt." I said, patting the elephant lovingly.

"I don't need that shirt to remember that night." He answered softly. "But, we'll cut the elephant out, ok? And maybe put it on a baby blanket someday. And we can tell our daughter that Mommy was wearing the most obnoxious shirt ever. Because Mommy is kind of obnoxious. And colorful, like this shirt. But, that makes her special."

"And there is nothing wrong with a little junk in the trunk." I added somberly.

And Brett rolled his eyes. And carefully cut the elephant out.
.......................

I found the elephant the day after book club in a jewelry box I had unpacked a few days before. I laughed when I pulled the hot pink elephant out, and sat down on the floor with it reverently in my hands. It was winking, which I didn't remember, and that made the whole thing more hysterical. This fat, cartoon, garish winking elephant seemed to be exactly what I needed to hold on to in this moment. Like, it was telling me everything was going to be ok. And yes, I was obnoxious. And yes, sometimes not the easiest person to love. But hey. Be kind to yourself. Life is fun. It's not supposed to be so serious all of the time. And- *wink, wink,* lighten up a little.

So, I hope everyone embraces their own elephants. I hope they can cut them out of the cloth of their past and carry that little part around with them forever. I hope you can embrace a tiny part of yourself that you see as a flaw.

Because, it's not a flaw. You are not a flaw.

And there is nothing wrong with a little junk.
In your trunk.

Auntie/Mommy

Not your Mom. But, you're pretty cute, kid.

I recently took the 3 hour drive from Pittsburgh to Ohio to help my Mom out with a few things in our family, thrilled that I: 1. Could drop everything and go to her, and 2. Would be cooking for a family that thinks everything I whip up in the kitchen is culinary gold. (Not to say Brett doesn't, but I'm pretty sure the man is tired of my meatloaf.) The interesting thing about my Mother's living situation is that my sister lives right next door. Like, right there. Next door. With her 2 kids and feral cat and new husband and RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO MY MOM. This means daughter/sister time doubles with Auntie time, and there is no real escaping it. Not that I would want to, but living in California-far away for so long left me with this nagging feeling I wasn't really good at any of these demanding roles. I could barely figure out the whole wife thing. Having to equally balance all other parts of me sometimes proved daunting.

But, this trip I was determined to master them all.

I've made no real secret that the idea of children, and having my own, dances around my head from time to time. I no longer accept my friend's proffered babies with panic and unease. Instead, I greedily reach for them, pretending to gobble their feet and wedge my nose into the baby neck fat, and do all of the things I saw other people do before and thought was disgusting and borderline insane. I'm not ready for children, but I want to hold everyone's baby all of the time, and I absently tested out a carriage in a Neiman Marcus before I realized that is was $3,000 and WHY THE HELL WAS I LOOKING/TESTING OUT CARRIAGES? I even murmured to my friend who was with me that the wheel system was "great for long marathon-type runs."

I have never run a marathon, and even MORE IMPORTANTLY I AM NOT PREGNANT NOR CLOSE TO BEING SO.

Anyway.

After wrapping some daughter duties up with my Mom, making a baked macaroni and cheese for dinner that everyone fawned over like it was cooked with shaved truffles, I called my sister and arranged to pick up my 5 year old nephew for some "Auntie and Elias" time. She agreed, and asked if I wanted to take her 2 year old as well.

"Both? Like, at the same time?" I stammered into the phone, as I sat on the porch and looked into her windows like a creeper. "I mean, am I allowed to do that?"


I don't think that exactly won her confidence, so it was just me and Elias the next day, and he met me very formally in front of the house. He looked over my outfit and awkwardly adjusted his glasses.

"You look...really shiny." He offered, reaching up to pat me on the arm. "I like your earrings."

"I like your shirt!" I replied, walking him to my car. "Where would you like to sit? Wait. I should know where you are supposed to sit in a car, but I can't remember. You don't have a car seat. Right?"

He squinted up at me. "I'm 5."

"Well, yeah. I know. But, you can't be in the front. I think."

"Mommy always lets me sit in the front."

"Are you lying?"

He smiled and shrugged. "No?"

"You're going to get me arrested by the end of the day. I think you should sit in the back."

He turned his huge brown eyes on me and pouted. "I just want to be close to you, Auntie. You smell so nice. Please let me be close to you?"

I melted, and at the same time helped him into the front THAT NOW I KNOW IS A DEATH TRAP FOR CHILDREN, SO HOLY CRAP, BUT DID YOU HEAR WHAT HE SAID? He was immensely proud of himself, and kept grinning over at me as we drove the very short, short distance to a local McDonalds.

Now, I hate, hate, hate, McDonalds, but this is not my child, and if he asks for chicken nuggets, he is going to get chicken nuggets and a romp through the very germy play place. And I will play with him there, and half heartedly try to get him to eat the rubbery apples that they now put in Happy Meals, and I will do it all with a frantic and manic glee because I WILL BE THE FUN AUNT. Some of my best memories of my own "dates" with my aunts involved contraband food and my first taste of coffee at 6. So, judge all you want, but you know you would do the same thing.

As Elias played, I nibbled on the remains of his slimy apples and chatted with some parents that gathered around the Flu Station. (a.k.a The neon play structure.) And I noticed something kind of amazing. If you had a kid with you, anyone would talk to you. I was approached by 2 woman and one young father, and they perched at my table and started gushing over my "cute" son, and "how great I looked" to have a kid.

I'm not joking.

I should have corrected them. I should have been offended. (I look 'good' for having a 5 year old?! Thanks?) but I was quite the opposite. I smiled. I preened. I said things in the middle of our parental discussions like, "Don't take your socks off, Eli!" and "Hey! Make good decisions!" As I good naturedly rolled my eyes at the other parents and shrugged in a gesture of "you know how kids are." My creepy role-playing was broken when Elias marched up to me, socks in hand and thrust his little face in mine.

"Are we still on our date Auntie?!" He yelled. "Do I get that transformer toy yet?!"

It suddenly got quiet. And I suddenly yanked Elias' shoes on and suddenly left my brand new parent friends that looked at each other with expressions that can only convey that I probably won't be invited to play time again. I sat in the car, feeling ridiculous and thoroughly embarrassed and wondering why I played along in that weird situation. I went in trying to be the fun, spirited Aunt- but left dragging my unknowing nephew out after I had turned into one of those desperate women that use baby talk and probably own a lot of denim Winnie-The-Pooh shirts.

Elias interrupted my depressing thought stream with an uncontrollable giggle.

"Grayson though you were my mommy." He laughed, shaking his head.

"Who is Grayson?"

"The little girl I was playing with. With the orange shirt."

"That was a boy honey. I think he just likes to wear earrings, which is totally ok if you ever feel like that is something you want to do."

Elias frowned at me. "Isn't that CRAZY?" He asked. "You! My mommy! I told her that you can't be a mommy- because you are an Auntie. I mean. Obviously."

I pulled a piece of chewed up apple from my scarf and reached over to ruffle his hair. "Obviously. Now. Let's see about that transformer toy."
..........................

We got the transformer, and we sat in my car for an hour as I struggled with the long instruction sheet and tried turning this cheap piece of plastic into a truck from a robot. Elias watched my every move, and was in awe when I finally presented the mangled and finished toy to him. We then went grocery shopping, and as he was shyly showing the cashier his new toy, she grinned at me. "Your son is adorable!" She gushed.

"Oh, he's my nephew, but thank you! I'm very proud." I answered as Elias stuck his transformer into my bra.

"You two seem very close." She offered, bagging my groceries. I was agreeing when Elias wriggled around to look at me.

"I DON'T WANT TO WEAR EARRINGS LIKE YOU SAID I COULD."

...........................

While I can't master every role perfectly, I can take it slow and assemble a toy in a car. Or shrug at a confused grocery store cashier as my nephew wails about not wanting to wear earrings as I offer up a lame: "I guess he's not into that look right now," and suppress a giggle. I can bring him home, and kiss him a million times and be grateful for the fact that I am an Aunt and not a mommy yet, obviously.

And then go home and drink a glass of wine with my Mom as I tell her that her daughter is a totally creepy, flawed, and weirdo human being.

But, very very good at transformer assembly.

Those fuckers are hard.

I Heart Crazy Women.

In a kind effort to break me out of my shell a bit and thrust me into something "of my own" in unfamiliar Pittsburgh, my husband signed me up for a semester of voice lessons with a former opera singer.

I was pleased initially, but this morning hid under the covers as I watched the dreaded hour-of-singing approach. I tried explaining my new reluctance to Brett. "I just...don't know where the campus is." I moaned.

"Yes you do." He returned.

"Do you think I am a bad singer? What if I am a really, really bad singer?"

He shot me a look of warning. "You know you can sing."

I nodded somberly. "I'm awfully good at drunk karaoke. But, you always tip the D.J's a lot of money, so that makes me question my abilities."

"If you don't want to go, you don't need to go." He reasoned. "But, I think you should. Like any musician you should practice, and I actually think you need to get out of the house for a little while."

I knew he was right. I was dangerously close to stretching my little pity party into a week long blow out. Kegs and all. This pity party was threatening to soon be off the hook, man. 

So. I went.

I dragged my feet the entire walk to campus, and soon found myself in a very cold, white room with nothing in it except a gloriously romantic-looking baby grand piano. I didn't know what to expect. I tried imagining my instructor. I was pretty close to getting up and pretending to play the piano when She walked in.

There was something about her. I don't even know how to describe it. She was a flurry of cowboy boots, a colorful, swirly fabric of a dress that danced around her bare, tan legs- clutching a huge colorful cookie between her teeth, her colorful self just colorfully bouncing off the color-less walls.

So, she was pretty colorful.

I immediately felt that mixture of complete ease and horrified unease. My posture was calm, but my palms were sweating. My face broke out into an automatic smile at her entrance, but my foot tapped nervously and I adjusted my glasses too many times.

She stooped short when she saw me.

"How old are you?" She demanded.

"29."

"You look 22." She said, cocking her head to the side, biting into her cookie. "So. You moved here for a man?"

"Well. No. My husband goes to school here, so I...uh. I moved here..."

"Is your husband a man, sweetheart?"

"He is. A man." I mumbled.

She smiled then. Quick and beautiful and I found myself giggling.

"Holy shit. I moved for a man!" I laughed. "That sounds bad. It's not like that."

"It's only bad if you don't do something for yourself too. You work?"

"I do not work at this moment, no."

"You need to. I can see it all over you. You know what I thought about you when I first walked in this door?" She asked, dumping her bag of piano music on the bench and brushing crumbs of cookie off of her jacket. "I thought: this girl. Her glasses. I get her. She needs to be doing something spectacular, and she is going to fade in this city if she doesn't get on it soon."

"My...glasses?"

She looked at me impatiently. "Have you seen your glasses? Have you looked around this town? You know what your glasses tell me? You don't give a shi- uh- crap about being cookie cutter 'perfect.'. Sure- a million hipsters have those glasses. You're no hipster, don't get me wrong- but you are an artist. You are a non-working artist. I can see it all over your body. And, the worst part is I think you have given up on yourself a little bit, but you are not beyond saving."

I sat there, opening and closing my mouth and trying not to stress-sweat. Who was this woman? Where had she been my whole life?

"We're not going to sing today." She said, closing the piano. "You need to talk. I need to listen. We'll do that today. I'll unlock your inner artist. But, for today, I want to talk to you. So- where were you born?"

"Concord, New Hampshire." I whispered. And we were off.

...................

One time Brett and I were laughing over a story I was elaborately acting out about my day, and he stopped me, his eyes glittering. "The craziest stuff happens to you." He said. "I've never known anyone where stuff...just happens to them, falls in their lap, all of the time. It's amazing."

I brushed it off then, but I am sitting down now at our table and thinking about it. Last night I cried into my dinner about how my life wasn't making sense. How I moved here and felt like my drive and my dreams were all dropping away and it was my fault. Brett's loving answer to my pathetic little pity party was the gift of voice lessons.

He was trying to give me back my voice. (Not that I ever truly lost it. I mean, let's be real here. Expressing myself is not usually a...problem. To a fault.) But, here I was in this cold little room with a woman I trusted implicitly who seemed to love learning every inch of the miles that brought me here. This stranger believed in me, and saw something that I had stopped looking for in myself. What a crazy thing to happen.

She walked me out after my "singing" time was through, and we lingered in the doorway like new lovers. "I'm giving you 4 days to get a job."

"4?!" I returned, laughing. "Listen. You obviously don't know me as much as I thought you did. Maybe we need another "voice" lesson."

She smiled. "There you go! I like it! Ok. A week. That's it, New Hampshire. You got this."

"Ok. A week. And I'll see YOU next week. Same time?"

"Same time." She answered, and then stopped me as I walked out the door. "I don't want you to find a job because I think you are lazy. I want you to really start in the arts- your passion- because I know your very soul depends on it. I don't want you to look back on your life in 15 years and be unhappy. I don't want you to give up. I think you are about to, and I cannot let that happen. Got me?"

"I've got you."

"And New Hampshire? Next week we sing. We sing the shit out of something. You're ready."