My Season of Baking

Seven years ago right now I was putting the first of my homemade cookies into the oven. I'd rushed home from work in the city to my apartment in Brooklyn Heights and baked a batch as fast as I could. I finished them some time before nine o'clock and then, wrapping them carefully, I walked over to the neighborhood firehouse, Engine 205, Ladder 118. I nervously knocked on the side door. The big, front door was down and there were no signs of life. I think I may have rung the bell. A young fireman greeted me. I told him I'd baked some cookies for them, and his eyes lit up and he welcomed me in and lead me to the back of the house, to the kitchen, where they were all gathering. Apparently firemen all eat together and sort of late, since their shift-change comes during normal dinner hours. They enthusiastically welcomed me to eat with them. I felt bad. I was there to bring comfort to them. I was feeling lousy myself and I could only imagine how they were feeling. But I stayed. I can still taste the ground beef-pasta creation (actually, I think I just burped some of it). A couple of the older guys sat with me at a table, the younger guys a bit shy to be talking with an attractive young woman bearing baked goods. Or maybe they had girlfriends, young wives - ? Either way, the older guys were comfortable enjoying my company, not shy or quiet at all.

As we started to eat, they all angled themselves to face the TV hanging from the wall in the corner. A documentary about 9/11 was about to come on. I was stunned. I hesitantly asked one of the guys next to me if they weren't kind of sick of seeing all the stuff about 9/11. It was a year. Their house lost eight men that day. He replied "Well, yeah, we are. But we're in this one." And so they were! The show narrated what happened to them on 9/11, interviewing some of them. The TV showed these firemen - in this firehouse - in this kitchen, with the same TV that I was now staring at in the same corner of the room. It was surreal. None of them were upset; I guess they had a year to cry and grieve about it. They were very brave men, as I learned after 9/11. One never really considers the bravery of a fireman until he actually dies in one of those burning buildings trying to save someone. 343 firemen were killed in the World Trade Center on 9/11. It's almost too much to think about, even eight years later.

The firemen at the house that night lifted my spirits so high, I no longer was feeling depressed. I was happy and so appreciative for the sacrifices these men made for us everyday. I was so happy that the next day, the first anniversary, I rushed home and baked for them again. And when I got to the house to deliver the baked goods, their main door was up, and a young fireman who wasn't there the prior evening thanked me for the cupcakes and I went on my way. A lot of other folks in the neighborhood had brought by baked goods and flowers. It was all really nice, and really appropriate, but I found myself thinking 'Wouldn't it be nice to do something special for them on other days, not just this anniversary?' So that began my baking for the firemen, something I continued for almost a year, until some gained weight made me reduce the frequency of my baking (I've never been able to resist chocolate chip cookie batter!) and a new boyfriend became the recipient of what rare baking I did. So ultimately, I baked for them for a season. My season of baking for the firemen... something I'll always be so happy I did. I wasn't able to take away the hurt for anyone I knew who was affected by the acts of 9/11, but I could certainly sweeten things a bit.

Revolution Number 9

Gee, is it Thursday already? How did I go this long without writing anything? I'm trying to be good about that. I'm trying to write every day. The more I do it, the better it feels. But it's easy not to write. It's easier not to do anything. It's easy to be a big fat f*ck. Excuse the expression. It's always just flowed so nicely.

Not that I am a big fat f*ck, thought I have been feeling overweight and unhappy with my body for some time now. How long is some time? Oh... three years. Three years. Ever since I moved here. How the hell does someone go for three years without liking her body, the very baseline of her self-esteem? Well, it's not nice, I've got to tell ya. But I'm being honest. I'm owning up to it. Here it is: I have body image issues. Most people look at my body and think it looks fine. I look slim enough; I have an attractive figure... Ironically, I've gotten more positive feedback about my ass recently than ever before. Me, I look at my body and think "My ass is too big. I can't fit into my pants anymore. My pants are literally ripping. I... can't... fit into my clothes. I've gained weight."

Moving to California, of all things, actually decreased the activity in my daily lifestyle. I've gained weight and I've kept it. It was a little slow, and then the last six months or so really pushed me over the line. How much weight am I talking about here? Thirty, forty... sixty pounds? No. Not even ten. So help me God I'm being held hostage by 9 pounds. Nine pounds is all it takes to drag my esteem through the gutter. What the hell is that. I'm an intelligent woman. I'm a sane woman. I know that's ridiculous. I know that's... unreasonable. But I can't help how I feel. And I feel... unattractive. And I feel upset, because so many of my clothes don't fit me. And I feel sad because I want nice clothes. I want cute little dresses. I want to wear fun skirts. And guess what? I've got a closet full of them. But I can't wear them. They don't fit. They look horrible. And - you know what? At this point I'm not even sure that they do look horrible. But I feel like they look horrible. Because I feel horrible. I'm being held hostage by nine freaking pounds.

I've read a lot of really interesting things over the years about women and their bodies. My favorite is probably the piece "Size Six: The Western Woman's Harem" by Fatema Mernissi, published by Ode magazine in August 2003. (Check it out: http://www.odemagazine.com/doc/6/size_six_the_western_women_s_harem/) But all the well-written and really, really sensible articles you could read don't change what's inside you. If you've been drilled since birth that thin is in - and if in your lifetime skinny, flat dimensions became really ideal - it takes enormous strength and flawless sense of self to embrace your body and love it for each and every glorious inch and pound.

I have a lot of glorious inches. I may have some trouble loving them all today, but so help me, I'm going to love them all before I die and hopefully much sooner. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. I feel a revolution coming on!

I am beautiful! My body is beautiful! My cellulite is b-

Ah, let's not get carried away here. One inch at a time.

January's Botanical Garden

(Left to Right) The stepchild, Cathy; the wounded Christmas Cactus; its healthy sibling.


The sign I'm hoping saves the day.

Green is the New Black Thumb

I have a black thumb. I have killed every plant I've ever owned. This mostly means I don't bring plants into my household. Being an avid decorator though, I long for the harmonic feng shui some living shrubbery would bring to my home. So every now and then I've tried.

A rather unsuspecting friend gave me two beautiful Christmas Cacti a few months ago when she was moving out of town. I didn't have the heart to tell her she should bid them adieu since she'd never again see such full, expectant, beautiful green plants. If she expected me to video-phone her the plants to see how they were faring, she had another thing coming. But then I had a strange turn of luck. They were too big to be inside, and she had kept them on her balcony, so I put them on mine. (Editor's note: January's balcony is actually the stoop outside her front door. She doesn't have a balcony.) Suddenly they were blossoming their beautiful hot-pink flowers. How did I fare before such creations of beauty grew outside my door?? I felt suddenly confident. Perhaps I could learn to grow plants like a professional. Perhaps green is the new black!

And then one of them started wilting.

I don't know what happened. I watered them equally and not too often. The one stayed large and in charge. But the other one... well, it became pitiful.

One morning I went out to water them and upon touching the soil, realized they had already been watered. What?!?! Someone else was watering my plants?! Oh my God, someone was committing planticide -- they were being over-watered! This was very distressing to me. I thought about it, starting with the most obvious suspect: the old foreign semi-crazy lady across the courtyard. I'll call her Babushka. Babushka stores her mops in the flowerbed under her window and keeps various chairs outside her stoop depending on what she's discovered on the curb that week. She also regularly leaves an abandoned shopping cart in the courtyard after a particularly fruitful shopping trip and I always wait until dark and push it out to the sidewalk in front of the neighbor's building. Anyway, I asked Babushka's son one day (she doesn't speak English) if by chance she'd been watering my plants and if so could she stop. Her shrieks informed me it was not her.

My next probable suspect was the landscaping guys. They come weekly and though I hadn't seen it happen myself, I did note that my plants' dirt was moist on Mondays... So one day when a guy was out cutting the grass, I spoke with him, asking if he'd watered my plants. Bingo!! He said yes, they were dry. I said, they're cactuses idiot, they're suppose to be dry. Well no, I didn't say that. I would have said cacti. But actually I said thanks, but please don't anymore since I'm watering them. He smiled and answered that he wouldn't.

Last week my struggling cactus seemed to be perking up! Until after Monday, and then she wilted again. Her soil again was damp. Grrr... Now I'm thinking either that man is not the same one who always comes and/or there is a language issue going on since he and the other guys primarily speak Spanish. I am desperate to save my cactus! And I'm worried that the healthy one may go too. So I am taking the toro by the horns!! I have made signs to put up by my plants in English and Spanish. So help me Dios, this had better work. Mis plantas need an intervention here, and soon. Wish me luck.

(The editor wishes to include mention of January's third plant, evidently the stepchild, since she left it out. January and her mother went shopping for it when her parents were visiting. It is a Camellia Japonica Purity and it loves shade - perhaps the real issue with January's cacti. January named it "Cathy" after her mother. She's therefore holding very high hopes that she doesn't kill it.)

Days of Wine and Roses

I got a blast from the past tonight when my dear old friend Pete with whom I'd studied abroad our junior year of college popped up on my caller ID. We were rolling on set so I didn't pick up. And it turned out it wasn't him, but his friend who also studied there with us. Here's the voice message. Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

"Hi January, this is Tom O'Connell calling you. Perhaps you remember a little town in the south of France... on the ocean beach... tying me up in the bed... and having your way with me. 'Cause I sure remember it. And I think it was a damn good time. So, Pete and I are sitting here hanging out tonight, thinking about it. We both have a bunch of kids now, and are married, sitting in the doldrums of life, thinking back to the wonder years. So just wanted to call and say... thanks. Bye-bye!"

Um... ah... you're welcome? No, I mean... Damn you Tom O'Connell, you dirty mid-30's year old man!... Uh...

This guy is still smiling thinking about a lay he had in December 1993? I suppose I could point out how utterly pathetic that implies his sex life since has been. Or I could mention that I remember no details about it except that it didn't happen again and wouldn't have happened at all if my roommates hadn't gone to Barcelona that weekend. I could also go into some depth on the array of emotions this message brought about this good Catholic-raised contemporary woman: guilt, mortification and the giggles, not necessarily in that order. I should probably mention that Pete and I have always been friends. It's not like 16 years has passed since we've spoken. And he's extremely good-natured, so I believe there was nothing ill-spirited by this call. So... here's what I think:

They were very drunk.

And I was very good ;)

Paging Dr. Banner

I pride myself on being a calm, peaceful, fairly evolved human person. I keep an even keel. Rarely do things rattle me. I've even stopped cursing at people when I drive. Yet today I witnessed myself, from a painfully close proximity, go from Calm Happy to Angry Bitch in about five minutes time. Literally, like Bruce Banner, I morphed from a very happy woman who'd just seen a wonderful film (Julie & Julia, by the way - highly worth checking out. The cuisine was not the only masterpiece in the film. Exceptional performances by Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci stand out too) to an angry, upset person who could find nothing but fault with her parents. Five minutes. That's all it took for me to sell them to the devil. I was pissed.

The matter at hand is so insignificant that I have no choice but to believe the whole episode was another Opportunity From God that comes along every now and then to change something awful about myself. The more something irritates me, the more I probably need to check it out and ultimately let go of it. I've been having such a nice time with the Dlos. After the movie, to which we arrived about a half hour early, I noticed the time and realized we had seven minutes until our free parking expired. Seven minutes. Holy crap, seven minutes and the world was ending. It was a preview of 2012. It was insane. I felt overcome with the need to "pay" for the parking before it became un-free, so I waited until my Dad came out of the loo - five minutes now, and Mom was still in there - and told him I was going to pay the parking and to meet me at the car. I then ran across the mall... RAN. There, I clarified it: I was insane. I ran across the mall and down to the pay-machine and punched out for free with two minutes to spare. I then came back upstairs to wait for my parents, knowing Mom moves slow and figuring I'd see them as they approached and we would rendezvous sooner. I waited. And I waited. Ten minutes passed and they were no where to be seen. Then it started: the painful descent into Where the hell are they? and Really? Can she REALLY still be peeing? and SON OF A BITCH. DON'T THEY KNOW I ALREADY PAID OUT THE PARKING AND WE HAVE TO LEAVE THE MALL NOW??!!

Oh, Lord. I was so far gone, I didn't care who saw my flesh turn green or my pants rip open for my expanded muscles. Mom finally called me (Me: "Where are you??") and said they were at the car. Now, this should have been the end of the incident. But it got worse. I ran down the stairs... and couldn't find the car. Specifically, I couldn't remember where we'd parked.

Dick. Just call me Dick.

It probably took me no more than five minutes and two phone calls to Mom from that point to find them, and we left with no problem... but the damage had been done; I'd exploded in my head at them and was embarrassed by the jerk I'd become. Like a flash flood, I'd flash-assholed. I flasholed. They were calm and unfrazzled, I think because they knew how worked up I was. They've gotten very good at that, counter-balancing their children's moods. My brother especially has given them lots of practice. However, today was my turn. I felt bad about being at all bitchy to them. I felt worse to know this part of me still exists.

Before I found the car, once I'd realized I was lost and now was the one delaying us further, I had a quick talk with God. "Lord, I know I messed up here. I get it. I was impatient and now I'M the one screwing up! But seriously, I get it. Now, can you please help me find the freakin' car?? THANK YOU!"

Not my finest prayer. Sometimes I like to think He's up there enjoying the show and I take pleasure knowing at least someone's laughing. Other times I know He's just up there, gazing down at me, all "Oh, child. Ohhhhh, child.", nodding His head like the parent of a new puppy who's just chewed up his new slippers for the eighth time. Lots of love, lots of patience, some amusement and way more wisdom than the puppy - or I - has at this point in its life.

Please grant me patience, Lord. Help me be slow to anger and long on humor. Remind me that the insipid details of our earthly days, the $2.00 we may need to pay for overstaying our parking, are really, really not important at all. And if all else fails Lord, please trip me within the first twenty feet so at least I know right off the bat that I should throw in the towel. I promise my pride can take it.

Time Flies

The Dlos are visiting again. They're here for a week this time. It's lovely... and a real time-sucker. Not in a bad way, just in an Oh My God, It's the 1st and I Haven't Paid My Rent Yet kind of distracted way. So - I've got thoughts exploding to get out of my head but no time alone to write them. At this moment, Mom's in the shower and Dad's up and about, so I hopped online real quick. But this, alas, must be short and sweet.

I almost wrote last night but instead ending up watching "Ten Days That Changed America: Antietam" with the Dlos until about 11:00, at which time I roused myself - I'd fallen asleep twice - and we started talking about our plans for today.

My plan right now is to say TTFN (ta ta for now) and skedaddle since the shower's about to open up. At least I'm managing to keep up my hygiene.