Broken Dinners

Towards the end of my last semester in grad school, I’d wake up each morning in an uncharacteristic state of calmness.  It lasted through my last set of exams, through my last few shifts at the coffee shop, and even through my haggling with moving companies and internet providers. I suppose it was the type of calmness that settles in when the panic of loss finally wanes.

My PhD program, the program that had been the primary focal point in my life for nearly 3 years prior to my arrival at UChicago, had failed me. Or I’d failed it. I wasn’t really sure. I guess, I’m still not really sure, three years later. The fact was, too many things just weren't working: my advisor was retiring, I had received only almost-adequate funding, and while my academic life was thriving, my social life had declined to the point of virtual non-existence. I was miserable and I wanted out.

My boyfriend at the time was also feeling a similar way, and when we landed in the middle of a finals-induced argument at the end of winter-term, he finally told me that he didn’t see a future for us. This boyfriend was a person unlike any I’d ever met before and probably ever will. I’ll spare you the shitty, push-and-pull process of breaking up we endured over the next few months, but I will tell you this: By the end of spring term, we had officially broken up, my career in academia was over, and I was pretty much a giant, fucking wreck. I had no interest in eating, I couldn’t sleep, and I was crying so much that I had to lie with bags of frozen peas on my face before going out in public.

So, when Claus came into the coffee shop one morning towards the end of term and smiled at me, it was a new smile, and a smile that didn’t remind me of something I was leaving behind or trying to forget. He would come in almost every day for lunch with his two fellow Neuroscientist friends, Jonathan and Tulia, and would usually return for a refill and some sort of chocolate treat in the afternoons. I didn’t think much of our interactions, except that I looked forward to the easy chit-chat I shared with them in the afternoons, this non-philosophy post-doc who didn’t know my friends or my ex-boyfriend, but instead chatted with me about coffee roasts, developments in his experiments, his latest bike ride, and upcoming music shows we were hoping to check out.

I started going to shows and movie nights with Claus and Tulia and Jonathan, and once things were truly over with my ex, I eventually started riding my bicycle over to Claus's apartment after my shifts at the coffee shop. We’d mostly just sit on his back porch in the sun and sip PBR tallboys and smoke cigarettes. I don’t remember us talking all that much, but I remember he would rub my feet and we'd sit quietly in the sunshine. Sometimes, out of the blue, he would crack really horrible jokes. And late in the evenings, he made me dinner. It sounds so trivial, the mere fact of eating, but at a time when food was the last thing on my agenda, Claus took care of it.

It was always the same thing… a salad of nothing but ice-berg lettuce, topped with one of his mother’s salad dressing recipes and sunflower seeds. He’d also toast some bread for us and top it with cottage cheese and Herbs de Provence. It sounds weird, now that I think about it, but it was actually pretty delicious. It was simple, sturdy, and helped make me feel like I was still alive. And even though what I thought was I needed at the time was black coffee and sad indie-rock blaring on my headphones, Claus helped me realized that was I needed was quiet sunny afternoons, a person who didn’t remind me of the person I was desperately trying to forget, and a home-cooked meal. Thanks Claus… I hope you’re skiing somewhere in the Alps today. Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas Mom, Dad, Marsh, and Allie too, of course. 
I couldn't be luckier to have such incredible parents and such a killer big brother (and sister-in-law).  

-Mer

A Run-In

The running path is empty except for the two of us. The air is heavy with the low-tide scent of salt and seaweed, and the wind whips up the coast in unpredictable, little bursts. I am in my usual running trance: my breathing matches the rythym of my footsteps and my mind wanders from grocery lists to tides patterns.   I jog behind him for some distance, slowing my pace, watching him.  And I think to myself how his librarian costume of tweed and khaki seems so out of place when he's not giving suggestions from behind the fiction desk on the 2nd Floor.

I am closer now, and I can tell he is tense.  His pace is quickened with agitation, and he turns his head to the side with a quick jerk. I catch the movement of his lips: a spurt of words, then pursed lips, an angry pause. He flings a cussword in his quiet librarian voice, laced with frustration, pitch elevated.

I slow to a walk, hoping not to scare him with too abrupt of an approach. His face twitches with disgust as he half-whispers, half-spits his point of view to his imagined adversary. The usual, soft kindness of his face is distorted with frustration, and I’m suddenly embarrassed at my imposition.  For a moment I debate not stopping, worried that my grin will betray that I too have been privy to his lecture that was meant only for the silent aggressor.

But I linger too long and he turns before I have a chance to back out. Startled, he jerks his head towards me, eyebrows still knitted in anger, mouth slightly open in surprise.

“Hi,” I venture, tentatively, trying to supress my smile.
His eyebrows relax; he closes his mouth.
“Hello,” he says.
“I just wanted to say that I love your stories.”
“Oh!” he says, stuttering to find words. “Well!”
“I come listen to you read every week. They’re really great.”

He smiles and cocks his head too jerkily not to betray his embarrassment. “Well thanks!”

And I know that somewhere in his head he wonders if I’ve witnessed him speaking out loud to himself. And then he reassures himself that, surely, I haven’t, that I was too far away and that he wasn't being that loud.  But he knows that I have.

I nod and smile and start to jog off.

“I’m reading Poe next Monday!” he calls after me.

“I know!” I call back to him.

And he laughs.

Pickles and Origami

Last Night

You looked

as crisp

as an origami crane.

To me

you are

pickle juice
and

succulents

and
weird vintage bird prints.

And also
the feeling of being

not-crazy.                                             

In fact...
so very
Not Crazy
that you just might
convince me  
to wash my feet
at work

in toilet water.

Dad Stuff

Recently I got a text from a friend at work whose father had just passed away.  I knew his dad had been sick, but I was still stunned by the little message on my phone telling me that his dad had passed away so abruptly.

And as I sat in my little cubicle trying to process what had just happened, my thoughts ranged from how Paul must have felt when he realized he wouldn't be able to make it to the hospital in time to say good-bye, and filled with the kind of panic that sets in when something awful happens to a friend, and then, of course, I thought of my dad.

At first I couldn’t think of a whole lot of moments that I remembered clearly sharing with my dad. Memories of my mom came flooding right in; she was always hugging or yelling or nagging or asking. I guess that’s what being a mom is about, though- there is a lot of doing that needs to be done. But my dad’s always been this sort of nebulous figure and force in my life. I don't know; maybe that’s part of what being a dad is, too... to just wait quietly in the background until the momandkidchaos of unfinished homework, broken curfews and quick tempers reaches its final boiling point. And then they somehow just make it dadishly, magically right. 

 

I guess it’s probably not like that for everyone. But that’s how it was for us, and I guess, it still kind of is.

Growing up, my dad was the great mediator.  Regardless of who was arguing, someone would inevitably be sent to his or her room and, after some time, he would come upstairs and discuss the argument until a suitable resolution was reached by all affected parties.

He was always challenging us; he never let us off the hook for a weak argument. He still doesn’t. (But, Dad!)

He was also always the rational one. There's honestly only one time I remember my dad ever being emotional. I was skipping around the dinner table, in the way that only fifth graders can, trying to avoid clearing the dishes when he dropped the news that we were moving to Wisconsin because of a job transfer. I immediately started crying and ran to my room, refusing to speak to him.  He came to console me in my room and when he handed me a tissue, I did a double take when he grabbed one for himself. I’d never seen him cry before then.  And I’ve never seen him cry since.

My dad was always processing and thinking… terrible on the phone (a trait I've definitely inherited), not often a driver of conversation. Quiet (until he’s had a few glasses of wine). I sometimes wonder if he feels frustrated at the critique of not sharing or responding or giving enough to his partner. And I think I’m only just now starting to understand this particular personality quirk.

But the thing I remember most about my dad, is the way he eats.

I remember him teaching me the first thing I ever learned how to cook: showing me how to perfectly drench the leftover sandwich bread in egg and vanilla to make his delicious French toast on a Saturday morning.

I remember going to our favorite ice-cream parlor every Friday night when my brother and I were growing up; how he’d always get the same heaping scoop of raspberry chocolate-chip in a sugar cone.

I remember the meatball sandwiches we used to eat together at the local Italian deli that opened up in our neighborhood when I was just starting high school. We’d stop in on the weekends… a full length sub on fresh Italian roll with meatballs and melting provolone. (And of course a tray of homemade Tiramisu for dessert that night…)

I remember the way his eyebrows raise when the dessert menu comes out at a restaurant. He always gets the most ridiculously decadent chocolate dessert on the menu.

I remember how, on the weekends, he’ll carefully put a Lay’s potato chip in his mouth, often following it with an equally delicate sip of Dr. Pepper. (Always clad in jeans and a Land’s End sweatshirt, always after mopping the kitchen floor. And always yelling at me for stepping on it before it was dry.)

There were other things of course… soccer drills in the backyard, Saturday morning chores, endless tennis serving lessons, meticulous college-entrance essay editing, and of course, tension-filled driving lessons in the parking lot behind our house. (DAD! I PUT THE CLUTCH IN! GOD!)

My dad might be particular about a lot of things, and a little difficult to get to open up sometimes. But the thing I will remember far after my dad is gone, is the way we both love an ice-cold Dr. Pepper on a Saturday afternoon, the way we might accidently finish half a package of Oreos before dinner, and how no matter how stuffed we are, there’s always room for dessert.

There are a lot of things I’ve learned from my dad over the years...like being able to construct well-formed, rational arguments in the face of an agsty teen (or late twenty-something), and having patience when that same teen is stalling your Honda Accord for the ten-zillionth time, are important skills. But perhaps just as important, is being passionate...and being able to share that passion with the people you love most.  Thanks for sharing your passions with us, Dad... and your chocolate-raspberry lava cake.

Happy Father's Day.

Adios Amigo

Dear Brownie, 

I know that Tiff knows how much I simply adore her.  But I don't often get to tell you how much I love you, and I haven't really gotten a chance to tell you how much I'm going to miss you.

I love you for driving me (in the BUICK!) to the health clinic in grad school when I threw my back out and couldn’t move.  I love you for popping in and out of the living room while I yammer Tiff’s ear off.  I love you for the countless times you’ve driven my drunk ass all over this incredibly rainy city.  I love you for cracking me up all the time.  I love you for your toothy grin and hoot! of a laugh.  I love you for making me so happy when you hug me and say that you love me.  

I love you for loving Tiff, and for loving her so well.  I’ll miss you a whole bunch when you’re gone.  

Moose-eps