Sleeping away

Henry went to sleepaway camp for the first time last year. He was gone for two weeks, and let me tell you, those two weeks were a giddy thrill ride of unbearable anxiety and mild to moderate fretting/longing. I missed my kid so much it physically hurt, and although Scott and I enjoyed going out and having grown-up fun (not a euphemism) with fellow adults (friends! platonic friends!), it almost didn't make up for all the discomfort. It was often painful, and I considered whether I needed daily therapy, or an hourly meditation practice, or for someone to come along and bop me on the head with a mallet.

Part of the anxiety was due to the fact that Henry promised and swore he'd write and then we did not receive any correspondence until, oh, the day before we picked him up. While I told myself his radio silence was due to his extreme fun-having, and if anything had gone wrong surely the camp would let us know, the nonrational side of me was shrieking, "Call the camp! He wandered into the woods and no one noticed! He's going to be raised by raccoons and even when you find him he will speak Raccoon Talk and he'll have imprinted on his new Raccoon Mother! His new name will be known only to his fellow raccoons! It will be Chrrrhrrfrrrr! But you'll never pronounce it correctly! Where was I going with this!"

Then we got a letter from him, and it was happy and carefree. I was then able to enjoy the last 24 or so hours before we picked him up, and boy, did I make that time count! (I don't think I really did. I can't recall.)

The point of this is that he had a great time, the greatest time of his life ever, and he's spent the year longing for the carefree days of camp. Which made sending him this year a much easier decision, and a far less painful experience for us. We decided to send him this year for a month, mostly because 1) his best friend was also going for a month, and 2) who wants to be in Brooklyn in the dead of summer, when the world smells like garbage? I know I'd rather not be here.

This weekend was Visiting Day (which the one-month campers have after two weeks), and we were dying to get our hands on our (probably) grubby camper. He gave us a tour of the place, and we took him out for lunch and dessert. And then ice cream. And then we tried to get him a toy at the toy store, but all he wanted was a rock. A polished rock, but still. Kid's gone native. I shouted "DON'T BE A RACCOON" but he just stared at me. He's already forgetting our human language!

He's got another two weeks. It's pretty great, knowing what a good time he's having, out there in the woods. But we miss him, you know, a little.

Sunset on the High Line

My friend Karen was in town last week (you know Karen, right? right) so I took her to the High Line. For you non-New Yorkers: the High Line is a public park built on an elevated freight rail, and it's beautiful. And if you go, it must be at sunset, or I don't know what to say about you.

Karen took photos, as is her way. I painted (afterward). AS IS MINE. (Why the all-caps? I don't know either.)

Semi-fictional phone conversation with new financial planner

Financial planner: … And that's a brief summary of my services. Do you have any questions?
Me: I know so little about money things, I wouldn't know where to begin.
FP: (laughs)
Me: No, seriously. Money are me scary. You see? Even my syntax falls apart.
FP: Your feelings are common, and--
Me: How do money I get and not lose? Help can you me? Where?
FP: (clearing throat) Have you begun saving for retirement?
Me: Sort of. Not since 2002. I have, I don't know, ten 401Ks? Thirteen? I can't remember where they are. Sometimes I put the statements in a shoe box. The one my cat sleeps in.
FP: Ah.
Me: I tried to save some money in one of those ING accounts but then I spent it all on boots.
FP: Well, first thing--
Me: They were nice boots. They were an INVESTMENT. Say, "investment," that's a money talk!
FP: Okay! First thing is, let's work out a budget.
Me: Uh oh. This talk of "budget" makes me anxious. I feel like I'm floating and I'm going to float up into space and never come back. Could you come over with a blanket and wrap me in the blanket and make sure I'm held down and safe until gravity regains its hold?
FP: It's totally normal to feel--
Me: BLANKET ME, WOMAN.
FP: There, there.

Our conversation went like this for about a half hour. I can't believe I found someone so nice who's willing to work with me despite my obvious lack of knowledge/sanity. Henry might get to attend college after all!
 

We all have a face that we hide away forever

"And that's when Billy Joel touched me... in my heart." Photo by Spencer Ritenour.

I did this show a couple of weeks ago called the Soundtrack Series. It was fun, and terrifying. I love doing readings, but this was my first time storytelling, without all the words written on paper so I could remember what to say. I was about 80% sure that I would forget my story and cry until someone came up and led me off the stage. Fortunately, I was wrong, and all went according to plan.

For the show, each storyteller picks a song and discusses the memories they associate with it. When I was asked I knew right away the story I would tell. Here, for your enjoyment, is the story of THE STRANGER, my ill-fated Billy Joel musical. It's only eight minutes. LISTEN.

And now let's discuss my hair, which is out of control. I'm trying to grow it out, and it's...it's getting so big. No matter how I tamp it down, it sproings up again. I can't remember how to have more than two inches of hair. It's been a while. I also don't remember if I always had curly/wavy hair or if this is a new thing. (That's how long it's been.) This hair certainly seems different than the hair I remember from my youth, and not just because it's gray. Did pregnancy change my hair? Stress? Drugs? Magic?