The 2004 Dell Dimension 4800, aka "Grandpa"

After more than two years in this apartment, we have almost found a proper place for every random item from our past lives. And by “proper place” I really mean “donation box at Housing Works.” The lone holdout was the desktop computer that came into my possession in August of 2004, when I first moved to Michigan. I probably don’t need to tell all you tech-savvy peeps in the blogosphere that seven human years and seven computer years are not the same.  This bad boy (shout out to Lew, who, of course, paid for two-thirds of it) is now elderly, about to receive its last rites, and slower than a Sunday night check-out lane at the uber-depressing Jackson Road Meijer in Ann Arbor. Lemme tell ya. That is SLOW.

I had no emotional attachment to the computer itself, but I had to retrieve its files before I could donate it and get on with my laptoppy life.  In the meantime, it sat like an eyesore on a snack table in our dining room area.  I like to think of that area as a computer hospice. But these files included some of my finest freelance work, such as the press kits for “Slavery” and “Do You Speak American?,” for which I interviewed Robert MacNeil at great length, and a series of Thirteen/WNET radio scripts that ran on WQXR. The files also included all documents relating to my ill-fated first wedding (DELETE) and a folder of my 20-something poetry.

What’s that you say? POETRY? REALLY?!

It’s true. In my unhappier days, I was a closet poet. A published poet, in fact! And upon opening the folder, I realized I’d forgotten how prolific I’d been. Unfortunately, I had cunningly password-protected these masterpieces with a some obscure French word I couldn’t remember. Fortunately, I had suspected this might happen and put a small red dot next to the word in my vintage French dictionary. With the files unlocked, I couldn’t help but read through them. And I have to say that while I am horrified by their melodrama and shallow, not-so-hidden meanings, I am also strangely proud. I don’t know if I’m proud of the poems themselves, the fact that I’ve evolved since I wrote them, or just my ability to actually get them onto a thumb drive. In any case, I hereby share one of these “lost poems.”

K-Turns (September 1999)
It was everywhere, but in case I missed it
Lurking behind the endearing little stories and punchlines
Waiting to pounce under late night phone calls from bars and beds
Hiding amid the sweeter minutes and triple-word scores
Rising up in the steam off the street
Crammed into subways and on TV, in lines others spoke about anything else
In ink as it flowed, in tears as they fell,
It would smack me across the face, every so often
The mismatched truth no just-right sentence
Or act of kindness
Amount of patience
Or self-inflicted lashing
Could begin to alter
No matter how it seemed or felt
All that was there for all this time
Had happened already or couldn’t yet
Better then to come close but stop,
Letting go that slim chance of actual joy
Without risking the aching disappointment on its other side,
And that way ensuring the survival of hope.
Because it wasn’t just giving up now and you,
It was tomorrow too and all its details,/
A set too strong to kill in self-defense,
Full of all the safe and simple things in the world,
Like the soft gray carpet in an apartment that doesn’t exist
Or the buzz of conversations between sisters who will never meet brothers
At holidays that will never come
Or the perfect sleep only resolution can bring.
So I revoke the one thing I can
And realize too late
There are a hundred kinds of exploitation
But still the delusions of maybe
Are too much to lose …

Chrismukkah Bush, 2011: Dancing Snoopy is visible in the foreground

In the 70s, “they” used to say that kids who were completely forbidden from eating junk food ended up becoming the equivalent of cookie crack heads when left to their own devices later on. I was not forbidden from eating junk food but ended up becoming the equivalent of a cookie crack head anyway. And in today’s day and age I’m sure “they” no longer say that. My point is, growing up Jewish in my town meant growing up with Christmas tree envy. Sure, we had menorahs and mezzuzahs and clear, golden plastic dreidels filled with gelt.  But they didn’t cut the deli mustard.

Christmas trees just never struck me as religion-specific. Their German appellation — tannenbaum — is, after all, a common Jewish last name, is it not? To me, they simply symbolized the good side of winter, an impending 10 days off from school, the festive mood of the holidays, and most important, being like everyone else. The smell, the tinsel, the lights, the colorful balls, the popcorn strings, the personal significance of each little ornament … they were the most beautiful home accessory I could imagine. I fantasized for years about what kind of tree I would get in the unlikely event Jews ever started getting Christmas trees. And it was always the tackiest, most over the top tree — white plastic with shiny silver garlands, blue spruce, sparkly orbs, blinking bulbs, battery-operated ornaments out of which came dancing Snoopy … in short, I was a Christmas tree crack head.

So it was kind of a dream come true when I married someone of Italian descent and at long last had justification for securing an actual Christmas tree. (Of course, plagued by Jewish guilt, I remain compelled to refer to them as “Chrismukkah bushes.”) And as it turned out, the tree selection tradition in Keith’s family was just as I always imagined such an activity would be. On the crisp Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, everyone caravans to an idyllic-sounding tree farm in western New Jersey. We partake in mediocre free coffee and cider, plus homemade donuts and cookies, and we walk the land. Afterwards, we return to my MIL and FIL’s house to make turkey sandwiches on white bread. This year, it happened to be 65 degrees, my nephew peed in his pants and my niece was painfully constipated, but that just added to the charm.

There was so much for a Jewish girl to learn! I’d never realized that not all trees were created equal — I’d thought, ignorantly, that the choice was merely real or fake. Blue spruce had a lovely color but painfully prickly needles, for instance, while Balsam fir gave off that iconic piney smell.  And who knew?! You actually had to water the trees! Tinsel was a nightmare, as it shed out of control and left its DNA in random places until Memorial Day. Getting a tree topper to stay on? Not so easy. Those balls I had so admired as a girl? They broke if you breathed on them. (Perhaps this is not the case if you buy them somewhere other than Target.) Also new to me? The idea of bases and skirts, available in different sizes to accommodate whatever type of tree you had.

Selecting ornaments, however, was pure joy and came easy to me. I found the strength to resist my own tacky taste (sort of). I pinpointed a plethora of interfaithy options, including my personal favorite, a ceramic disc featuring Santa Claus, a Hassidic rabbi and the text “Oy to the World.” Kiki brought us a Jonathan Adler piece sign. Katy imported a Latvian doggie. We have crystal doves, sparkle snowflakes, silver pine cones and, I am proud to say,  a battery-operated dog house out of which comes dancing Snoopy.

But with the joy of the Chrismukkah bush comes the darker, more sinister side as well: the de-ornamentation and the removal of the dying icon. Keith was more than willing to assist in this process, but I felt, as a rite of marital passage, that I had to go through it alone. Last eve, while Keith attended a spin class, I forlornly packed up the aforementioned ornaments and called “The Guy” downstairs in our lobby who had said he would come fetch the tree carcass. When he arrived, he asked me if I wanted to keep the base.

Um … er … are bases disposable?! Do most people keep them?

“The Guy” looked at me like I was insane, which prompted me to explain that I was Jewish and thus dense, which prompted him to look at me like I was insane. It seemed to me that the base might be reusable, so I told him I wanted to keep it. Unfortunately, that meant someone had to actually separate it from the tree. Fortunately, it was pretty obvious that someone wasn’t going to be 5′, 100-lb me.

The Guy spent several minutes trying to dislodge the tree trunk, to no avail. Then I suggested he drag the tree in the base out to the cart and remove the base while the tree was upside down. The Guy agreed this was wise. What he’d neglected to ask – and what I’d neglected to think about – was that the base was still full of needly water. So, as the tree fell into the cart, the hallway got an unplanned bath. I felt terrible and did the first thing I could think of: I got my wet/dry Dust Buster and handed it to The Guy. The Guy looked at the size of the wet spot and then at the size of the vacuum and laughed. That seemed mean, but I tipped him nonetheless.

I felt like a very bad neighbor and, quite frankly, a moron. I had no choice but to wonder if maybe the genetic lack of handiness that afflicts my people is the very reason we do not have Hanukkah trees. There was only one place I could seek solace. I went to the plastic box in which I’d stored all the precious ornaments and pulled out the battery-operated dog house to see Snoopy dance one last time until next year.

What 2011 looked like ... kind of ...

Last year at this time, I opted against listing the New Year’s resolutions I knew I would never even try to keep. Instead I created a retrospective “Word Collage” that encompassed my personal 2010 keywords and themes. (Why look ahead when you can look back?) Being narcissistic, I really enjoyed that creation and as such, decided to craft a 2011 version. Fortunately, I kept a sad little notebook in which I wrote down important things as they came up to ensure that I didn’t miss anything. (I’m sure I still did.) Unfortunately, I just spent an hour trying to turn those important things into the kind of real nice word cloud I see elsewhere in the blogosphere. Epic fail. I had to settle for this no-frills “cloud” that nary a soul with human eye sight will be able to read. Therefore, I recommend that you read below instead of above. I also recommend that you have a HAPPY NEW YEAR full of all good things. Unless you’re annoying of course.

Note: As a superstitious person, it makes me more than a smidge uncomfortable to assume that January 2012 will actually get here. But we are scheduled to be away for the dreaded New Year’s Eve festivities, possibly without internet access, so I took a chance. This is huge, people. If the world ends, I know that it’s the fault of me and this jinxy blog post.

Keith • blizzard • blizzard • blizzard • Gabby Giffords • Google Apps • blizzard • Verizon iPhone • Dallas • Nosh • Austin • Round Rock Donut • Judy • Overlook • The Frog & the Peach • That Championship Season • Align • lump • night guard • Brit-coms • Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps • Japan • tsunami • Egypt • Libya • Liz Taylor • toric lenses • The King’s Speech • Bridesmaids • 16 Handles • sinus rinse • Katie • Ritz-Carlton Battery Park • iPad 2 • The Darby • Organix • Geraldine Ferraro • Foxy Knoxy • royal wedding • Pippa • Kate • Will • Harry • gel nails • Brisbane Bronze • The Decemberists • “I stay where my last step left me …” • Michael Scott • Outsourced • Wayfarers • McGraw-Hill • Glenda • “Keep calm and carry on” • Trump • birthers • Joplin, MO • Patsy’s • Italy • Tom’s • Mr. Ferragamo • DSK • Cape May • Delaware • keratin poisoning • Weinergate • Huma • Arnold • That Motherfucker With the Hat • Bobby Canavale • Cali Lewis • GameUp • Cameron Diaz • Chrome • Philadelphia • Moby Balboa • Mr. Hurricane • Clarence Clemens • gay marriage • Casey Anthony • Rob & Dave • Laughing Cow • 71 West 23rd • Ashbrook • Frankfurt • smurfs • Betty Ford • News of the World • Bossypants • Sherwood Schwartz • Washington, DC • progress • Lenovo • Skype • heat wave • Jamie • Michele Bachmann • South Sudan • Pilobolus • BLT soup • Amy Winehouse • null food • panic • Friday Night Lights • “Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose!” • Texas forever • Shark Tank • name change • Marla • Robbie • Hilton Head • The Crazy Crab • Devil Town • Hurricane Irene • Dr. Laura • jobs speech • September 11th • Occupy Wall Street • Century 21 • Jeph • Dallas • chicken and waffles • Adele • free Amanda! • Steve Jobs • iOS app update • Uh-Oh Roll Down the Window • Playboy Club • PanAm • Two Broke Girls • American Horror Story • Hart of Dixie • Scott Porter • John and Lesley • Foster the People • shooties • Carl • Claire • Quadaffi • Siri • Duran Duran! • “Play the fucking bass, John” • hashtags • Halloween blizzard • diabetes • Jill • Andy Rooney • Kardashian • marathon • Joe Pa • “I used to say, ‘the more tragic the better’…” • Movember • Marcel the Shell • Joanne • Laura • FSH • HSG • clip art • clomiphene • basting • Middlesex • Jeffrey Eugenides • Detroit • Phoebe • Lori Berenson • cousin • The Artist • Room and Board • Cape Cod • Buddy • Jan • Lew • Ma’am• Thirteen+1 • DS • L-PAK • KH• NB • RS • PG • SP • MF • JB • LS • MPC • APC • TB • KL • HA • LA • WFBF • AG • CUD • DK • RSM • KN • MJL • et al • 2012 …

Why on god’s green earth did you write an FAQ for yourself?
You probably won’t be surprised to learn that this post, like so many of my others, is the brainchild of Mama Kat’s Pretty Much World Famous Writer’s Workshop.

What services do you provide?
Nothing of import, including:

• Copywriting/copyediting
• Social media updating
• Search engine optimization
• General corporate communications
• Medical consults
• Shoe consults
• Cosmetic consults
• Comedic relief
• Hillbilly cooking
• Stuffed animal foster parenting
• Intermittent emotional comfort
• Instant recall of trivial and random information
• Defense of the Great State of New Jersey
• Candy trafficking and dealing, sometimes within 200 feet of a school
• Holiday party hosting

Where are your headquarters?
New York City, with regional offices in Scotch Plains, NJ and Dallas, TX.

Do you take credit cards?
With pleasure!

Do you have time to write and send an urgent email blast for me within the next hour?
No, but I will.

What happened to your chin?
The small scar on the lower right corner of my face is from my cameo appearance on Nip/Tuck ’86. That year, I had a dime-sized birth mark removed. Plastic surgery has come a long way, and if I’d had it removed today, I’d probably be scar-free.  But, as Karl Lagerfeld said, “There is no beauty without strangeness.”

What were you doing in Michigan and Philadelphia?
Very little.

How did you meet your husband?
My husband and I went to high school together. I knew him, because he was the class president and homecoming king, as well as an athlete
and a twin, which was still rare back then. He claims to have known me, but that is simply not possible. Obviously, we spoke nary a word between June 1990 and the summer of 2008, when we reconnected on Facebook. Yes, Facebook actually can do good.

How’d you sleep last night?
Not great.

Why do you look like a chipmunk when you eat?
I suffer from what my inner circle knows as “the swallowing thing.” Depending on who you ask, it may be a social phobia, and/or a severe form of globus
hystericus, and/or a conversion disorder, and/or the result of control issues that cause me to involuntarily clench my jaw so hard it will barely move. In any case, it is often difficult for me to swallow with grace and aplomb. It is embarrassing and unpleasant, but somehow, I am always able to get ice cream down with no problem.

On that note, you eat an absurd amount of cheese and junk food, yet are not yet obese. How is that possible?
With irritable bowel syndrome, everything is possible.  Any day now, I will wake up and suddenly weigh 400 pounds.

Where do you get your fashion ideas?
I stare creepily at well-dressed women on the subway; I copy my fashion-forward friends; and I cut out pictures of Rachel Bilson, Reese Witherspoon, Kourtney Kardashian, and Jessica Alba from US magazine.

Why are you so afraid of barfing?
Studies show it has to do with the trauma of a reversal of fortune in front of my entire second-grade class in 1980. Plus, barfing is horrible.

I find you and your blog to be more than a smidge irritating. What can I do about this?
Please try rebooting.

Have you ever thought about writing a book?
Yes, but I am lazy and uninspired, as evidenced by the irregularity of my blog posts.

I think you should try. Are you afraid of failing?
What part of “lazy and uninspired” do you not understand? I am not afraid of failing. I fail at least once a day and I am used to it. What I am afraid of is losing hope.  As long as I talk about writing a book but never actually do it, there’s still the possibility that it might one day happen.

Isn’t there ANYTHING that motivates you?
There are a few things, including:

• Fresh Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups
• Knowing John Taylor and Simon Le Bon are out there, somewhere
• The mean girls in high school
• Thoughts of appearing on the late night talk show circuit – and what I will wear
• The idea of making my husband/family proud

What nail polish color is that?
Most likely, it’s Lincoln Park After Dark; Midnight in Moscow; Romeo & Joliet; or Chinchilly. If you enjoy diarrhea-colored nails (which I don’t), I recommend  Uh-Oh Roll Down the Window.

I have tried all the contact numbers I have for you and still can’t reach you. What the deuce?
“Deuce” is the keyword here. I am almost never without access to a landline or mobile device. If you are unable to reach me, it means one of two things. Either my shitty iPhone battery has died a moment after it claimed to be 100% charged, and/or I am doing the kind of business that shan’t be mentioned here.

Not yet on the National Historic Register: the house where I am from

This post was the result of a brilliant idea from the brilliant mind of the brilliant Mama Kat. People like me — with no original ideas of our own but plenty to say — were prompted to copy this template and then fill in the blanks. The finished product strikes me as a poetic Mad Lib about “Where I’m From.” One of my favorite prompts, and one of my personal favorite posts. Thanks AGAIN, Mama Kat.

WHERE I’M FROM

I am from the smell of clear nail polish applied by my mother on Saturday nights in the 70s, from blue-boxed Ronzoni pasta that guaranteed I would eat dinner, and middle class New Jersey.

I am from a fairly modest 50s-era ranch house on a “glen” shaped like the number 9, a blend of Country French furniture and formica, a certain suburban smell I can neither describe nor forget.

I am from shiny green bushes with little red berries that are toxic when ingested but satisfying to smush, and from massive pine trees that seem grandfatherly against the rest of the yard.

I am from endless dinners at Ferraro’s, “secret recipe” matzo ball soup at Passover, August vacations on Cape Cod and routine anxiety. I am from Ethel and Phil and Mildred, and from Hannah and Irving.

I am from intellect, kindness and malaise, from insane generosity and differing levels of emotional intimacy.

From pulled muscles as the root cause of all discomfort and the idea that “Sweet Valley High” books rot the brain.

I am from survivors, from homemade bright pink borscht and primary-colored Hanukkah candles, from the trumping of theology by tradition. I am from fluctuating faith exemplified by this question, posed to a rabbi and resulting in ejection from Hebrew school class: If I said God spoke to me, you’d put me in a mental hospital.

I am from a medical center viewable from the FDR Drive, from the shtetl, from Hungarian peasants living in Czechoslovakia with head scarves and mules. I am from great-aunts and great-uncles who did not get out in time, some who made it home again and some who did not. I am from “the casbah” and displaced persons camps, from letters written in foreign languages by relatives I never met, from a tavern in Irvington, from places in Newark torn down for the highway.

I am from the bottom drawer of a massive wooden night table, where good report cards and poorly drawn birthday cards mingle with ancient address books and black and white photos with ruffled edges. I am from carousel after carousel of Kodachrome slides kept under lock and key, from shoe boxes filled with 35mm pictures capturing life in exotic places like Holland, Woodbridge, Scotch Plains and New Brunswick. From journals written on loose-leaf paper and later typed and dot-matrix’ed, telling what is basically the same story over and over. I am from a childhood that never felt happy, for no good reasons other than faulty wiring, family feuds and yes, some tragedy. I am from a childhood I will always strive to fix, knowing, as a British royal allegedly said, that there is no cure for the past.

Never forget

This post is dedicated to everyone who lost loved ones or was otherwise directly affected by September 11th, but especially the R family.

Special thanks to my lil sis, Jamie, for her editing assistance.

Everyone talks about September 11^th like it was a single day. But to me, it was more like a season with days that blurred together.  I don’t know when or even if that season really ended.  I still feel like New York is a ticking bomb.  I worry that the next time, I won’t be so lucky.  Not one day goes by when I don’t think about the absolute awfulness of the whole thing.  I now divide my life into two sections: pre- and post-September 11^th.  I see the Empire State Building and automatically picture a plane crashing into it. I see a low-flying plane and automatically wonder if that’s really where it’s supposed to be.  Not one plane trip, subway commute or car trip through the tunnels goes by without disaster crossing my mind.  And I definitely can’t walk outside on a mild, cloudless day without getting an ominous feeling.

I am exceptionally thankful that I don’t have much of a September 11^th story to tell you. But at Mama Kat’s prompting, here are some of the things I associate with that day.

• Making tacos the night before with my sister Jamie and then not being able to eat them again. I’m sure we had plenty of things on our minds, but since then, that whole night has seemed like the calmest, most innocent of my life.
• Running late the next morning and watching footage of what turned out to be the second plane flying straight into the South Tower.  I assumed it was a prank until, a split second later, I heard Janice Huff – the local weatherwoman – screaming, “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD” as she did the voiceover.
• Sitting in our window-less living room with my friend Mike and then Kiki, glued to the television and literally unable to comprehend what we were seeing. The magnitude of the destruction was just too big to fit in my mind.
• Wondering when and if the attacks would stop and if this was actually the end of the world – wondering if this was the day we would all die
• Thinking how ironic it was that in the end, it wasn’t the Russians or the bomb that we had to worry about
• Certain TV stations getting knocked off the air because they broadcast from the Trade Center
• Kiki saying we needed an emergency plan
• Remembering my only trip to the top of the World Trade Center, when I was about six and the towers were about the same age. It was a cloudy day and we couldn’t see very much, but being that high up was fascinating. I was wearing a red velour jumpsuit (god help me) and we ate jelly fruit slices my grandma had bought us in a candy store there.
• Remembering my last trip to the World Trade Center, in 1995, with my journalism school “boyfriend” (note quotes). He had some problem with his ticket to California, and I was accompanying him to one of the little retro airline ticket offices that used to occupy the ground floor.
• The unforgettable smell of burnt air the next day
• The strangeness of no one going to work
• Having lunch with Jamie and Kiki at the now defunct Victory Café, which was packed with people sitting in silence as they watched the TV in the corner of the bar
• The desperate faces in the sea of people looking for their husbands, wives, daughters, sons, siblings, parents and friends
• The near-miss stories
• Finding out that one of the antenna engineers at Thirteen, where I worked at the time, was killed
• Hearing the ordeal of my publicist friend C, one of the now infamous “Thirteen Girls.” She’d been working in Montana on the set of “Frontier House.” An hour into her flight home, the captain announced that six planes had been hijacked and that theirs would have to make an emergency landing in Canada. In Canada, she got on a bus to Detroit, where she and another co-worker spent almost a week in “skeevy” hotel before finally renting a car and driving back to New York.
• Thinking of totally random people I hadn’t thought of in years and wondering if they were okay
• Jan telling me about her 12-year-old student whose dad worked in the World Trade Center and was in class when she found out what happened
• Driving to NJ two days later with my dad, Jamie and Kiki, and feeling an overwhelming sense of comfort, when we got there … yet knowing something intangible wasn’t right
• All of us and Jan having a sad dinner at Charlie Brown’s, site of countless carefree childhood meals
• The song “Overcome,” by Live, permanently running through my head
• “Let’s roll” and the details of what happened on Flight 93
• Bernie Kerik
• Viewing the return of Saturday Night Live as a sign of semi-normalcy.  Lorne Michaels, the man I dreamed would one day be my boss, asking Mayor Giuliani if it was okay to be funny, and Giuliani saying, “Why start now?”
• The loss of my “North Stars,” as I used to call the Towers, which always helped me get my bearings downtown
• My continuing inability to recognize the skyline of my own city
• “My City in Ruins”
• This quote from the speech President Bush gave on September 21^st: “All of this was brought upon us in a single day, and night fell on a different world, a world where freedom itself is under attack.”

Keith and I started watching “Friday Night Lights” on Netflix this summer and quickly became addicted.  If you’ve watched the show, you know how intensely it sucks you in. You start to feel like you’re living right there in the small, football-obsessed town of Dillon, TX.  You find yourself motivating co-workers by saying, “Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.” You crave Alamo Freeze. You realize you actually know what number and position each of the Panthers plays.  Especially Riggins. And if you’re me, you are mentally transported back in time to the trauma that is high school.  So it struck me as rather uncanny that Mama Kat’s weekly writing prompts would include “Your first panic attack” – which, in my case, took place at the end of my senior year at Spiffy High.

Nowadays, the classic panic attack is almost de rigeur.  (I mean, have you really even lived until you’ve experienced the joy of clammy hands, sudden onset hot flash, racing heart, severe tremors and impending sense of unidentifiable doom?) I think about panic attacks a few times a day in my modern life.  But in 1990, anxiety was simpler.  We didn’t know from panic attacks, as Grandma Ethel would have said.  I just always understood that I was a nervous person who worried a lot and lived under a cloud of melancholy.

With graduation looming on the horizon, I felt totally isolated (which may or may not have actually been the case); I absolutely could not bear the thought of choosing a college and then leaving home to go to it; I was in a bad relationship; and I despised myself more than you can imagine. So really, things were fabulous!

You won’t be surprised to learn that “my first time” took place in gym class, the morning after I lost a huge fight with my high school boyfriend, B.  I had barely slept and probably skipped breakfast, but gym stops for no man. I had no choice but to hit the weight room circuit, and made it through two or three of the machines. Then came the leg press. As I situated myself, I felt my stomach drop to my feet. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it, and sweat began pouring down my face. I tried to push the five-pound weight into the wall, but found that my legs were rubber.  I would have stood up and run to the bathroom, but I was pretty sure I’d pass out. I froze in place.  Clearly, I had some sort of sudden onset virus and would need to be airlifted out of school. Perhaps they would even quarantine me. It never occurred to me that this was anything other than physical.

I headed to the nurse’s office post-haste, and felt better as soon as I sat down among the derelicts with faux migraines.  My pulse seemed to have slowed to no more than 200, but still, I was obviously quite ill.  I waited for the nurse and when I went in, she asked me a lot of questions about my health in general.  Then  she asked what was going on “at home.”  As a regular watcher of after-school specials, I was compelled to assure her that no one was beating or molesting me, and that neither of my parents drank heavily or abused drugs. Strangely, I also felt compelled to tell her about my college angst and B – and then, for dessert, started crying.

Hmm.  I’d never known that to be a symptom of the flu.

The nurse looked at me with sympathy and said, “I think you had an anxiety attack.”

Wait, I’m not being airlifted?! You don’t have to call my parents? Frick on a palpitating stick and Panic McNervoustein!

She had me lie down for a few minutes and told me to go back to class when I felt up to it.  And sure enough, I was fine. Except that now, I had a new bully in my life … one that still follows me everywhere I go.

If you need a suitcase to make your escape, you're not getting it here.

At the risk of jinxing the course and force of the impending hurricane, I must say that it’s hard not to be a little skeptical about all the hype.  In pre-Irene New York City, you’d think Armageddon was upon us. The subways have shut down. Stores and restaurants have now taped and boarded up their windows, and posted signs saying they’ll be closed for the next two days. Prior to closing, the supermarkets had lines out the front door and wouldn’t let anyone in until another person came out.  There is nary a flashlight, battery or can of food to be found. Evacuations are underway in all five boroughs. We have been told to fill our bathtubs, for some reason, and pack a “to go” bag.  We have stocked up on wine, junk food (anything ingested during a state of emergency doesn’t count) and non-perishables.  (Jan’s favorite category of food, it should be noted.) Friends who don’t want to ride out the storm alone are coming over for what I hope will be a successful taco night.

We’ve had hysteria like this before – albeit, not quite as intense – and it’s turned out to be much ado about nothing. In other cases, like one of the 27 blizzards of this winter, we’ve had no hysteria and gotten weather-screwed. In these parts, death by hurricane strikes me as pretty rare. So is all this really necessary, or are we just panicking for nothing? With actual work to do but no motivation, I thought it would be a good time to look back at the defining hurricanes of my life. I hope this trip down insignificant memory lane provides all you hurricane fearin’ folks out there with a port in the storm.

Hurricane David, September 1979:   Just a few days into second grade, our school district closes due to the impending hurricane. I assume that if school is closed, something really bad must be about to happen and find myself too nervous to eat my Apple Jacks. It rains heavily for about 10 minutes then clears up. Jan takes us to the Woodbridge Mall, where she buys us tiny, fuzzy Paddington Bear figurines. Ever the proper English bear, Paddington is sporting a duffel raincoat and removable rain hat.

Hurricane Gloria, September 1985: Once again, school is closed due to threat of hurricane. I am thrilled, but concerned. Not only is it Jan’s birthday, but, more importantly, I am scheduled to attend a Sting concert at Radio City with my friend Jennifer K. and her dad. Jan and Lew tell me the concert will definitely be cancelled. I maintain that Sting would never let that happen. Anxiously, I watch heavy rain fall for about 10 minutes outside my bedroom window. The winds fail to damage even one wysteria vine on the uber-80s wallpaper Jan chose against my will. The weather clears instantly and Jennifer’s dad says he is willing to drive into the city for the concert. After I suit up in my black Guess jeans and white pumps, Lew deposits me at Jennifer’s house, where Jennifer and her mother are fighting about the amount of make-up she has on. Mrs. Jennifer asks me if I too think Jennifer looks like a drag queen. I do think Jennifer looks like a drag queen, but am already too close to full middle school ostracization that I can’t possibly risk offending Jennifer.

Hurricane Chef Cho, October 1992: Hurricane Chef Cho is actually a Category 3 cocktail, which I make the very bad mistake of drinking out of a scorpion bowl at this Cambridge, MA chinese food establishment. Let’s just say I’m surprised FEMA wasn’t called in.

Hurricane Floyd, September 1999: I am in the city now, and have been battling very bad panic attacks. Because of this, the world has a surreal feel to it. Mass transit is shut down and I refuse to walk 80+ blocks to work at the weekly newspaper where I have a mediocre column.  This hurricane actually causes some severe damage and chaos in central New Jersey. When the National Guard is called in and water has to be boiled, I am fairly confident the end of the world is upon us. For weeks after Floyd, there are horrible stories in the papers about small children dying from contaminated water they drink at sad county fairs and the like.

Hurricane Katrina, August 2005: Katrina comes nowhere near Philadelphia, but its breadth is felt everywhere. I am mortified that a disaster of this scale could take place in the U.S., and haunted for weeks by images of pets who have been abandonned. I make the first of my now regular donations to the ASPCA.

Hurricane Earl, August/September 2010: Nothing happens, except that the Dixie Chicks’ Goodbye Earl starts to torture me.

Hurricane Irene, August 2011:  Keith and I partake of the noon-ish meal at Viand, along with Kiki and Chris. Kiki and I head to Q Nails for a pre-storm mani/pedi. Keith and I return home to await our guests, and our fate.

Over the course of my wedding-bearing years, I’ve had friends who fall everywhere on the name change spectrum. I’ve known girls who were so excited about making sure everyone knew they were married getting married that they adopted their future husbands’ last names before the royal blue bridesmaid dresses could even ship from China. I’ve known girls who were militant about keeping their maiden names.  My cousin Cathy and her husband both use both last names, with a hyphen. There are many ways this could go, and as is the case with all life changes, I remained ambivalent about the matter.

I’ve never loved or hated my maiden name. It is innocuous. Its ethnicity is not obvious, it doesn’t rhyme with any part of the digestive or reproductive system, it doesn’t belong to any serial killer (that we know of). At times, I’ve been mistaken for someone of Irish descent (really? REALLY?) and/or the heiress to a soup fortune, but I can think of worse problems. Perhaps if I’d been born with a name like Dickwat or Ashweip, or into the Rockefeller family, I would have felt more strongly one way or the other. But my maiden name was in fact the name I’d had all my life – it was just who I was: Traci Melissa K_____.

I knew Keith wanted me to use his last name, but he never pressured me about it. He asks so little and puts up with so much, I felt it was the least I could do for him. And in many ways, I looked forward to having his last name. I viewed it as a new beginning, a fresh start. It made Keith and me an official family, and it linked me to my new extended family – something I’d never had but always wanted. I liked that idea.

On the other hand, I couldn’t help but veiw shedding my maiden name as shedding my parents, sister and roots. I hated that idea. I didn’t want to be the only one of them with a different last name. It didn’t help that my sister and I are the end of our last name’s line. I also felt, despite my best efforts not to, that taking your husband’s name was a smidge old-fashioned. I’m hardly a feminist, but it just didn’t seem necessary. Furthermore, while I haven’t accomplished anything much, the things I have done – survive journalism school, work at a real live TV network, create this blog – I’ve done with my original name — as me. Was I losing my past if I lost part of my name? Was I still going to be a short neurotic Jewish girl from New Jersey if my last name was suddenly Italian? Did I want to be a short neurotic Jewish girl? Was this really such a big identity crisis or was I, as usual, making a mountain out of a molehill? Who cared if I was Traci  Melissa K_____ or Traci Melissa D______?

Frick on a name-changed stick.

A good solution seemed to be this: I’d legally change my name to include Traci, Melissa, my maiden name, and Keith’s last name. It would appear as a mouthful on paper, but I’d use my maiden name at work and Keith’s in general. In the eyes of the law and in my head, I wasn’t getting rid of anything. I was merely adding something.

I had designated last week’s Summer Friday for the name change task, which involved stops at the Social Security office and DMV. I awoke with a mix of excitement and melancholy (which was due in large part to the fact that my current driver’s license photo is relatively smokin’, and I really didn’t want to fork that up with a new picture). As I rode the subway and made my way through Times Square en route to the Social Security office, the morning felt very momentous. In a few hours, I would have one more name. I would be someone else. Kind of.

My turn at the counter came quickly. I presented the clerk with a certified copy of the marriage license, my tattered blue Social Security card and the form I’d filled out ahead of time.

She looked at the form and then asked, “So you’re adding a middle name, ’Melissa,’ and then your husband’s last name?”

Um …wha?!

Evidently, as far as the Social Security Administration and U.S. government were concerned, my middle name had never been Melissa – just the initial M.  She handed the card back to me as proof – I’d never noticed it before, but she was right.  I was Traci M (sans period, no less!) K_____.

For a few seconds I was upset by this revelation. It made me sad that Social Security believed my cute little parents had  only chosen a random letter for my middle name and not even bothered to punctuate it. My parents would never do that! They’re nice people!  They care! They love me! Then I was stunned  – my name was a sham! My life was a sham! Who knew what other parts of my identity were nothing more than an initial? Did I even exist, or did I just e?  I’d obsessed for months about changing a name I never actually had.

But then I caught on to the valuable lesson the Social Security deities were obviously trying to impart. I had gone about my business and lived a good (albeit angst-ridden) life believing I was Traci Melissa, regardless of what name the government had on file. Would I have turned out any different if the Social Security card had said “Melissa” instead of just M? Highly unlikely. Would I suddenly transform into a calm, care-free person who shuns chocolate and falls right asleep at night now that “Melissa” was really part of my name? Even more unlikely.  Surely, the same held true for my last name(s). 

Apparently, the answer to the question “What’s in a name?” is, “Not that much.” It doesn’t matter what you go by — it matters who you are. So now, I am a four-named neurotic Jewish girl from New Jersey with parents who DO care enough to have given me a proper middle name and a very patient husband who doesn’t mind being married to a pizza bagel.