Archive for the ‘Stories’ Category

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my friend, the critic

Tuesday, January 31st, 2012

I’ve been a terrible friend to Write on Edge, an online community that is ‘a place for writers to gather, exchange ideas and learn something about the art of storytelling.’ In fact it’s been so long since I wrote something with Write on Edge that they were still called the Red Dress Club when I did! I kept wanting to join in on the prompts and kept talking myself out of it for a million different reasons.

But this week the prompt begged me to join, it asked to explore friendship, a current one or one from your past and to look at the role it plays in your life.

I knew just what to talk about.

You see I have this friend…

~

I shout and share my exciting news: published, I’m going to be published in a real magazine where they pay me money for words I strung together!

Really? Well I hope you don’t get your hopes up, it’s a local magazine and isn’t likely to lead to other opportunities. And honestly? If other opportunities do come along you need to accept that you might put years into this ‘writing thing’ with nothing to show for it at the end of it all. It’s not a real job. Besides don’t you have a job? Aren’t you a blogger? *snickering*

I’m a stay at home mom, remember? I suppose that’s not a real job either.

Well I hate to say it like this, but it’s just not. Not to mention your kid is in preschool two mornings a week now and you have a nanny to help you occasionally? Does that even count as being a stay at home mom? That’s like saying I’m a ballerina because occasionally I watch ballet.

That’s not very nice.

Well dear, sometimes you don’t need someone to be nice, you need someone to be honest. Speaking of honesty, have you looked in the mirror lately? How is it even possible to gain twenty pounds in one year? Do you eat in your sleep?

I don’t know. I’m trying to get healthier. I am.

You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that. Didn’t you want to get pregnant again? Though if you want my opinion, can you even handle another kid? Look at how things are turning out with your first one.

What is that supposed to mean?

You’re sleeping upstairs in a separate bedroom from your husband? She’s almost two and just barely sleeps through the night, if she feels like it. Does that seem normal to you? Maybe if you had been stricter in the beginning like I told you to be, you wouldn’t be dealing with the fallout from this co-sleeping nonesense. You know, how she acts is a direct reflection on who you are as a parent.

So she doesn’t sleep. She’s an awesome little kid.

You know, how she acts has no bearing on who you are as a parent, that’s just her personality.

I give up.

Of course you do. Quitter.

~

I want to break up with this friend.

Too bad the bitch lives inside my head.

Posted in Stories | 24 Comments »

Where I’m from

Friday, September 23rd, 2011

BlogHer is featuring my post “Are bloggy friends real” today, weigh in over there.

And over here I thought it would be nice to get to know one another better.

I’ll start…(with this fabulous prompt seen everywhere around the Internets)

Where I’m from

I am from the garden patch built atop a garbage heap, from Flaming Hot Cheeto shame and clove cigarettes.

I am from the second story window in the yellowish house, from creaky floorboards, leaky faucets, and beds filled to capacity….someone’s used up the last of the good toilet paper again.

I am from the cabbage patch (past the onions), reportin’ for potato bug pickin’ duty, weary of the thorns on that rose bush and climber of the tallest cherry tree.

I am from the wicked squirell who leaves treats on my window sill and Drama with my mama (with a capital “D”.) I am from Kats, Ayzenberg and Patsay.

I am from fierce passion and impressive obstinance.

From if you laugh on Friday then you’ll cry on Sunday and pray to your nuggets the bus won’t turn.

I am from self diagnosed Animism and a tiny golden cross tucked away for safe keeping. From kosher pork and the absence of a bar mitzvah to standing under a chuppah with my beshert.

I’m from Khmelnitsky and Krasnormersk, pickled herring and caramel n’ cocoa waffle cake, boiled hot dogs on toast in the ruthless school cafeteria and Capn’Crunch Peanut Butter under the floorboards.

From stolen bread loaves, hiding in my daddy’s trenchcoat backstage, carpentry workshops and kitchen stoves.

I am from the cardboard blue box with diplomas, war medals and proof of citizenship.

Where are you from?

Posted in Stories | 35 Comments »

back to school

Tuesday, June 7th, 2011

What does a gal with a Bachelor’s degree and a (rather useless) MBA do once she has a baby? Dream of ways to escape the house and sit in a classroom full of people learnin’ stuff and things!

So she, or rather I, decided to take a class, a creative writing class! And there’s homework! And a fellow blogger to play at recess with! Today I share with you, assignment #2….because I didn’t do assignement #1. Because I am a truant.

Tetya Polya’s Farm

Tetya Polya’s farm was at least half-day’s journey from our own. I suspect that’s the reason we didn’t visit her more often, braving the trip only when there was a lot of work with which she needed help. She was older than my grandma, and consequently seemed ancient to me and she was all alone on that farm, save for her son. He was, the grown-ups whispered in confidence to one another, an alcoholic. To me they simply said “ill, he’s very ill” even though by then I was as familiar with the sickly sweet smell of alcohol seeping through a man’s pores as I was with the peonies that grew in my grandmother’s garden.

I couldn’t tell you how we traveled to get to her, train perhaps? Or car? Maybe a bus? Of all the details I remember about her, the journey to her home is not one I can coax from my vault of childhood memories.

Perhaps I only visited once, or perhaps each discrete memory I have of my visits there, my mind has chosen to weave together like a spider’s web, allowing me to crawl through them, starting from one point and always ending up somewhere unexpected, with no regard for chronology.

I remember, her hut was tiny, and reminded me of the izbushka of Baba Yaga, the home of the villainous grandmother witch, ever present in childhood fairytales. Tetya Polya seemed nothing like Baba Yaga. She was kind, spoke softly and always treated me to baked delicacies and fresh goat’s milk. But I couldn’t be sure that she did not turn wicked at nightfall. After all, she had a curious hump on her back, and always wore her kerchief tied tightly around her head making it impossible to check if there was a second pair of eyes hidden there. I soothed myself only with the knowledge that Tetya Polya’s hut stood firmly bolted to the ground, and everyone knew a genuine Baba Yaga would have a house that stood upon chicken feet, ready at a moment’s notice to dance with glee or turn about and chase a curious woodland hedgehog.

I remember, the dirt floors I was in charge of sweeping. Ever the Sisyphean task, no matter how well I swept, I was always rewarded with a new layer of dirt below the old one.

I remember, one early morning I burst through the pasture, a pint-sized renegade charging full speed ahead. All around me the birds spontaneously erupted into intricate chirps, harmonizing with one another, and I stopped in my tracks, marveling at the poetry of their work song.

I remember, one afternoon we spent shucking corn, separating the criss-cross textured outer leaves to uncover the spun gold silk and perfect rows of kernels underneath. The discarded pile of silk growing larger and larger, daring me to jump in and bury my face inside the sweet earthy scent.

I remember endless fields of wheat, row after row of dirt with potatoes growing underneath, and country animals of all sorts. Between the care-taking of the flora and fauna and keeping the four of us fed, we never ran out of things to do, and days were filled from sun up to dusk. The work never seemed grueling, but instead, invigorating. The animals never a nuisance, but instead wildly animated. The lack of conveniences, a turn of the tap, or electricity erased with the first taste of well water.

Could it really have been as idyllic as I recall? Or does my web of memories trick me into seeing it that way?

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Posted in Stories | 17 Comments »

as good as it gets

Monday, May 30th, 2011

It’s my blog and I can re-post my guest post if I want to. Besides which Marinka said it was ok.

Originally aired on Motherhood in NYC…

Thank you for allowing me to humbly participate in your adopt-a-significantly-less-popular-than- Marinka blogger outreach program. I am thrilled to be here and will commence to delight you with my tales of immigrant childhood in mean streets of San Francisco, where at least once a week someone would steal from you your very own newspaper.

If only I had had a Chinese Mother

Alternative title: I was brought to this country to make my parents cry

I come to America, fresh faced young girl, my belly is empty (is added for dramatic effect) but my heart is full of hope, de-worming medication and dreams.

Like many immigrants who are employed in their home country as doctor or engineer but whose credentials are overlooked in America, I too am facing harsh reality of compulsory schooling placement test.

Result?

I am eight years old and already am bitter disappointment as according to test I am “average eight year old” and recommended to begin second grade. Parents cry and tell me they did not bring me to this country to have me fail. (This we call foreshadowing.)

As I gain mastery of English language beyond “cat” and “bird” I am still on average trajectory and do not skip grades. Parents are inconsolable. But I apply myself to the arts, following in their path, in home country parents were distinguished stage directors.

In fifth grade I land lead in school play. Success! Parents see performance on opening night and cry, they tell me play was produced completely unprofessional, as if by children, and they did bring me to this country to have me fail.

I am accepted to college. Parents momentarily overcome with joy!

I explain this College is not Harvard, Yale or Stanford. Parents cry and tell me they wish I was not an only child, perhaps imaginary second child would not fail. (My imaginary sibling and I are bitter rivals to this day.)

During high school graduation I am awarded prize for community service to school. Parents cry and tell me they did not bring me to this country to have me become social worker. They refuse all pictures for memory preserving of “shameful pseudo communist award.”

In college I select “Communications” as major. Parents think I’m making joke. When they see it on my diploma they cry and tell me to go back to college and finish with a degree this time, they did not bring me to this country so that I would refuse respectable career path of Doctor, Lawyer, Engineer or in the case of woman, Accountant.

I meet the love of my life, he is Russian and Jewish. Success! Parents momentarily overcome with joy relief! I announce that love of my life is moving us to Reno. My parents cry and tell me they did not bring me to this country to achieve oxymoronic accomplishment of living in Biggest Little City (in sin!).

Today, as a stay at home mom (and blogger), I disappoint my parents at least twice a week from a healthy four hour driving distance.

I hope you have enjoyed my life story, wrapped up in clever tutorial format. Please to see you soon.

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Posted in Sass, Stories | 12 Comments »

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