smartassitudefromtheshoebox

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

Hands Up!

I, like so many others, suggested on my FB that we read this mini history lesson on the FBI, the Black Pathers and Fred Hampton: https://twitter.com/clairewillett/status/1266894029498675200

I told you that story, so I could tell you this one: 

My first West Point graduation was in 2016 and that year there was a big controversy. Sixteen black women took a photo with their fists in the air. 

Can you imagine the scandal! Clutch ya pearls, Karen!

To West Point and the Army's credit, they did not sanction these women. They were found to be celebrating their achievement and solidarity, as 16 of the 18 black women graduating that year, out of 900 cadets being commissioned.

The party line for the investigation was that military personnel are not to be seen publicly aligning with any activist group in uniform, and the women were being accused of publicly endorsing Black Lives Matter by throwing a fist in the air, much like the Black Panthers.

It didn't sit right with me then and it still doesn't today. Their accuser is racist as shit, in my opinion. Rather than even consider his toxic bullshit, the Army should have ignored him altogether or given him latrine duty, if that was an option. 

Here’s why: 

Stop me when you see someone endorsing an activist group...

Anybody? Nope. Okay... 

Of course not. No one would. Because a fist, or two fists, in the air is a sign of strength and celebration that dates back to... I don’t even know. I saw someone say “the Goddess Ishtar,” but I didn’t look it up. We’ve all done it, though. Rocky, everyone’s Facebook avatar, your mom. Freddie Goddamned Mercury. Everyone. 

What has been bothering me for nearly five graduations now, is what would have happened if a predominantly white group of graduates had taken the same photo? While we cannot go backwards, and I cannot test my hypothesis, the short answer is: probably nothing at all. They might have been told “Hey guys,  you can’t take photos with your hands in the air, in uniform. You have to be solemn and at attention. Don’t let it happen again,” but it wouldn’t have been a national news scandal. It certainly wouldn’t have darkened what should have been a happy time for these sixteen young women. There would not have been an investigation into their intent. Because the intent of a group of white people never would have been questioned in this way, unless it was something really, obviously menacing or malicious, like throwing the heil. 

And that, like so many other things, is privilege. Being able to, largely, say and do what you want, without having to justify your intent is privilege. 

BiPOC are always in the role of justifying their intent, if white America takes offense. Conversely, we (white Americans) put the onus on them to prove our intent anytime a BiPOC is hurt, offended or killed. I mean, right up until the very 8.5 minutes when we watched George Floyd die and there was NO WAY that a decent or half-smart white person could try to excuse that away by saying “but maybe he was violent and we just didn’t see it...”. Which is beyond privilege; it is in direct opposition to the Declaration. It’s in direct opposition to all that we claim to be. 

These women weren’t simply owed clearance to go off and potentially die for this country, they were owed an apology and some fucking cake. And to be left the fuck alone by some racist, blogger who couldn't let them have their moment.

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

The Incredible Riceness of Being...

fix·a·tion

fikˈsāSH(ə)n/

noun

      1.  an obsessive interest in or feeling about someone or something.

"his fixation on the details of other people's erotic lives"

synonyms: obsession, preoccupation, mania, addiction, compulsion

       2.  the action of making something firm or stable.

"sand dune fixation"

I have spent a large part of my life fixated on rice. True story. When I was in middle school a family friend observed this truly bazaar phenomenon and gave me a box of Uncle Bens white rice for Christmas. Such was my fixation, that I was overjoyed to receive incredible, edible gift. You could have told me that I should eat a more balanced diet, but I didn't care. You could have said, "Jessica, you might contract scurvy due to lack of nutrition," and, like so many things at the time, this would have fallen on deaf, potentially rice-filled, ears. I was fixated, and you were not going to get me to change my mind. What on earth were you thinking?

In high school I moved on to Goya rice, specifically, the Mexican kind with the corn and the peppers. If you've never had it, I suggest you go out and get some right now, because it is mucho amazing. Had my parents had stock in Goya, they would have a far better retirement plan.

More recently, as an adult, jasmine rice has been the center of my attention. Earlier this year, I would find myself waiting at the sushi restaurant in town, for a to-go order that totaled greater than $20, consisting of food I didn't want, simply because the proprietors wouldn't let me pay with plastic for an amount less than $20. All so I could have properly cooked jasmine rice.

This situation prompted me to learn to cook it myself. Rice is a fickle mistress, and cooking it properly is an art and science. I am neither artist, nor scientist, most particularly not when I'm hungry. This triumph lead to the end of my fixation. Once it was something I knew and understood, and I could conjure for myself, I didn't have to have it all the time. I mastered it, and it no longer mastered me. 

Fixating can be applied to various other facets of my life as well: productions I've been in, schools I've applied to, people I've liked, places I've worked, every shoe I've purchased since the beginning of time, and don't get me started on books. I have what I would call, a massively addictive personality. There is pretty much nothing on the planet that I just "like." I either love a thing or I hate it. There is no in between. Which is totally thrilling and exhausting, fulfilling and devastating. For this specific reason, I have almost no experience with actual illicit substances, to speak of. I'm pretty sure I would end of up dead, in almost no time at all. 

Because my method of fixing a fixation, or as I like to call it, "derousing," is the exact opposite of how you would actually detoxify an addict. I like to go ahead and totally overdo it. I confront head on, I take it all apart, look at all the pieces and then put it all back together (which kinda sounds like something meth-heads do), I buy the shoes in as many colors as I can afford and then try wear them all at the same time. I will totally wear myself out on a thing.  I will eat as much as I can stand, I will ask every question I’ve ever wanted (or didn’t want) the answer to, I will listen to the same album over and over and over, until I know every word, every chord, every beat.

If I still like a thing, post-derouse, not only will I no longer be fixated, my relation to whatever the object is will be better and healthier in the long-run; much more easily viewed at arm’s length. If I don't, then I have some work to do or some changes to make, some music to purge from my iPod, or items to remove from my closet. I’m not TOTALLY ruled by reckless enthusiasm, I’m just really good at it.

The truth is sometimes you run wildly, headfirst into the most amazing, fluffy-soft things that have ever happened to you, and sometimes you end up flying off the cliffs of insanity instead. Or you can spend months (or years) researching a thing; you can know EXACTLY what you're getting yourself into and you can STILL be completely wrong about the outcomes. Neither method guarantees success. My way is just a shorter path to the inevitable, whatever the inevitable happens to be.

The people who know me best could properly handle the rice fixation, which sounds something like this: “You’ve only had that basmati rice once; maybe you should eat it for every meal, for the next two weeks, before you decide to take a semester of Indian cooking classes, in Mumbai.” Frequently, all I need is this level of perspective or experience, to shake loose my fixated brain.

© November 16, 2014

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

Shut the Duck Up!

I've been staying quiet on the Duck Dynasty debate because it, literally, hit me where it hurt: in the brain. I have HUGE respect for Phil Robertson and some pretty loud beliefs equality. My inner monologue has been, somewhat, belligerently angry at both sides for the last few days. However, I’ve taken some time to read the GQ article (As an aside the article makes me want to subscribe to GQ. Why aren’t womens’ magazines written above a 10th grade reading level with liberal f-bombage? Said differently, why don’t women’s magazines read the way I speak? GQ does and I applaud them for it.) I have also read some well written pieces on the subject and some poorly written pieces. I now have my thoughts collected enough to have my say. And, as per usual, I have quite a bit, so get comfortable.

Phil Robertson is the grandfather I have always wanted. Being, myself, in possession of an old, southern, white, grandfather who has the impression that granddaughters are good for little more than producing someone else’s heirs and that I am basically good for nothing as I have produced no one’s, it was heartening to see Phil take his granddaughters duck hunting. Nothing of this caliber (pun only slightly intended) would have been suggested in my family or in my lifetime. I make the point to impress upon you my belief that Phil is light-years ahead of his contemporaries.

Having seen every episode of DD, I remember when Phil and Kay had their photos taken with the family dogs, the photographer was on fire. Phil definitely had some eye-rolls, but he wasn't mean or rude or disrespectful. In fact, he treated the photographer in the same manner that he treats his children and wife. If pressed, I would say, he was perhaps, clearly uncomfortable with a person whose life he doesn't understand.

But it would be ignorant for me to imply that the statements regarding homosexuality in GQ were surprising to me. He is an old, white, souther, Baptist preacher. They were; however, tremendously disappointing. I am SO very disappointed, because I wanted to believe that, having been exposed to so many different types of people throughout his ministry, Phil Robertson had gained a greater sense of enlightenment than his contemporaries. I was wrong and I am sad about it.

It certainly isn’t a rationalization, but Phil is a product of his environment. I would say that organized religion, particularly Christianity, misses the mark by preaching acceptance, forgiveness and "love thy neighbor" and then specifically excluding certain groups. I can't imagine being an LGBTQ kid, dragged to church by my parents and then hearing that I don't exist in the eyes of God, when every other sentence says that God is ultimately forgiving and loves everyone. Religious factions have maligned the LGBTQ community into being the "worst of the worst" relative to God, when, really, He made them what they are and loves them as they are. That's the period on the end of that discussion. Nothing in the bible (which is a moral codex of parables, not a word-for-word code of laws, if you’re not sure, read this to see just how many times the bible might be totally wrong about a few things) trumps God's infinite and infallible love. Nothing.

Here’s what aggravates me more: The Robertsons, and I mean every single one of them with the exception of Si, is HIGHLY educated. The statement below (excerpted from GQ) from a highly educated person, makes me want to vomit: 

“For the sake of the Gospel, it was worth it,” Phil tells me. “All you have to do is look at any society where there is no Jesus. I’ll give you four: Nazis, no Jesus. Look at their record. Uh, Shintos? They started this thing in Pearl Harbor. Any Jesus among them? None. Communists? None. Islamists? Zero. That’s eighty years of ideologies that have popped up where no Jesus was allowed among those four groups. Just look at the records as far as murder goes among those four groups.”     

Is he kidding? Is my beloved Phil Robertson really putting eugenics, a spiritual practice, economic theory and religion into the same basket, calling them apples and saying they would taste better if Jesus was polishing them? Oh, hell no.

Shintoism, as a spiritual practice, is not responsible for Pearl Harbor any more than Islam, as a religion, is responsible for 9-11. The tenants of both practice and faith, respectively, simply do not condone violence or murder. Neither needs Jesus, in this case, although they may need an interpreter.

Communism is an economic practice, a brilliant one, might I add, which will never work because it has to be enacted by fallible, loophole-seeking, lazy-assed, human, people. And maybe, just maybe Phil has a point here, because if everyone who participated in Communism was like Jesus Christ, it would probably work perfectly. But we’re not, so it doesn’t. Just to be clear, based on his other examples, when Phil talks about Communism, he’s talking about Russia or the former USSR, who happen to have a few churches. One of them, the Russian Orthodox Church, is often said to be the largest of the Eastern Orthodox churches in the world according to the knower of all things, wikipedia. Read that again: In. The. World. It is a Christian church. The root word of Christian is… um… wait for it… “Christ.” So the only people, in Phil’s examples, who actually need some Jesus is the Nazis, except they would have killed him!

Further, it frustrates me endlessly to hear such patriotic Americans talking free speech and 2nd Amendment rights out one side of their mouths, and desecrating the separation of church and state out of the other. How can you believe yourself to be a red-blooded American and think that the 10 Commandments belong outside of our federal courts? Do you not understand the establishment clause? Or the religious tyranny our forefathers fought so hard to spare us? It’s not that I don’t think that the 10 Commandments are worth knowing or understanding, but they are not the codified law of the land. They may have influenced the rule of law, but they are not the rule of law, for a very important and specific reason; a reason that makes this nation who and what it is. The separation of church and state is woven in the fabric of our DNA, and trying to change that is JUST as offensive as trying to change the rest of the first amendment, or the second or the fifth, even if it is a lovable, old preacher man trying to do it.

I think A&E had to fire Phil Robertson. Not only do I think they had to, I’m glad they did (and it pains me to say that). Free speech comes with a price. The American government can’t persecute you for your beliefs, but your employer certainly can, and in this case, they should.

And why? Because people, many, many, people are listening to Phil. If he is going to have a mouthpiece as large as A&E to stand upon, his facts should be correct. His history should be correct, which it is, clearly, not. And if he’s going to use the show to introduce people to Jesus, shouldn’t it be the one that we would all want to meet: the guy who, as this graphic suggests, accepts all and loves all.

I want to meet that guy. I hear his party tricks are AMAZING! And so it is with a heavy heart that I have to say, “Phil Robertson, please shut the duck up.”  

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

Fearless, Part II

Or the entirely true and completely humiliating stories of why I can say just about anything to anyone.

Everyone has these stories. The stories, the experiences, that stack up, one upon the other like Legos, to mold us into the adults that we will eventually become. Good or bad, long or short, these stories foreshadow the character traits of every hero, villain and protagonist ever written.  

In order to truly understand this story, I have to set the stage a bit, by discussing my parents. When you’re a child, you’re parents seem enormous, because you are, in fact, tiny. With my father standing at 6’2,”larger than most of my friend’s fathers, he actually was enormous. He has done me the favor of losing about an inch and many pounds over the last ten years, but when I was little he was a giant.

My father is, relatively, quite. He reads a lot, doesn’t say much until it is needed. Very rarely does he yell. So when he does get fired up, it is life-changingly horrible, particularly if you are one of my friends on the side-lines. There is a rural legend that still floats around Greenville, NY about my father turning Hulk-green, picking up the car and throwing it at me. Such rumors are silly. My father has never turned green.

My mother, as I have stated on several occassions, is like me, times 100. She is vocal. In fact, she’s probably more vocal than I am. So, when she yells, a lot of the time, you can just brush it off, because it happens so often.

My parents made an agreement to present a united front to me, even when they didn’t see eye to eye on a thing, and so my father mastered the art of “go ask your mother” early on. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned that when I my mother would threaten me with my father’s belt, and I would leave the room crying, my father would go ape shit on her for doing so. Which sets the stage for this story…

One of my oldest and dearest friends points out that I was, indeed, an early bloomer (she actually used other words, but what she meant to say was “early bloomer” so I’ll just let her live). She’s right, I can admit it. And when I was 14, my mother (who is also nosey) found out that I was doing the thing that you don’t want your 14-year-old daughter to be doing with her boyfriend  (at least it wasn’t heroin).

There are no words to describe how pissed she was. In fact, she knew for, probably, 24 hours, before actually confronting me, but was mean to me for the interim. From my 13th birthday to my 18th my mother and I weren’t on the best of terms, so us being mean to each other wasn’t exactly newsworthy. But it didn’t go unnoticed by me either. When she did confront me, I lied. I’m pretty sure I said it had only happened two or three times. I suspect she saw right through that. If she didn’t, this post will be my confession. It was a lot.

After the yelling and attempts to solicit some sort of guilt from me, came the ultimatum to trump all others: “Either you tell your father, or I will.” In the vein of united parenting, of course, she was going to tell my father, she told my father everything. Why would this be different?

I’m sure you can already see where this is going… Later that night, at the dinner table, my 14-year-old self told my giant, fear-inducing father that I was having sex with my boyfriend. To say he was displeased is an understatement. To his credit, he handled his displeasure admirably. Fathers like to be all blustery about how they are going to kill the first boy who lays a hand on their little girl. Maybe some of them are being honest, but that would put a lot of fathers in jail. At least a few of them must recall being the first boy to lay a hand on somebody else’s daughter and they know full well that it wasn’t just the boy’s bad influence. Maybe that was my dad.

Or maybe my dad knew that he had helped to raise a smart kid who, due to many, many conversations over dinner, knew how not to get pregnant or sick. (Seriously, that stuff sinks in, talk to your kids. It is a dinner conversation topic, I swear.) Whatever it was that kept him from removing the kitchen peninsula from the wall, I prepared for, at least, a verbal beating that never came. I think I may have been grounded.  I know the boyfriend (who I’m sure shit a huge brick at his own house before learning of his stay of execution) and I weren’t allowed to see each other, outside of school, for about two months, which was a good test of how much he really liked me. We were together for another two years.

To be honest, I’m not sure I have ever been more pleased with myself, before or since. At the time, I believed, as I still do, if you’re going do grown up things, you should probably act like one all the time and being honest with my father about something neither of us wanted to discuss was an extraordinarily difficult choice. The far easier path would have been to just let my mother do all the heavy lifting, and certainly it would have punished her more, which was always the goal at the time.

Once you have stared down your own father, at that age, to deliver that information, there is just no other piece of information, short of the death of a loved one, that you can’t deliver to anyone ever.  All other information sets become, somehow, innocuous.  It was the most scared I’ve ever been to speak to anyone in my life and not only did I live through it, my father still loved me when I was done talking. I have to say a lot of things to a lot of people. Some of them actually care about me and what I have to say, some of them are paid to care about what I have to say and some of them just don’t care at all. In every one of those instances, living through this situation reminds me to just say it the way it is. Don’t sugarcoat or tell people what they want to hear. In the end, the truth is so much more entertaining and enlightening, and if you soften the blow, you’ll never know which of your people is likely to turn Hulk-green.

© October 6, 2013

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

Fearless Part I

Or the entirely true and completely humiliating stories of why I can say just about anything to anyone.

Everyone has these stories. The stories, the experiences, that stack up, one upon the other like Legos, to mold us into the adults that we will eventually become. Good or bad, long or short, these stories foreshadow the character traits of every hero, villain and protagonist ever written.  

For the first seven years of my life, my family lived in New Jersey. Sewage runs through my veins like gas at a Wawa. We moved to New York in the middle of second grade. At some point, maybe in high school it becomes cool and mysterious to be the new girl, but in the middle of second grade it is the social equivalent of being mystery meat. Bonds have been formed. Everyone already has a best friend. These boats are not meant to be rocked for at least another three or four years, when kids start experimenting with their personalities. I stuck out like a sore thumb not only because I was new, but probably because I smelled like the Motherland. But I digress, that is not really the point of this story.

From the very day I walked through the door of my new school, I had hardest crush on a boy I will call “Off-side.” I’m pretty sure Off-side was born tall, dark and handsome, because he was the only boy in second grade who will ever be described as such. And, I swear to God, without question, every time I was near him, invariably, I would say something stupid, blubbering, totally incoherent or just completely unnecessary. In fairness to me, this is the territory of an eight-year-old, they say stupid things. They are still learning how to exist, but it still sticks with me today. I remember feeling like a complete idiot with no control over my tongue.

To make matters worse, or better, depending on your point of view (and at the time, I remember being so very excited about this) his birthday was (and still is) the day before mine. In third grade, as my awkwardness was ramping up, we had our birthday parties at the same roller rink, on the same night. Imagine my surprise, that fate had not conspired this and he was not, in fact, totally in love with me. We would not be skating together, holding hands. Because he was a normal nine-year-old boy and I was a nine-year-old already hooked on soap operas.  

Fast forward a few years to sixth grade: I’m pretty sure the school was already letting him play JV soccer, because as the name suggests, Off-side was something of a soccer prodigy.  He had seen fit get taller, darker and more handsome over the passing years, which even now seems somewhat unfair for a middle school kid.  This time; however, fate was on my side and he sat right in front of me in science class. And, by then, I’d even dated not one, but two boys, so I knew a thing or two about them. I was a professional at speaking to men, using actual words and could do so without spitting. I had come a long way.

I’m not sure how it happened, but I remember chatting with him in class and not sounding like a complete moron. It was magical. I had to remind myself to shut up from time to time (which would be outstanding practice for my later life), but I absolutely remember him laughing and not in a bad way. Eventually, over a few months, a very thin thread of friendship had been spun.

However, he was dating an eighth grader; and not just any eighth grader, a REALLY pretty, popular one. Yet another testament to just how cute this kid was in my mind at the time, it’s not like every eighth grade girl dates a sixth grader. Most of the time, that’s just not done.  If I recall correctly, they had been together for some time, perhaps through the previous summer and into the current school year.

One day, he told me they had broken up. Just like that. Which, if you think about it, is how these things happen. You never know what goes on in someone else’s house until you live in it, and that’s what was going on in theirs’; apparently, nothing anymore.

I’m a big believer in striking while the iron is hot. If I find something I really love in the store, I buy it, lest I see someone else walking down the street in my designer shoes next week. But people are not shoes. So walking up to him at his locker the very next day and asking him out, to his face, might not have been the best course of action. He may have needed some time, perhaps to work through the seven stages of grief.  

He may not have been interested in down-grading from the totally hot eighth grader he had JUST been with to the still-awkward-but-at-least-having-passed-the-peak-of-her-awkwardness me, you see pictured here.

He may have just been totally taken aback by the fact that I was standing in front of him. No cleverly folded check “yes” or “no” note, no intermediary. This was my face in his face; I got a question, he had an answer. No, it was not the answer I wanted and I had six more years of school to go, with no hope of a transfer to a district in Siberia. Not to mention that I had to wake up the next morning and sit behind him in science class.

To this day, it is still one of the most valuable lessons I have ever learned: nothing I can say, nothing I can ask for, simply nothing that comes out of my mouth that isn’t treasonous or completely disrespectful is going to get me killed or make me spontaneously combust. Even in those moments, when I absolutely wish it would just happen already, so it could never happen again, I have never actually died of embarrassment.  With a mouth like mine, if it was going to happen to anyone, it should definitely have happened to me, if it was ever going to happen at all. There is no fucking lightning bolt for dropping the f-bomb in a room full of diplomats, soccer moms or children. See?

The Off-side incident empowered me to just ask for whatever I want, from whomever I need it. Certainly, they might say “no,” but I have already endured Off-side saying “no,” at one of the most socially sensitive and painful points of my life. No, seriously, go look at the picture again. That was PASSED the peak. That picture was taken when the gawkiness was getting BETTER. So really, how much worse can saying or doing any other embarrassing thing possibly be? I submit, it cannot.

So I say, “say it all.” Don’t be a hurtful jerk, and certainly let other people say some things too, but if you’ve got words, let ‘em fly. The worst that can happen is you get a little red in the face (or someone like me tells you that you’re wrong, but If you’ve done your homework first you decrease your chances of that). If you don’t know, ask, because someone does have that knowledge. In the words of the hero G.I. Joe, “Knowing is half the battle,” and that dude was fearless.  

© October 5, 2013

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

Grow a pair! You might need them...

I have this friend named Pete. Pete and I aren't particularly tight, but we did have some great conversations during my divorce and reentry into the dating world. Pete's insight into men and life was invaluable and he'll probably never know how much I appreciated his wisdom or how closely I was listening at the time (even though it may have seemed like I wasn't).

Pete was recently diagnosed with stage four colon cancer, in the prime of his life. Its a hard pill to swallow. One day you're selling real estate and teaching golf lessons and the next day you're hanging out in a hospital, being poked and prodded by generalists and specialists and being told that your life could be truncated before you've broken 80.

I have no idea how I would react to this kind of news. I have no idea how Pete did. Truthfully, it was my ex-husband that let me know, and probably several months after Pete was diagnosed. But I know what Pete is doing now.

Men and women are different (you might have noticed it, but I thought I'd point out the obvious). From the time we hit puberty, young women are talking about our breasts, comparing them; complaining about them, buying them fantastic bras. And one day we start yelling from the bathroom and our parents can no longer ignore the presence of our uterus.

Not having grown up a boy, I suspect you're taught to clean your penis (particularly you uncircumcised bunch) and told “not to knock anyone up with it.” The lucky among you are actually taught HOW to go about not knocking anyone up, but for the vast majority, the remainder of nether-region discussion consists of “my cock is bigger than yours,” “my boss is really riding my ass” and “man, my girlfriend/wife is such a ball-buster.”

Which is where women have a distinct advantage: we've been talking about our “stuff” for so long, and with so many people (because let us not forget that we hop up on a table once a year and spread 'em for a stranger to examine our reproductive organs) that we have huge networks dedicated to our health. Especially when it comes to cancer. Susan G. Koman is a household name. Making Strides Against Breast Cancer is familiar to most. Locally, Miles of Hope helps women handle the extraneous costs of cancer; lodging while getting treatment, paying bills while out of work and to provides them with mentorship; “these are the pitfalls of the healthcare system surrounding cancer, don't fall into them” as well as friendship. Women have got it together.

Men don't have support systems like this, because if it doesn't fall in the “big cock, ball-busting, ass-riding” bucket, they aren't taking about it. Raise your hand if you're a man, over 50 and haven't seen your proctologist. That's what I thought. Raise your hand if you're over 50 haven't had a colonoscopy.

Here's the thing, I'm real big on not asking or telling anyone to do things that I haven't done or wouldn't do myself. So I'm here to tell you, in my early 20's I had to have a colonoscopy for a stomach problem and I lived to type this blog post. Its not how I would suggest you kill time on a Saturday, but they put you out with really nice drugs and the peace of mind that comes with knowing you're healthy is worth it. Yes, there is a camera involved. And yes, that camera goes in the wrong direction, but you won't ever know about it ('cause the drugs are, in fact, that good and if the photos ever make it to the internet, one lower intestine looks just like the next).

So back to Pete. Pete has decided to use his diagnosis as an excuse to do something wonderful. He is starting a Foundation called Through the Green of Life, and its intentions are similar to Miles of Hope, only for men, because men NEED this. You boys need to know that there are other guys who have been where you are, that its okay to be scared, that its okay to look for help, that its okay to go to a doctor and have <gasp!> tests done. You need to know what to do from, people who have walked in your shoes. And you need to know that “when its your time to go, its your time go” might be comforting when considering being hit by a bus or a tragic skiing accident, but its not a healthcare philosophy. Not when modern medicine gives you as many opportunities as it does to take care of yourself, be your own advocate and possibly save your own life. Take a look at the people who love you and ask them how they feel about “when its your time to go, its your time to go.”

So this is me, telling you boys to be like Pete. Go to put on your big boy under-roos, grow a pair, moon a doctor and talk to him about something other than the size of your cock.   

© December 18, 2011

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

Another 9-11 Blog post...

Because I’m sure there will be several thousand today... On September 11, 2001, I was 22 years old. At the time, I worked for the clown, which is to say that I worked for the distributor for all the McDonald’s Restaurants in the metropolitan New York area and a good portion of New Jersey as well (trust me, its not nearly as glamorous as it sounds). I was sneaking into work through the Transportation door, because I was about 15 minutes late for my 8:30 arrival. I was 22, and that was how I rolled at the time. The transportation supervisor on duty whispered to me that a plane had flown into one of the twin towers. He whispered like it was some kind of sick joke and I remember thinking, “someone’s gonna get fired, that’s WAY worse than being 15 minutes late.” And then all hell broke loose while the world stood still. The reality of what had happened began to set in as the second plane hit the second tower, as it became clear that this was not poor or reckless piloting, that this was no accident. The seven or eight of us in customer service stared at each other somewhat blankly, and then I pulled out my cell phone and started dialing. I called my boyfriend, he, not being in the city, was clearly fine. I just wanted to hear his voice. I called my mom, mostly for the same reasons. I cried through both calls.  And then I made the call I was dreading. One of my best friends from childhood was engaged to another of my best friends from childhood and they lived in Queens. At the time, she wasn’t working, but he was. Today, ten years later, I have no idea what he did, but I know it involved a company van and that he could have been anywhere that day. It was unlikely he was close to ground zero, but who could know? So I called. Busy. I called again. Busy. Again. And again. And again. Until finally she picked up and again I cried much harder than before when she said she had heard from him and he was okay. She could see the billows of smoke from outside their apartment. We then heard about the Pentagon and Flight 93 in Pennsylvania.   I have not yet been able to watch any of the specials about 9-11. I’m not ready to relive that day. For many, far too many, it was the single worst day of their lives. I’m one of the lucky Americans for whom 9-11 didn’t claim a sibling, or a parent, or a cousin or a friend. I’m one of the rest of us, who simply lost the feeling that we were safe and that other people only disliked us in the minds of Hollywood film makers. But we also gained something that day, something subtle, yet profound. In the days and weeks that followed 9-11, there was only one America. There was no black or white America, no rich or poor America, no urban and rural America and for the first time, probably before or since, there was no red and blue America. We spoke to each other a little more kindly, gave each other more leeway in a traffic merge, and generally acted like we responsible for the way our actions effected others. We did this because we instinctively knew that it is was, in fact, true. For the first time, in a generation, someone had done something so terrible, that it effected all of us. Even those who were not directly impacted; those who weren’t there, who didn’t lose a loved one, felt the sting and bled anyway. Everything we do as individuals, ripples out to those around us; those we know and those we don’t. We knew without knowing right after 9-11. Its a lesson we seem to have lost again. As the dust settled from 9-11 and there were subsequent bombings in Istanbul, Madrid and London and we were no longer the only target of this displaced aggression, not only were we one America, we failed to notice that we were one human family. Or perhaps we noticed it for a moment, the way we always do during a crisis or a disaster, but never for long enough to set aside our differences and be useful to one another. 

And we’ve returned to our nation of many Americas and worse we’ve forgotten how we got here in the first place. It kills me to hear Americans talk about how evil the Muslims are and how we should just “kill them all” for what they’ve done. How does that make us any better than the people who attacked our Nation’s Capital and our financial center? The people who attacked us, and continue to do so, are extremists, fundamentalists. Nothing ruins anything awesome like an extremist. Have you ever met an extremist dog person? They’re covered in dog hair, their house smells like dog pee and you can’t sit anywhere in it because all the seats have a canine in them (we’re not talking about Cesar Milan, here, he’s an exception). If you judged every dog person by the extremist, you’d think they were all think they were all insane, but that’s clearly not true. I love beer, but extremist beer people are called alcoholics. All of the people of the Muslim faith didn’t plan 9-11. The vast majority of practitioners want the same things that you and I want: to have a happy life, to be healthy, to make sense out of what they see every day. They see God differently than we do, they worship differently. So what? They aren’t bad people. But the fundamentalists of that religion, who make a blanket statement about Americans and decide we all suck and its their job to punish us, they did this. Those two sets of people don’t belong in the same category and I’m tired of the people in my country, in my category, making honest men out of the bastards who took the lives of so many ten years ago. That kind of ignorance validates them. I have a facebook friend who lost a daughter in the towers, who, had she lived, would be my age. My heart breaks for him and his wife today. Thinking about them makes me want to go home and hug my parents. I can’t help but think that we, as a nation, as a world community, can do and be better for them; for the survivors and the lost. © September 11, 2011

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends.

Albus Dumbledore

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

Those You've Known...

“Those you’ve known and lost still walk behind you. All alone, their song still seems to find you...” On Easter Sunday I visited my parents house and while I was there I went through a medium sized box that contains pretty much every picture I’ve ever taken that is not housed in a photo album. It took hours and I spent a good portion of those hours laughing hysterically. There were photos from shows I had done, concerts I had been to, party after party after party at my parents house and about a million other moments, enormous or insignificant, all of them leading up to this one right now. And while I spent most of my day smiling, something about it made me sad. The advent of facebook has put or kept me in touch with most of the people in the photos, so in a sense they are never lost. But revisiting just how close we were at one time brings into sharp relief just how far apart we’ve grown. What I’m struggling to get onto to paper is just how much all of you have meant to me, and how significant you were in the shaping of who I would eventually turn out to be. Whether it was drama club, or choir, or Monday nights at my apartment, or Metroplex, or Elmira College, or IBM, or the Philadelphia Riviera that brought us together, even if it was just for a short time, I cannot begin to put into words how much I miss you. Because I find that something in me is lost. I find I’m not the person I remember being back then. I don’t think I’m as strong or as happy. Perhaps that is because little pieces of me are scattered across the country and across the globe with all of you; I am no longer complete. You all carry something of me with you. And I love you all with what remains of my heart. <3

© April 25, 2011

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

P.S. I Love You...

I am super-auditory. What I mean by that, is I’m far more likely to recognize a voice, before I do a face. Which might make me the best person to sit next to during an animated film or the worst, depending on your point of view. Its one of my five useless talents. If you were looking for someone with useful talents, you’ve come to the wrong blog. My connection to other human beings is through the sound of their voice which is ironic, since I hate to talk on the phone. While others may want to see a photo of a person they miss, I want to hear him or her speak. And if I don’t like the sound of a guy’s voice there is just no way I will ever find him attractive.   Last Friday, I (finally) auditioned for a Broadway show. I’m about ten years late, but as they say “better late than never.” In the lead up to this monumental event, I took voice lessons with Claudia Cummings. Claudia is a professional opera singer, now retired. She runs the Opera Company of the Highlands and obviously, teaches voice to people like me.

Claudia is a lovely person and beautiful older woman, but as you walk through her home and see photos of her when she was performing, you notice that she was absolutely stunning. When you hear her sing, you know she had the voice to match. Claudia was married to the late Jack Arason. Jack was a Shakespearean actor who passed away in 2008. I had the pleasure of seeing Jack perform a few times. His voices was enormous and rich. By all accounts Jack and Claudia were simply meant for each other and even though I didn’t know either of them well, when I found out Jack had died, I was broken-hearted for Claudia.

During one of my lessons, I was using music from my iTunes and Claudia expressed some annoyance with her computer. Having a great affinity for the gadgets myself, I offered to take a look at hers and see if I could help in any way. Much to my surprise, my level of technical skill was all that was required to fix most of her problems. We ended up talking for a long time, working on the computer and eating cookies. I’m hard-pressed to think of a better way to spend a Friday night.

To say thank you, she gave me a c.d. that she and Jack had made; a combination of her singing and him performing spoken-word. While I was listening to it I started thinking about people who save the last voice mail they received from someone who has passed away, like in the movie/book P.S. I Love You. And then I started thinking about how Claudia must feel every time she listens to it. And as I’m listening to Claudia singing “I Could Have Danced All Night” which is NOT an unhappy song, I burst into tears in my car.

I suppose, as I’m learning from the loss of Tattoo, time heals all wounds. But I wondered, as I was driving, if I were Claudia, how would I shut off that c.d. (or any other she might have that happens to have captured the sound of him)? How would I find it in myself to listen to anything but him as I went to sleep? For that matter, how would I climb out of bed at all, knowing that I could put on that c.d. and close my eyes and pretend for as long as the repeat button and batteries would hold out? How would I move on when I could hear him? A picture is one thing, but to actually be able to hear his voice… I would crave it and yet, having it so readily available, I think it would literally be my undoing.

Not Claudia. Claudia carries on. Claudia runs the opera company, the Jack Aranson Artist Fund and fights with her computer. Claudia facilitates for Leadership Orange and teaches people like me how to get through an Broadway audition without peeing her pants. I am absolutely sure that she does this knowing that Jack would want it that way, knowing that wherever he is, he is surely setting up a concert hall for them to perform in together, but her que isn’t for a while yet, nor would he wish it to be any other way.

What Claudia, and by proxy Jack, has shown me is yet another thing that I am unwilling to love without; total devotion and support for each other. Each was a spring-board for the other’s talent and the unwavering foundation for each other’s dreams (I know, it sounds cheesy, I would think so too, if I didn’t believe it to be true). Its not every couple who gets to say that and sadly, I would go so far as to say its less than half.

I am no longer willing to be baked into that larger part of the pie. I think I have reached a point where I have to say, “if you can’t buy into me, I can’t buy into us, please see yourself out” because there is simply no way I would adjoin myself with someone, long or short term, in whom I did not believe. And so one step closer to me wanting nothing more than to hear the sound of a particular man’s voice, will be the one that says “Jessica, I’m pretty sure you can do anything, though you totally terrify me when you try.”

© March 19, 2011

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT?

The electric blanket, it is half of the perfect substitute for a man. 

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

I'm very serious about shoes. I had an entire photo built around them. This was created by the amazing Carlos Vega. Click on the photo to see more of his work.

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

"I know you don't want to hear this but someone has to say it! You are out of control! I mean they're just shoes... let it go!"

~Glinda (referring to the ruby slippers in Wicked. They are never just shoes.) 

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

I like Cinderella, I really do. She has a good work ethic. I appreciate a good, hard-working gal. And she likes shoes. The fairy tale is all about the shoe at the end, and I'm a big shoe girl.

~Amy Adams

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

The Joy of Cats

Anyone who says cats "don’t have any personality" has never been owned by one. I have not known that many, because I grew up in a household where “we hated cats,” so only a few have graced my presence. But here is what I know: each one is a separate, distinct and complete little entity in his or her own right. Tonight I must pay tribute to the one who taught me that.

As I mentioned, I grew-up in a cat-free household. We had dogs. Don’t misunderstand, I love dogs, but when the dog we had from the time I was six months old died, I asked if we could get a cat and was met with the parental wall of steel. Hell no. We cannot get a cat. We are not cat people. We hate cats. I was inconsolable for what felt like ever and reluctantly my mother eventually got a new dog. I say my mother because Buster was, from the very day he came home, ALWAYS her dog.

I brought her home to Mom and Dad’s house, played with her all day then decided to go out with my friends for the evening. When I arrive home, around 12:30 am that night, I found my father still awake in his chair. I have to tell you my father is not a late owl. This is not a regular occurrence; in fact, I can count on one hand the amount of times I have come home after midnight to find my father still awake. When I asked him how such a thing had happened, he motioned to the sleeping kitten on his shoulder and told me that he couldn’t go to bed, because he “didn’t want to wake the cat.” Tattoo spent her whole life taming men and she started at the top, with Cap’t. Cat-hater himself, my dad, Corky Callihan. 

Always shiny and sleek, she would have made Cleopatra proud. Sharply contrasted against the spastic and clumsy tabby I would later inherit and love to pieces or my Mom's cat, Jinx. Oh, that's right. The Callihan's are now owned by a cat. He's all black as well, but he's as wide as he is tall and has some sort of dandruff-like condition. And he's perpetually covered in dust-balls. Not because my mother doesn't clean (although friends that know her will go right for that joke), but because he is always hiding somewhere, like under the bed or in a closet. Why? Because he's afraid of... everything. My cat didn't talk to you, because she had discerning taste and you should feel honored to have her in your lap (that's her talking, not me; I have one that wants to please at every turn, like a dog and one who thought you should think she was amazing for gracing you with her presence while farting, Tattoo was the latter). Jinx doesn't talk to you because he's neurotic and weird. Some people aren't even sure he exists, like aliens. 

From the day I brought her home, Tattoo’s favorite person has always been my life-long friend and ex-husband. Once, I had a party and put everyone’s coats on my bed. I found Tattoo asleep in his motorcycle jacket. They’re made of leather and kevlar; they are not cuddly, she just loved him. Perhaps it was because he would let her get away with anything, perhaps it was that he was the first person she met after me, perhaps it was because he taught her how much she liked ice cream, perhaps she simply liked the sound of his voice, but Brian Carroll was always and forever Tattoo’s human.

Tattoo was, without question, the most obnoxious and tenacious cat one could ever have the misfortune to meet. She was always quite certain she was smarter than everyone else (I have no IDEA where she might have gotten that from...). She would meow repeatedly until I put the bowl of food on the floor, as if doing so might make me move faster. Think “mush” not “meow.” She had the idea that if she could just insinuate her face between the spoon and my mouth I might never notice that I was not actually getting any ice cream (thanks Brian!). And heaven help me if I throw cereal milk down the drain, because I was going to get the face...

If I was reading in bed she’d want to sit on my chest. If I pushed her off, she’d come sit there again, because that’s where she wanted to be (again, I have no IDEA where she got that from...). She wanted to help with every research paper I ever wrote, despite an inability to read English (I'm sure she could read Catabic, I put nothing past her), every project I ever did, regardless of lacking opposable thumbs and was keenly interested in the computer, though its parts were not tasty.

She had a life-long interest in physics as well. She would knock items of a certain size (generally the small things, you'd rather not lose) off a high surface, to see if they would bounce. Then she would study their level of friction against the floor while sliding, and, finally, their ability to be seen by me, x-ray style, once lodged under a piece of furniture. The inventor of the jewelry box, must have been among the cat-owned. I’m also reasonably sure that she was the only cat in history who could tell time. Without fail, for several weeks in a row, Tattoo would wake me up 15 minutes before the alarm went off, by sitting on my head or jumping on my bladder. Normally, I would suggest that this was her internal clock going off, but I change my alarm clock every day due to a highly erratic schedule. 

She was also a masterful grudge-holder. In 1998, someone on campus impulse purchased a kitten at a pet store in Elmira. When they finally realized what kind of fines came along with having a pet in the dorms, she called the one person she knew who did not live in them: me. The arrival of Angel not only displeased Tattoo, she still hasn’t forgiven me, even though they have since become friends, which only took about eight years.

Right now, I hope, if she could, she would tell me that all the early morning ovary dive-bombs and right-next-to-the-bed-puke piles have made us even. I hope she would tell me that she’s okay with me having a second fluff-ball in my life because today I so desperately need her. Today, Brian and I had to part ways with Tattoo due to what the vet believes was congestive heart failure. I would give anything to have her make muffins in my armpit, or hear her licking a plastic bag, or running like an elephant through the apartment or purring like an airplane in my ear... all while I’m trying sleep.

I hope that she finds herself surrounded by the people and animals who have gone before her, most especially her dog, Buster. I hope there is an endless supply of ice cream covered in cat treats (the kind she likes, not the kind I always managed to buy). I hope there is a pug present for her to punch in the face over and over, because it is, without question, still one of the funniest things I have ever seen. I hope she knows that going to the bathroom without a cat present now feels like a critical misstep, like going to the bathroom with the toilet lid down. I hope she knows that it has been my honor and privilege to pay the rent on and live in her apartment. I hope that she knows how much we all loved her, how much joy she brought us and how she changed the course of Callihan history forever, by teaching us that we are, indeed, cat people.

<3  ^..^

© February 10, 2011

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

The eHarmony Debacle

In the Fall of 2010, I had been unceremoniously dumped by the boyfriend I now refer to as “the Fiasco.” The Fiasco is not to be confused in any way whatsoever with “the Situation.” I still actually love and care very much about the Fiasco, despite our inability to to be friends at this point; I have no such love for the Situation. One night while working at the grocery store below my apartment (and I use the term “working” quite loosely here), I was discussing my romantic life (or lack thereof) with a coworker, Megan, who suggested that I try eHarmony.

Megan prefaced this suggestion with the fact that she, and several other people we know, had been rejected by eHarmony, as the commercial for Chemistry.com suggests. But then she added something along the lines of “you’re so agreeable” (we *were* still talking about *me*, right?) and you’re a good catch, it’ll probably be great for you.” I thought, “yeah, sure. That sounds right… why not?”

So, one Saturday afternoon, I spent some quality time with eHarmony. I took the questions to heart, I thought about the answers, I was honest about the things that were important to me. I did the work. It took quite a while. 43 (or whatever it is) levels of compatibility is no joke! Then I read the report generated by my answers and I was reasonably satisfied with the picture it painted about the person I am.

Then I turned on the matching. eHarmony allows one to determine how far he or she is willing to travel for true love. As Otisville, NY is approximately 80 miles away from the largest metropolis in the country I decided my best odds of finding someone tolerable would include said metropolis in the true love-finding-radius. Thus I chose the 120 mile option.

Matches returned: zero. Uh, I’m sorry. What? Like, as in none? 8 million people in NYC alone, not to mention the surrounding urban and suburban areas and not one of the men in those areas, fit my preferences and I his? I was shocked, but undeterred.

I opened the radius to 300 miles. Matches returned: zero.

Okay, here’s the thing: I do not think that I am God’s gift to men. But also, I'm a delight and there must be some mistake.

Because I meant business, I expanded the radius, again, to include the entire planet (I’m not making that up, its an option and I took it). Matches returned: and you know what’s coming here… fucking goose egg. Zip! Zilch! Nada! My number of matches actually looked worse than the amount of dollars in my bank account and THAT is really a sad, sad thing! In fact, I had a moment of great despair. There was NO ONE IN THE UNIVERSE FOR ME! I truly was one cat away from being a stereotype.

And then I realized that was only the eHarmony universe. Hopefully, the guy who is what I want and wants what I am was WAY too busy being awesome to be bothered with eHarmony. Or he’s just too damn smart and quirky and they’ve already rejected him on the grounds that finding me in Otisville would have been a nearly impossible statistical anomaly. Frankly, my favorite man on the face of the planet, up to this moment, was rejected by eHarmony and as far as I can tell he’s practically perfect in every way.

have also been told that my standards are entirely too high. I disagree. If we’re really talking about a relationship, I see no point in being with someone who is less than all of things I want him to be. Its not like I’m demanding that he be a champion synchronized swimmer, drive a Diabolo and play the lute (but if he wants to do all those things, I’ll not stand in his way). The eHarmony reporting doesn’t tell you exactly what you need/want in a mate, it only tells you about yourself, so in the interest of full disclosure here is my list of “demands” for the next “Mr. Smartassitude.”

Smart, and I don’t mean like average person smart. I mean smart-smart. Wicked smart. Sparring-argument-with-good-solid-opinions-smart. And likes to talk… about whatever.

Funny. A given, right?

Able to take command and make a decision. Not like a demanding jackass, but I don’t want to make all the decisions, ALL the time. Throw it down. Pick A THING. I’m so tired of “whatever you want, dear.”

IS NOT MARRIED. Or is, at the very least separated. Because, I get it, life is complicated.

Not super smothering, but kinda wants to spend time with me. Not all the time, just sometimes. I like my alone time, so he needs to like it too. He can go away sometimes, as long as he really likes me when he comes back.

Has amazing vocabulary and reasonable grammar. Spelling is optional.

Olfacatorily pleasant.

Auditorily pleasant.

Has beautiful teeth.

Does not care that I am not Betty Crocker or Suzie Homemaker.

Responsible, non-smoker, not a raging alcoholic, but not a total narc.

Does not have 5 children with 6 different mothers.

Somewhat ambitious (or at least isn't threatened that I am.

Is neither an infant, nor an octogenarian.

Somewhat thoughtful, though I’m not terribly romantic, so he gets off light there.

Does not need me to fix him.

Some of these are more negotiable than others and if I'm honest this is probably not exhaustive. But I am less concerned with the man he is and more concerned with the woman I feel like I am when I’m with him (or the people we are, collectively), because I think that matters a far more.

I have to believe that all this achievable. I have to believe it for my own sanity and I have to believe it because there are 8 million people in New York City and 7 billion on the planet. Roughly half of those people are men. The idea that not one of them fits this small list of criteria and that I, with all of my qualities (such as they are) and faults (such as they are) might not fit his criteria list seems improbable. Its the finding that is truly the challenge.

After the initial shock of all this wore off, what really started to sink in was my (and many of the people that I love’s) willingness to devote time to the wrong person. We spend time with people who have made it clear that they are not worth our effort, energy, affection or concern in the name of what? Killing time? Bolstering our self-esteem? Hoping that someday, with the right amount of love and support, that wrong one will suddenly morph into the right one, even though past precedent tells us otherwise? I confess that I am guilty of all of the above.

We could actually be spending that time and energy with the friends who truly do love us, the family who won’t be around forever or just doing something useful, like learning Chinese (you know we’re all going need it eventually, anyway). I guess my point is, that someday he’s gonna show up (keep a weather eye out and if you see him, please let me know. Hint: he looks a great deal like Jake Gyllenhaal). And really, I’d like to respect myself when he gets here. I’d like the best of me to not have been wasted on the less-than-the-best of them, so I will not be so jaded when he arrives that I can’t even SEE him. I’d like to recognize myself, to have strong friendships and be financially thriving in the new, yen-based economy. A girl can dream, right?

© 01/19/11

[smartassitudefromtheshoebox]

The Beating Heart of the Little O

I live in a village called Otisville. If you’ve never heard of it, that probably means you’ve never been to prison. Or you’re not one of the five other people who live here and we’ve never met. (Actually, at the taking of the 2000 census, we had a total of 989 residents, which kinda feels a whole lot like five). I haven’t lived here all my life, but I’m beginning to feel that way and it will soon become clear why. 

My second job ever (circa 1994) was in a mom ‘n’ pop grocery store called Cinotti’s, which is on Main Street in Otisville, NY. Across the street is a post office, a liquor store and a gift shop. Across the parking lot is a bar. Around the corner there is a pizzeria and a Chinese take-out place. You have now had the $.50 tour of Otisville. The $1 tour would have includes the state and federal penitentiaries, but most people don't pay to get in. It is about ten minutes away from the house I grew up in, so it was an easy place for my parents to get me to and from, prior to the acquisition of my license.                 

There were some ridiculously arbitrary rules at Cinotti’s: boys worked in the deli, girls worked the register. The girls always had to wear skirts to work. I don’t remember much more about working there then, as I was 15 at the time and I am somewhat older than that now, though I do know for sure that the job paid for my first car. I remember the smell of the bagels when they were delivered, how much I feared the owners, the old guys who would come in and bitch endlessly about the state of world and how to count back change without the aid of a calculator (which I can still do and am annoyed by people who cannot). Right at the tail end of my time at Cinotti’s Todd Michelitch started working there. In addition to working at the store, he was friends with my boyfriend at the time and I was friends with his girlfriend. Over time, we became pretty close.  

Todd’s career at Cinotti’s would outlast mine, significantly. At some point I moved on to mall and Summer camp jobs, while Todd stayed at the deli. In 2001, he and his family bought the store, which included the building and the four apartments above. This is the kind of thing you expect to happen, sort of serendipitous. The Michelitchs are something of an institution in Otisville. You almost can’t talk about one without the other, so it makes sense for them to own the conduit to necessities in the center of town. However, for me, it was monumental and life-saving in many ways.

My parents had had their house on the market for over a year when I came home from college and, in 2001, it had finally sold. In an unusual act of passive-aggressiveness, I had simply not found a place to live outside of the home I had called my own for the vast majority of my life. It was mine, who were these people to take it away from me? I still drive past it and am inclined to pull in the driveway. It will always be mine. So a few short weeks before the new owners were bringing their belongings and moving into my house, I heard that there was a “for rent” sign in the window  of store, formerly known as Cinotti’s, now called Mick’s. I called Todd to get the details and he told me that the apartment was available, but it needed to be renovated in a big way before anyone could move in. I told him I had to move immediately and he agreed to let me.

“Needed renovation” was putting it nicely. The carpet had been laid in the 70’s and appeared to have been vacuumed once or twice in those thirty years. And the there was carpet in the bathroom! This might have been acceptable, had the home been inhabited by a man who cleaned from time to time. Or had aim. Since it this was not the case the bathroom could only have been described as “icky.” There were open spots in the drywall, which was great fun for my two cats, I’m sure. At that time, it should have been called the Shit Box (in fact, I think we did call it that). However, it was somewhere to live. It was safe, affordable, I had the greatest landlords ever and I had them before the new owners took possession of my beloved house. I think I missed them by one day.

I lived in Otisville for four years. In that time, I noticed that those same old guys were still holding up the counter every morning and bitching about the state of the world. Many of the people I grew up with were still in Otisville and raising families. Todd met an amazing woman named Jennifer and right after I moved out they got married. A little while later they decided to move to Arizona and experience life outside of New York (and there are many days when I can’t blame them). While in Arizona, they had the cutest baby on earth, named him Desmond, and moved him back to Otisville in February of 2010.

When I left Otisville, I moved to an apartment in another village, closer to my job. A year later, I moved in with the man who would be my husband and at the end of 2009, I moved out of his house and was living at a friend’s house. She and I had agreed that I would move out of her house by the end of March, 2010. Not wanting to over-stay my welcome I was starting to panic when I couldn’t find an apartment I could afford by mid-March. Superhero style, as always, Todd sent me a text message to tell me that my old apartment would be available at the beginning of April if I wanted it (and it had been completely renovated since I lived there last!). He had completely saved me, not once, but twice in the exact same way! And for that, I will always be greatly indebted to him.

This time around I actually work in the store again. My motto these days is to go back to the beginning and see where I went wrong. And just to be safe I went all the way back. The old guys… they sit now. And they are retired, so they’re in the store when I go to work in the morning and they are there when I come in to work my shift at night. I think they were part of the mortgage, like fixtures or decor. On many nights they provide security or comic relief or just plain entertainment. They bring their grand kids and their idiosyncrasies and their love for their home town. Yes, they still bitch, but Todd and I were standing at the counter one morning and noticed that we were, in fact, bitching. We’re the new “them.”

The store has been called the Ellis Island of Otisville: everyone comes through. We have our fair share of weird customers… like the woman who, on Thanksgiving morning when we ran out of newspapers at 8:00 am, looked at me and said, “well, where can I get one?” Those are the moments that test me. I’m not a morning person and I love people, I do, but it takes every bit of my self control not to say, “Lady, I’m on the island of Otisville too. Do I look like Miss Cleo? How the hell do I know who still has papers?” But most of the customers are regulars, who know get to know you and are the good kind of crazy. But I do stress “most.”

Enough can’t be said about the individuals that the Michelitchs have assembled to work there. The woman who opens on weekdays probably knows what everyone will order before they even walk through the door. The people who work behind the deli counter (both men and women these days) are quite literally, all smilers. I’ve never met a happier bunch of people. Worst among them (or best depending on your position) is Tommy Knuckles (so named for literally trying on many occasions to just not have knuckles). Tom will be half-way through cleaning the slicer, just prior to close and someone will ask for deli meat. He will, cheerfully, slice it and start over with the cleaning. He probably doesn’t always mean it; we can’t always mean it, but no one knows that and the smile goes a long way.

Most of the people who work there work two jobs, or go to school full time and work there as well. Many of them are high school and college-age kids. One of them spent the Summer closing the store and then getting to his other job at 4 am. These are not slouchy kids.  And many of us are repeats. We’ve worked for the Michelitchs before and have returned to work for them again, which I think speaks to the quality of their leadership, not to mention their capacity for compassion. They get and keep good people because they are the highest possible example of good people.

Never is that more evident than the times when I am really struggling financially and somehow I do not end up hungry or homeless. Sometimes their willingness to give is more is just more subtle or silly, but it still means something.  A few weeks ago I was working on an art project and I needed a park bench. There are two of them in front of the store and I walked in one morning to find Todd and his mother standing at the register. When I asked if I could borrow a bench, Todd said, “Sure, bring your car around.” Not “why?” Not “for how long?” As far as he’s concerned, I’m one of his people and he trusts me. Truth be told, he does know where I live and if I didn’t return the bench, he could just replace it with my couch. But they aren’t those people. It was a no-brainer. They had something I needed; of course, they were going to give it to me. That is the kind of people they are. They work around our schedules, they give one of us a ride to the train station in the mornings, they take leftover pastries to the school where Mr. Michelitch teaches, so kids who don’t have breakfast can have something to eat. Their generosity amazes and humbles me all the time.

And for the life of me, I can find no words, no actions, no gift that would truly convey what any of it has meant to me, or what it should mean to all of us. They, their little store, all the little smart-ass lunatics working there and the built-in-fixture-people are moving the life-blood through the Otisville community. Mick’s is the beating heart of Otisville. I’m not blind, I know business is not what it was the first time I lived here and certainly not what it was when I worked here as a kid. Our live-work patterns have changed. The mom ‘n’ pop isn’t as convenient when there are three Wal-Marts on the way home from work and we live in a time when the conveniece charge isn’t even an option for many. But I hope that the Michelitchs know what they and their store and their lifetime of service means to the people that live in their village even if they don’t always say it or can’t always show it.

© January 7, 2011