Open letter to our downstairs neighbors, in anticipation of the Super Bowl

Dear neighbors:

By and large you are a lovely couple to live above. I remain grateful that you tolerate my child's occasional bouts of "dancing" (repeatedly throwing himself on the floor) and that you seem to be happy, well-adjusted, and not abusing each other. Sure, you like throwing parties, but as long as the racket is celebratory and does not leave us wondering if we should call the police, we say: carry on with your crazy young lives!  

But once football season fell upon us, I have grown increasingly puzzled by your behavior during games. (Matches? Bouts? What are these things called, again?) I must admit that my husband and I, as well as our son, are not exactly "les amateurs de sports," as the French would say. Oh, sure, we enjoy the occasional game of catch-the-ball, and sometimes we play toss-the-frisbee-and-then-CRINGE-AND- DUCK-when-it-is-returned-because-those-things-hurt. But when it comes to watching any activities wherein people fling themselves into other people and try to make their way in one direction or another on a given field, we know little or nothing. Oh, sure, we've attended Super Bowl parties, but that was only for the queso dip. Who can say no when queso dip is involved? And then we've fallen asleep near the queso dip until the host has asked us to leave. Which we have. (After we got the rest of the queso dip into the tupperware container we brought with us in case there was any queso dip left.)

At any rate, as I said, we have some questions, and as we are anticipating that our puzzlement will only increase this Sunday, we'd like to approach the day with some measure of understanding.

First of all, you're going to scream a lot, aren't you. Don't answer that. I didn't even put a question mark on it. We both know the answer is yes. You're going to scream a whooole bunch. Is "bunch" a unit of screams? Don't answer that either. Conserve your energy for the real questions.

Now: While I'm sure it feels good to cheer on your team, you know the players cannot hear you, yes? I'm just making sure. Do you think that if you yell loudly enough you might be helping in some way? This worries me. I'm worried for you.

Also: you do realize it's not you who's playing, right? Because I must tell you, the waves of euphoria shimmering up through our floorboards while you whoop it up seems to indicate that you believe that you are somehow responsible for your team's goal-making. Do you believe that you're remotely projecting yourself onto the field and invisibly whisking your heroes toward their objective? Again: just curious. Also concerned.

And if you're so happy, why is there so much cursing? I can understand the hooting and hollering (sort of), I even get why maybe you might feel the need to stomp on the floorboards until the building shakes (not really), but why must you then cry out "HOLY FUCKING FUCK THE MOTHERFUCKING BITCH FUCK ME OH MY FUCK"?! (I am paraphrasing.) You seem to be fairly even-keeled otherwise, so what is it about SPORTS! that makes you lose your mind and also educate my child even more than he gets educated around here whenever I step on the cat?

Hey, did you hear during that last game, how I was upstairs shouting, "Sports! SPOOOORTS!"? Scott was annoyed me for doing that, but I was highly amused by my joke and wanted you to be as well. I really don't mind that you love your sporting things. I am pretty sure you're insane, but whatever. You're not murdering each other, and this is all I care about.

Finally: will there be queso dip?

Love,
Alice

On being an object, and then not being an object

I keep trying to write this post, and every time I'm taken aback at how angry I am, how very furious, and I don't want that, I want to be positive and have fun and entertain. But oh, there's something I want to say, so I try again, and I'm back to being furious. Well. I've literally been at this post for a year and it never gets any funnier or lighter, but I keep wanting to write it; I have to write it; I have to be done with it. So here we go.

A year ago I was at a family event and a few of my mom's friends--older women all--were expressing amazement that I would let my hair go gray. One of them--a woman I've known since I was born--said, "Men don't mind it when their hair goes gray, because gray hair makes you look more intimidating. And a woman doesn't want to look intimidating."

She was so well-meaning, so concerned about my looking approachable and pretty, and I know she didn't mean anything by it. But when she said this, so much rage welled up in me. So much. I made a joke and changed the subject, but all I wanted to do was scream. Loudly.

Because: do I want to look intimidating? God, yes. I do. Yes, please, I very much fucking do.

As a young woman, I was certainly the least intimidating creature on the planet, and as such I was prey to unwanted attention from men, attention that ranged from annoying to truly scary. I know there are people who dismiss the idea that such attention is upsetting--after all, isn't it flattering that strangers think you're attractive? But it goes far, far beyond that. It was endless and exhausting and I don't think it has a thing to do with how pretty you are. In fact I often felt the comments would come fast and furious on the days I felt particularly bad about myself, like I was giving off signals or hormones, like they could smell my weakness.

But now, I don't know, I may be slightly more intimidating these days, because I am 42. I am middle aged. Being middle aged renders you invisible to the kinds of creeps who dole out harassment, so you're mostly left alone. I'm really enjoying it. Not only do I not miss my youth, I am pleased to be rid of it.

To be a young woman in our culture means that you exist, from an alarmingly young age, for the appreciation of others. Therefore, your every feature is fair game for public appraisal.

It means you become accustomed to a certain kind of gaze: a cold survey of your merits and deficits.

It means you tense up when you walk past a group, any group, of men, because you know they're going to say something, it may or may not be positive, and either way it's not going to leave you feeling good about yourself.

It means you can't look sad or even neutral in public because a stranger, a man, will inevitably order you to smile.

It means you automatically flinch when a guy looking at you passes a little too closely, because you know he's going to murmur something in your ear. You know it. And then he does, he murmurs damply into your ear, and you feel like you need to disinfect that entire side of your head and you turn and shout, "WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME," but by then you're invisible. He's done. He doesn't bother to acknowledge you. No one does.

It means that when you're going out you don't wear the short skirt you wanted to wear or that low-cut dress because you know the comments you'll get, and high heels that look right with the dress you're wearing are out; if you had to break out into a run there's no way in hell you could, and you can't afford to feel that vulnerable.

So: did I want to appear intimidating? So much. If that happens now because I have gray hair, I am all for it. I doubt that's why the public commentary has waned. The fact is, I just don't read as an Object anymore.

It still happens, of course; older women aren't immune to unwanted attention, or worse. I don't put up with it for a second, and maybe that's clear from how I carry myself, so they leave me alone. Maybe my gray hair pushed me over the edge into a new world, one where I'm considered worthy of respect. Or, more likely, I'm not considered at all.

This is just fine by me. As a result, for instance, I rarely have to endure seeing men masturbating on the subway. I'm not sure where all the public masturbators went. Do they magically appear only to women in their twenties, like awful leprechauns? Penis fairies? Because I am telling you, I saw one a week, back then. Granted, I was on the subway a lot more, usually late at night. But wherever I went, there they were. An old man reading the newspaper grinned at me, and then I saw what was going on underneath his Daily News. A middle-aged guy wearing bike shorts, of all things, whipped it out right by my head. On a crowded F train into Queens, a very large man I never saw stood right behind me and humped my back, and I was frozen, trapped, unable to believe what was happening. He kept going, stop after stop, and I stood there, realizing I couldn't move or speak, that I was too afraid and freaked out to move, and what's worse, he knew it.

I still can't get over the fact that I never screamed. I never said anything. I just wished it would stop. Which it did, of course, eventually, only it's still going on, when I think about it, inside my head.

There were other incidents, too; so many incidents. Every one underscored the message that I wasn't safe, that I deserved whatever was coming to me, because I was young and a woman and that was how it was and also I should appreciate it. I tried to look unapproachable, but I don't think my face works that way; I just looked sad and then men barked at me to cheer up, to give them a smile. I wanted to look hard and angry. Lord knows I wanted to be intimidating. It just didn't work.

These days I feel like I'm off the hook. Like I'm free. I still do want to be intimidating, though. There are days when I want to be terrifying.

A while back, a postal worker called out to me from his truck, in this creepy sing-song, "Little girl… little girl…" I couldn't believe he was talking to me, but there was no one else around, so I turned to him and said, "Excuse me?" He looked horrified and stammered, "I…I thought you were a little girl."  

What could I do? I told him he was a fucking creep. He took off, and I prayed for little girls everywhere.

Noises you do not want to hear

Well, kids! We woke up this morning to bam-bam-BLAMPH-bump-bump-bumpity on the roof and since it was raining, I naturally thought, "Oh, dear, the roof deck furniture has taken flight again," and then Henry called from his room, "Something fell off the roof!" which seemed to confirm it, and as I wondered if we had killed anyone this time, Scott spied a MAN shimmying down a tree in our backyard. So it was not a furniture, but a person. Who leapt from a neighboring roof to ours, like he was some kind of super-villain. Good morning!

Henry was full of criticisms for the alleged criminal while Scott spoke with the police and I tried to give Henry the comfort and reassurance that he did not require.

"I bet he thought people wouldn't hear him because we'd be asleep. Well, guess what, idiot, there's school."
"The important thing to remember is, look how fast the police showed up!"
"Do you remember school? I bet not."
"And let's remember, he was just running away from something, he wasn't trying to get in."
"Plus, duh, we have windows! And we could look right outside and see him right there! Hello!"
"We're all safe, honey. You may now hug me."

At any rate, the police officers wandered around the backyard and trudged up to the roof and peered up at the trees as if they would yield clues, and then they left and I have no idea what happened. I hope this man was only engaged in some wacky adultery hijinks and not fleeing from a crime scene, and I bet that's not the case so I'm just going to hope no one was hurt.

AND THEN:


Okay, I was WRITING THIS VERY POST and had in fact just finished writing the word "hurt" when there was ANOTHER eruption of noise, NOT A JOYFUL NOISE AT ALL. This one was a rrrrrrrrrrrrwwwhROOOOOOMPH and it was louder than anything should be, and I thought, oh, hey, the building's coming apart. So this is a good day! Of course if a wall fell off or the roof collapsed I would have, you know, seen it (that's the advantage of having all four walls of your home within sight at all times) so after I ran in circles for a few seconds (I am excellent when an emergency strikes) I hurried to the back window, where I saw THIS:

That is a tree that fell into our yard, causing the roomph noise. This is a tree whose branches are sitting in our gutters. That is a tree that came THISCLOSE to killing us all. Okay, not really. It's amazing to me that the tree didn't come down forever ago, since it's been dead since we moved in (it's in the empty lot just behind us, the lot entirely populated by romance-minded kitty cats). It might have come down when the (alleged) ne'er-do-well was climbing it this very morning! Oh, that would have been a story.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to take a Klonopin and practice my deep breathing.

Sorry about that west nile virus, Brooklyn

For a few weeks we've been having a mosquito problem in our apartment, which is not something one generally expects in mid-November, but thanks to climate change, every season is now an adventure in the unexpected!

Still, though, this many mosquitoes in one apartment points to a problem … somewhere. Somewhere nearby. We tried to get to the bottom of this problem by scratching our wounds and bitching about it. Then one night, as Scott and I were preparing for sleep (translation: reading erotic poetry aloud to one another; flossing--erotically) the cat jumped on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I assumed, as one does, that there were ghosts hovering up there--because everyone knows cats can see ghosts and it drives them crazy that they can't pounce on 'em--but I looked up and instead of glimpsing a floaty ancestor I saw approximately 1 billion mosquitoes.

As you can imagine, this was not a sight one wishes to see before one drops off to sleep.

Now that I'm picturing the scene a little more vividly in my mind's eye, it was maybe less like 1 billion and more like twelve. Even so, one does not like to share one's bedroom with more mosquitoes than zero. Much less A DOZEN WAITING UP THERE FOR YOU TO DOZE OFF SO THEY CAN DRAIN YOU OF YOUR DELICIOUS BLOOD.

Scott and I immediately leapt up and murdered each of the mosquitoes, or maybe if you want to be accurate Scott murdered them while I helpfully pointed out the stragglers and shouted, "Kill them! Kill them ALL!" Or, okay, maybe I just shuddered and rocked back and forth. At any rate, I made sure to keep out of his way until his spree was complete.

He felled all the mosquitoes that were waiting above us, but there were more. As soon as I began dropping off to sleep that night and for several nights after, I was treated to a series of those horrible ear-fly-bys, like they were saying, "Guess what, asshole."

We were baffled. Where were these mosquitoes coming from? What was going on? And then my brilliant husband, oh, he realized. It was a few nights later when he was awakened to another mosquito-party--this time going on on his body--and that's when it hit him: the roof deck. Where we had planters. And there had been rain. And we had not gone up there, because it was cold, and who goes up to a roof deck when it's cold? Smart people do to make sure there's no standing water, that's who. Smart people who are not us. Oh no, we had created a mosquito haven up there, and it was a short distance downstairs to our place, and I have no idea how they were arriving en masse into our apartment with our windows closed but I just hope we were the main victims and that everyone on our block was not similarly afflicted.

Anyway, Scott got up, in the middle of the night, and went up there and drained every inch of standing water SO THERE TAKE THAT MOSQUITOES HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAaa. HA. BAM. WE WIN.

Then we were still under attack, kind of a lot, actually, for another couple of weeks, and it finally occurred to us that the big giant planter up on the roof, the one that had plenty of soil in it, not water, so it didn't need to be drained, maybe was the problem? And come to think of it was kind of muddy? And maybe mosquitoes like mud? (Spoiler alert: THEY DO.)

Oh, I'll tell you, we are always learning! So it only took us 14 days or so to figure that out. We're really doing quite well for ourselves. This is why we're better off not owning a home. You're welcome, New Jersey.