A Middle Finger Emoji to Chat

I have often thought Finn would be the one to struggle with social skills and technology. My thought was that since I grew up writing notes, doing calligraphy exercises, and going over to people's houses to visit and converse it would be my poor son, born in the age of the iPad, Kindle Fire, Chat, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram that would have to learn what to me came naturally- the legit and original Face Time- i.e. getting together,hanging out and shooting the shit. Turns out my generation has a lot to learn too.

It started out innocently enough-I was just trying to take advantage of technology. Moving away meant I would no longer be able to have lunch with my friends in El Salvador every day to catch up and take a break from work, or do my Sunday brunch with my three old friends from way back.And I still wanted to feel connected- It was a lifeline of sorts. The irony of it is that in my case these leaps in techie socialization-especially group chats- have turned out to be a double edged sword. Chat is a handy tool but it can never replace the foundations of a friendship. Chat allows you to take a lot of the aspects of a relationship for granted. We chatted, so we're ok. We sent out group jokes- yeah, we're all still friends.

When I'm here in the U.S. my friends and I "chat". What I've realized is that long distance friendships (in pretty much the same way as romantic relationships) cannot survive being built on the path of least resistance. An effort needs to be made. Because chat is just that. It is small talk, it is a wave with an emoji stuck next to it, not much of a commitment, a nod. It is not a connection. Unlike a real conversation a chat stops when your kid comes calling and is left there unreturned to until a new chat starts up in a day or two (if that). Guilty as charged. The problem is that the rules for these conversations are so lax it is actually perceived as ok to stop mid sentence and go water your plants. That would be the equivalent of being in a meeting and leaving the table without a word. We accept it because no one's there to call us out. Well I am calling it out.

I know for a fact that there is more going on with me and my friends, than we let on via chat. Who are we telling the remaining bits to? who are we giving the eye contact, the hugs, the legit Hellos? Why do we take this fake sense of closeness provided by a Group Administrator and take for granted that we as humans, as friends, as beings who thrive on connection and physical contact are satisfied with it? Because I am not. I am not ready to let go of the art of making and nurturing a friendship organically. I am not ready to live describing my feelings and my thoughts with emojis and acronyms. When you're with friend and you laugh so hard tears come to your eyes-that can't be minimized to a ROTFL. Those are the moments that make up life itself. You want time to stand still.That doesn't happen with chat. Chat is for "Where are you?" a walk with someone is for "Where are you in life?"

I like things with substance and that don't feel hollow. I like it for example when I run down to Carol's house without calling first. I will find her in her porch on bench reading a book- her kid will be in the vicinity and will pop her head out when she sees me and Finn. Carol and I shoot the shit on the bench while our kids play on the floor. We eat grapes and veggie straws. We don't wear shoes or airs- we are two friends who bask in each other's company. It just occurred to me that Carol and I have never what'sapped.

I read somewhere that technology is forcing us to say goodbye to hello. Nobody calls each other anymore. I for one intend to move with the times, but not at such a high price. I am hoping I have chosen my friends wisely and they'll get it too. I can't think they wouldn't. Who wants to hide behind and iphone when there's such joy in companionship? Who would give up the sun for a screen's eery glow?

Fashion Rat Race Drop Out

I have Just finished packing my bag for an upcoming trip to El Salvador. This time it was a little more challenging as the itinerary includes a a weeklong beach stay, a four hour bus ride, a formal affair and a business meeting. Usually I just wear the same jeans all week because I pretty much do nothing that requires a wardrobe change. I packed all of my stuff and Finn’s and half the bag is still empty. I have to say – feeling very pleased with my packing job because I had the following epiphany: I have finally gotten to a point in my life where both externally and internally I travel light. It took me a mere ten minutes to pick what I wanted to bring and I did not obsess over details or bring tons of choices. Anything will do- not too worried about it.

It seems like another lifetime ago when that bag would have been two bags and I was pretty interested in keeping up on trends and knowing what was new or up and coming. It was equally important to know what to chuck in order to avoid the much feared fashion faux pas. I remember spending absurd amounts of money on clothes that I ended up giving away. I remember being glued to my computer reading fashion blogs, while religiously reading my mags, alternating between digital and print, lost in a world created by people not much different than us, who have become by virtue of their knowledge of fabric and the human psyche fashion arbiters, dictating what you will put on your back when the season is over. They have a say in all sartorial matters, and have managed to convince the whole world it is perfectly reasonable to own a three thousand dollar handbag that will be on the “toss” pile in a year. Even worse, you don't think twice on spending top dollar because it is “so you “ and SO unique and then it turns out everybody and their mother show up with the same bag. Goodbye special possession. (This is a true story- it happened to me with that Falabella bag I was so smitten with).

It's bad enough to be a sucker but things turn plain sad when people are buying shit they're not even sure they like to fulfill a need for status or approval- to be seen or perceived a certain way- and that's just messed up. It probably means you don't approve of yourself. Or that the person you are isn't enough without all the bells and whistles. I believe those who rely on a constant pursuit of the newest thing to feel good are doomed to live in a state of obsessive dissatisfaction or even worse-in a constant imaginary competition with others. I venture to say imaginary, as this competition is in their heads, and they should let it go, most people don't give a shit about what you're wearing anyway.

I can't deny pretty things are exciting to have and make your own. I was excited to check out fashion week.All of them, NY, Milano, Paris. But after being completely bombarded with constant "Wear this, wear that, shop this, chuck that" ,and MUST haves for a year from now - I felt tired. All these bloggers prancing around in their borrowed clothes on Instagram ,the fabulousness- it was just too much. It cannot possibly be this important. Plus I don't think it is particularly cool to be a drone dressed in dollars- anybody with a credit card can buy what the celebs are wearing. I love seeing outfits that aren't about price tags but a unique personal style. Sure, I wouldn't say no to a pair of of-the-moment Chloe sandals, but they will never be worth my anxiety. I don’t strive to look perfect, and I am guessing it's because I have gotten to a point where I feel perfectly comfy inside. I don’t deliberately want to be a disheveled outdated mess, but I do want space to breathe and to be me. To take it or leave it. I don’t feel like giving up half my child’s Montessori tuition to have a closet full of things that will validate me as a person of taste and means.

The conclusion I have reached after many years in the fashion rat race is that since I am not: a)a Vogue editor b) a drone, c)a mannequin or d)a billboard, my job is to be happy, not on point 24/7. I think at this point the quality of the friends and relationships I have say more about me than my purse. I think the way my husband looks at me says more about me than the Cartier love bracelet. I have decidedly chosen to not be a slave— to fashion or appearances or to any of the supposed to's. Life is complicated enough dude. I'd rather be known for having substance and treating others well than for being a baby Kardashian.In the grand scheme of things, when we cannot have a fair election in my country, when girls have to deal with being molested by their principal if they attend public school in the third world, when there is such a lack of education, too much poverty and no equal opportunity, does it really matter if the soles of my shoes are red?

The Fine Print

At thirty years old I had never won anything in my life. Not at raffles in piñatas as a kid, not in seventh grade when Marcela and I filled a whole Super Selectos sticker album for a chance to win a car (never mind that neither one of us could drive) ,and not when I repeatedly bought lottery tickets from the guy who sold them right outside the Courthouse.

The first time I ever held a winning ticket was at an American Chamber of Commerce event where I won a stay at the Decameron- then fairly new and the only all inclusive beach hotel in El Salvador. I had never been, and people hyped it up- it had a bunch of different restaurants, drinks by the pool all day and even a club.I am not sure if my excitement was due to the mere fact of having won something -anything- or the staycation itself. I was still riding my winning high when my attention turned to the but- it's all good until the but- otherwise known as the fine print. That very small paragraph that does not initially jump out at you, designed to not be discovered until it is too late to figure out you didn't get full disclosure up front. In said print it was stated that I could not use my vacation: 1)on weekdays except Wednesday, 2)on weekends, 3)on holidays and 4) after Dec 31st 2009. It was November.To this day I have never been to Decameron.

At thirty five I became pregnant with Finn. For forty weeks I listened to every woman I know's take on pregnancy and maternity. They warned me about everything and fed me their wisdom and experience-whether I wanted it or not. The anti stretch mark potions that work, how to pump more than you need so you can freeze some,how to deal with the hazards of breastfeeding ( the gel pads don't work btw), what to pack in your hospital bag, how to avoid nipple confusion, and what store has the cutest pregnancy clothes. I was introduced by these women to things like the Bella Band and Gin Gins, Diaper Genies, the glow in the dark pacifier, and the Mixie.(The latter is is the most awesomesesest invention since velcro). I was inundated with information in the form of advice, warnings, opinions, and product reviews. There was nothing to expect that I wasn't already expecting. Except this: Nobody showed me the fine print on becoming a mother-that shit is final sale.

I am technically a stay at home mom now. I say technically because until now I have been pretty good at finding projects to keep me out of the house- enough to feel productive and enough to feel like my activities have purpose. At first I felt preoccupied with what was next but relaxed when my friend Jen -whose credentials boast all around amazing down to earth person -uber banker-mom of four, told me all of it could wait. "Right now " she said, "you need to take your time, and learn how to be a mother." And that's what I did, I got to know my kid, I read more books than I did in law school, pestered my baby authority friends round the clock with questions, found balance between formula supplements and breastfeeding, and bought organic clothes made from free range baby alpacas or something.

Then summer rolled around and I will say it -I felt bad for people with jobs. It was awesome to have the freedom to take my kid to the beach every day. I bought him an SPF tent that took half an hour to set up and that I have never learned how to fold properly into the tidy little bag it came in. I SPF'd the shit out him, geared him up polarized baby glasses and everything. A little Coppertone probably would have done the job- but new mammas.. we are like that. We like to spend it.

Fall came and went- days passing quickly with fundraising for a kids charity that is very dear to me. I believe everyone reading this may have received a request to jump into the Teleton USA bandwagon.The idea came solely because of Finn. I am not do gooder, in fact some could argue that I am a do badder- but I have my eyes open, and it's all it really takes to realize how good your kid has it and what shitty cards other kids have been dealt. And it makes you want to do something to even out the playing field for them-even if its a tiny bit. I pestered everyone I know and everyone I don't know to donate, and went to bed every night with a sense of pride and purpose thinking "you did good today".

Now it is 2015 and the holidays and their distractions have passed. It has been a full year since Finn's debut into the world and I am finding myself increasingly restless,unsatisfied and plain bored. I feel angry- and a little cheated. I have become somebody's wife and somebody's mother. But unless latched on to one of those labels it's getting harder to see myself .Motherhood as presented to me was supposed to be EVERYTHING and it was supposed to make you feel 100% satisfied and proud of your life. You're supposed to take credit for your kid's teeth, and sleeping habits, and cute clothes and wear it like a crown.

What confuses me is all I ever hear is how people want stop working so they can enjoy their family- and how girls in my position are lucky. I know it's great to have a choice. I'm not stupid.It's great to be there when your kid cries and be the one to give them that make-it-alright hug. It's great to know I am the only person in the world he will ever call Mama. But the fine print is that there is more to life- and as good a job you think you're doing a part of you wants to find a sense of achievement in daily activities that don't include shopping, changing diapers or sitting around coffee shops with equally bored women. The fine print is that your days are anchored by set children's activities, and are organized around someone else's naps and needs. That you will eat standing up, in your denim shirt and sneakers, completely and utterly alone while your husband gets to wear a suit and go to a city that exudes stimulation every day. In comparison you get the feeling that you live in a parallel Lilliputian universe where the only other inhabitant can't quite master the English language just yet. You know the name of every Bubble Guppy but you don't even know what's appropriate to wear out anymore.

And then there's the REAAAAAL fine print.

-When your kid kisses you and hugs you time stops. NO ONE, I repeat, NO ONE ELSE can do that.

-Your sense of achievement will come-but it will take years. All these seemingly mindless daily activities and playgroups will help your kid not become a derelict psychopath and have respect for women.

-You don't use your brain much, but man do you use your heart.

-He will undoubtedly, one thousand percent make you a better and more compassionate person.

-Some of those women in your same boat will become great friends.

-Last but not least..jobs will always be there, but your child will move on from you in a blink.


Anybody wanna have lunch?

And there it is, my heart poured out

Call it an open letter, call it a channel to vent, call it a torrent of tears followed by a sigh. Last night I went to bed crying.I don't think I had done that in a long time.I did it when my friend died, I did it when a forever love ran its course in a few short months, I did it when my dog didn't make it. What all these situations have in common is that they were all endings, deaths. And last night, like almost every night I read about El Salvador, I read about a death. Only this time it was an eleven year old boy's death.

In the article it said that the funeral parlor employee that had to somehow put his limbs together (for his grandmother to see him) could not stop crying. The man has seen it all..but this...There is no need to go into detail about how it was done. Let it suffice to say that gang members outdid themselves in their cruelty.

I feel guilty because I live in a place where my car remains unlocked all night, as does my house unless we are out of town. I feel guilty because my kid at five months has already traveled, sat in fancy restaurants, and worn baby clothes more expensive than the average Salvadoran's monthly salary. I feel guilty because I don't have to worry if he will make it through the day.

In my mind, that boy's death represents the death of the place I grew up in, where we would ride our bikes until it got dark outside. Not looking over our shoulders, not even when there was a war going on. Memories of moving freely, driving in a car by myself without the sharp pang of paranoia jabbing at my ribs. Memories of my worst fear being running into my sister at a club I was not old enough to be in and her telling on me. Kids in El Salvador have far more serious worries now. They worry about violence, they worry about theft, they worry about an astronomical homicide rate that can -on any day-factor in their parents.

I don't know if it's the mother in me, the eternally-in-love with El Salvador citizen in me,or the fact that this place that I have called home for so long is now unrecognizable- but I feel a sadness unlike any other I have experienced. Maybe because when my best friend died it was not in the hands of a murderer, or when that love died it was a blessing in disguise and made way for the fantastic man that would later become my husband. Maybe because my dog had liver failure and the ammonia got to his brain and he did not feel a thing. Or maybe it's because it is the first time that I truly understand how horrific a human being can be, how greed, corruption, fear and those savages have turned my little paradise el rincon magico , into a place with no freedom -because freedom is of no use if fear has paralyzed you. And it has paralyzed a country. And it has left me homeless, because the country that I knew and loved no longer exists.

The naive part of me hopes that kid is resting in peace, in whatever his idea of heaven was. The heart in me is horrified at what his last moments must have been like. The fighter in me wants a plan to get her country back, and the mother in me hopes to raise a man strong enough and sensitive enough and compassionate enough to want to effect change.The Greenwich resident in me goes to bed every night,in an unlocked house, praying for everyone else down there.

There MIght Be Dragons

Two.

In ancient times cartographers had little knowledge of the real geography of the world. After drawing what they knew they simply declared that beyond that point there were only dragons. I have always taken pride in the great relationship I have with myself. Growing up with a sister who thinks she's too cool for you and a mother who didn't bother much to get to know her kids I pretty much had a lot of time to dedicate to my musings, to read and question, prone to introspection. As a result, I know myself very well. And for this I am supremely grateful. I don't tweak easily, fortitude is my talent and I am aware of my limitations. I know what to do when the first signs of mean reds appear, I know to steer clear of other people when I get into my funks, and I know the only way to get rid of the funk is to let it run its course. For some people standing on their head and twisting into a pretzel is their go to problem solver. Not me.

After thirty five years of roaming the Earth I have probably gotten myself into more than my fair share of trouble. I have lived what seems two or three different lives. I have succumbed to wanderlust on more than one occasion, knowing full well this makes others deem me irresponsible, (my mother)unstable, (my employers), inconsistent (my shrink), unreliable,(my love interests) and lacking direction (my worried friends). But I know myself. And I know what makes me happy and it's easy to dismiss those people when at least you're having fun. Doing exactly what I want when I want has been my super power, and with my super power comes my super responsibility. The responsibility of not dragging anyone into any experiment gone awry, the responsibility of damage control when the aforementioned doesn't pan out. What I'm getting at is I have always had my scenarios down, and what to do about them in case of. I know my geography. Until now.

Forget the minor things. Being fat and a gross 34DD for the first time, the embarrassment of throwing up into my own bag in the middle of the street in New York, or the way the town car driver shamed me after a particularly bad throw up even though his own wife is pregnant too. ( "But your wife throws up too , right?" "Not like deees."). Smelling danger in the wind and every garbage can within a mile radius, suddenly deciding deviled eggs are a good dinner choice. All the oddities seem small in comparison to the MOOD SWING. Who am I? Why the waterworks? I run a mental checklist of things that I have always been thankful for. They are all still there, plus a cute baby on the way! I am still incredibly lucky, and yet I have never felt more miserable. I share this with my friend Adriana. "I think I have a mental disease", I type into my iPhone. The screen flashes back a response "Your mental disease is called HORMONES, stupid." After a big teary blowup with my procreational partner and victim that same night I decide she's right. I have just never been here, I don't know what any of this will be like. This exceeds the realm of the me I know so well, these are my dragons.

Mom vs Boy

one.


THE YEAR OF B

-"You definitely need to be in fashion", declared my friend and Ralph Lauren Director, Wendy. We were brainstorming possible career paths for me, not mere jobs, but somewhere where I could actually grow and focus. Sitting across from each other at a communal table at Le Pain Quotidien I vented my life's frustrations. My fear of missing out on my vocation, of not being able to make something of myself away from my past life as an attorney.
Back then I was working at the intensive care unit of a kid's hospital, helping out with their research and clinical trials. I had been there for a year and a very intellectually stimulating one, but I felt like a fish out of water, on the medical short bus, and my creative side was being starved. This led to reevaluating it all. And so it was decided that Wendy would look for something in fashion PR within Ralph Lauren and I would actively seek out job opportunities I found interesting. "It's gonna be great", she said. "It will be like, the year of B."
I quit my research job, not as happily as I thought I would, and took a PR summer job in New York City. It was a pretty legit firm, doing PR mostly for music and film. I had visions of myself becoming a competent and sought after publicist who as if my magic made things happen, or made them go away. I would go to work in pencil skirts and Louboutins again. I would commute on the train with all the suits. This was it, a new chapter, a new adventure, a new challenge. I was ready to take on the city. It was, after all, the year of B.

A week later I found out I was pregnant.



There was once a little plus sign,
that created some division,
and some symptoms that included,
nausea and a blurry vision.

Then along came the swelling,
and the absence of my waist,
my boobs like watermelons,
in my mouth a tinny taste.

If I had had x ray vision,
what is it that I would see?
myself as a Russian Matryoshka,
a mini doll inside of me?

In my head so many questions,
who , what, me , mother to-be?
after all of this is over,
will there be some normalcy?

I panic about everything,
from stretch marks to my career,
that stray thought from months ago,
that stray thought is REALLY here.

Lola's Life is a Video Game

Washington Commons, NYC


Lola is tugging at her leash. I can feel it coming. She's revving up her inexplicably strong twenty five pound dog body to chase something. I am usually prepared for this in autumn, when the leaves fly around or sit in huge piles by the side of Orchard Place, my Connecticut street. But today she seems to be going after something else, the pink petals that have fallen from the trees that line Horatio street in New York. They are tiny, even less attainable than the big dry leaves she chases in the fall. It's like Lola's life is a video game, and like in said games she is now on a new level where the dynamic of the game is still the same (i.e. chasing something presently out of her reach) only the level of difficulty has been increased. Lola is unwittingly conveying a message of mockery. My life is a video game.