I wish I knew what she was thinking

Posted on February 13, 2014 by Nicki

That blank stare.

I never knew if she was happy, angry, sad, pissed off at me, or maybe not understanding my fast, accented English. Was it not okay that I dumped the groceries in the kitchen and then dashed out again? Should I not have asked her to clean the pantry if she has time? I just never knew what she was thinking.

Hard to get an emotional read on an already sensitive situation: employer-employee, woman to woman, have versus have-not.

I am sensitive to it because of how I grew up, with housekeepers and gardeners. Somebody to make breakfast and wash the dishes, unpack the groceries, do the laundry, water the garden, feed the dog, keep the bathrooms clean and the house tidy. That was how most white South Africans grew up. Somebody to babysit us when my parents went out, or for my little brother to stay with when my mom watched me and my sister at ballet recitals and drama festivals. Somebody, or two somebodies, to help. They made our beds, played with us. Because our parents worked and also because they didn’t. I know many Americans and Mexicans and Brits and Israelis and Brazilians who grew up the same way. With hired help.

It’s the way of the world in certain countries and in specific socio-economic communities – those that can and have and need to and want to employ those that will and have not. Employer-employee. It works like that.

Except of course, it’s not so simple. It’s not just employer-employee. It’s a system laden with undercurrents of guilt, with feelings of superiority and inferiority, of not wanting to offend or insult but still wanting the job done right, of wanting to do the job right but feeling unsure or insecure.

I’m sensitive to it because now I’m a part of it. Now I am navigating this complex emotionally fraught system. Equal parts expectation, responsibility, guilt and gratitude.

She came to work for us seven years ago, when my daughter was four months old. With barely any English at first, she quickly became indispensible to me. I hadn’t had consistent help before, and it was a relief to be able to leave this child asleep in her bed, and not in her car seat, while I drove a carpool. To go to Target unaccompanied. To have all the laundry washed, dried, folded and put away before noon, and by someone else. To come home to a house smelling of Pine Sol and orange floor cleaner. To have an extra pair of hands on deck when one was blowing bubbles in the bathtub and one was about to hurl herself down the stairs, while yet another was making a beeline for the dog food.

But if I spoke too quickly, if I told her not to take the baby to the park, if I asked her to stay late or leave early or do it a different way, she would look at me, with no expression in her face. “Shit,” I thought. “Is she mad at me? Did I say something wrong? Something offensive?” I hated to think that she felt silent or silenced, that she couldn’t tell me what she really felt or thought. Or that G-d forbid she didn’t love me all the time. That she wasn’t happy.

I was uncomfortable in this role, as employer of this woman – not much younger than me – who was taking care of my children and cleaning my house, putting away my underwear, hearing my arguments with my husband, throwing birthday parties in the park for my babies at her own expense. Birthday parties with piñatas and carefree fun and Spanish songs and laughter. The birthday parties they remember in living color.

This woman, who had left her parents and her seven brothers and sisters and her home in Guatemala at the age of 22, and walked across Mexico for eight days and nights in harrowing conditions until she somehow made her way to Oakland and to me. Mercifully unscathed on the outside, but what about the inside?

I had left my country and my family too. But that was the only similarity between us. I was uncomfortable with what I had and what she didn’t. Citizenship. Financial resources. Language. Her parents would travel hours to her brother’s house just to Skype with her – mine flew across time zones to visit me in the flesh. And I could go to South Africa, or Guatemala, or anywhere in the world whenever I wanted.

Did she begrudge me? Did I act spoilt? Ungrateful? Was that the blank stare?

After seven years of taking care of me, of loving my babies, chopping my vegetables, making my bed, speaking my language, spending time with my parents, her longing to go home was burning so strongly in her heart, I could feel it across the kitchen counter.

So she did.

Her return journey to me was one of unknown peril and fear and angst. Eight months of collect calls. Of tears and worry. She said she was fine. Treated well. They would let her in, she was sure of it. But I could hear the doubt in her voice. I could feel the regret in her heart. I wasn’t sure we would ever see her again.

Yesterday was her birthday. She turned 32. Her first day back at work. In my house.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes blank.

“Really?” I pressed.

She continued folding one of the boys’ t-shirts. And with no expression in her face, or her voice, her dark eyes looked honestly into my green ones:

“I’m happy. This, your house, is my second house. My home.”

Don’t say the F-word

Posted on February 6, 2014 by Nicki

There are very few words in the whole of the English language that I don’t love. I love the shape of words, how they sound in my head and out loud, how they feel in my mouth. I love speaking words and reading words and writing words. Long words, short words, nonsense words, new words (did you know the word “selfie” was invented in Australia?), words that rhyme, fancy words, slang words – and now I am sounding like a Dr Seuss book, so I’ll stop. You get the picture. Words are awesome.

But there’s always one that ruins it.

A tiny four-letter word. A word so apparently meaningless, but so laden with meaning it almost collapses on itself when spoken out loud.

F. I. N. E – Fine.

Awful word. Deceptive. Sly and sneaky.

Right away, it has too many functions: it’s an adjective, a verb, a noun and an adverb. Already having an identity crisis and it hasn’t even been used in a sentence yet! Put yourself somewhere, man, and stick to it.

Then it complicates itself further by having multiple meanings within all those categories: delicate, nice, healthy, bright, clear, polished, good-looking, sharp, pure, elegant, okay, excellent, exceptional, pleasant… for G-ds sake, find yourself! Say it and move on.

But the biggest problem I have with the word fine is the way I use it, to answer that easy breezy question:

“Hey Nicki, how are you?”

“Oh… fine…”

Lie!

That’s what I say when I am anything but! I am not excellent, I am not bright, not even just okay. When I say I’m fine, I am usually the total opposite of all those things. But I say it. And there it floats, that silly little four-letter word, on a cloud of its own empty white puffiness, drifting benignly for all the world to see.

: actual tweet from @OMGFunniest 12/9/2013

So then why did I say it? Why say I’m fine, if I’m not?

Usually I say it because I really do want to be “fine.” I want to feel polished and exceptional and bright and shiny – but I don’t, in that moment. So fake it till you make it! If I say it out loud enough, I’ll start to believe it and if I believe it then I’ll be it. That makes sense, doesn’t it?

Or I say it because there’s just not enough time as we pass each other in the parking lot for me to tell you how I’m really feeling – your grocery list is too long, and I’m off to my appointment and it feels wonderful that we ran into each other like this, but I’ll just tell you I’m fine because I’m not, and you’ll tell me you’re fine, and maybe next week or next month we’ll grab lunch or a drink and we can tell each other how fine we really are. Because I know you are not asking just to be polite, and that you really do care.

Or maybe you’re asking just to be polite – because it’s the way we greet each other in the western world. And if you didn’t ask me how I am, it would be rude. But I know you don’t want to hear that I’m anything but… fine, so I say I’m fine. I don’t say I’m great (because I’m not feeling great), I don’t say I’m sad or tired or angry (because I’m sure you don’t really want to know that I’m any of those things, and then you might feel you’ll have to ask me why I’m tired or angry and offer to help or something and you have your own not fine-ness to deal with). So I’m fine.

Feelings Inside Not Expressed (acronymfinder.com). Shrug. Smile. Meaningless, but so full of meaning.

The lying and posturing and pretending that all is in order when it’s not… That’s the direct translation of the word “fine” in Hebrew: beseder – in order. Life is seldom “in order,” for any of us. It’s messy and complicated, and we rage and we love and we’re exhausted and happy and hungry and frustrated – and we’re even fabulous or excellent or exceptional. Let’s express!

Full disclosure right here: I’m not going to say it anymore. I really hate the f-word – even more than I hate the m-word!

And that is saying a lot.

*m-word = moist

Please switch to airplane mode

Posted on January 30, 2014 by Nicki

Leaving now. Luv u

It’s 5am. I was just falling back to sleep. But I reply:

Luv u

Four, five, six hours later:

Landed

K. Thanks

He travels a lot. Almost every week, at least three days a week, all over – Seattle, Cleveland, Dallas, Chicago. He takes red-eyes so that he doesn’t have to waste a day, often going all the way to New York for one meeting, returning to San Francisco the same day. There are days when the exchange above is the sum total of our interaction. At least I know he’s alive, and somewhere. Airplane wifi is the greatest invention ever.

He’s always traveled, even before we were married and we were living in South Africa with our parents. He would travel to the U.S. and we would have blow-out phone arguments at $2 a minute because I felt alone and abandoned, and he was in meetings all day and couldn’t call exactly when he said he would, and there were two continents and ten time zones between us. I’m sure our parents thought our engagement would be over before it had a chance to begin!

And now there are days when neither of us even notices that 14 hours have passed with no contact. Not because we don’t love each other, or don’t care to talk to each other, but because of L.I.F.E. It was evening, it was morning. And it was good.

Before Kids (B.K.) I hated being alone when he went out of town. Days were busy with work, friends, yoga, dog walks – but the nights… yuck. Long. Lonely. Monica, Rachel, Ross and Joey were pretty good company (remember the one with Fun Bobby?), along with Dr Ross, Nurse Hathaway and nebbishy Paul and Jamie. That was fifteen years ago – I didn’t know to really savor my alone time. B.K.

Six weeks after our first child was born, he went out of town – far out of town. To Taiwan. My mother-in-law sent a sweet email: “Nicki, now you won’t be lonely when he travels.” She was referring to the baby who would keep me company, and to the as yet unknown three future babies who would join us when he left on the gazillion future trips.

I wasn’t lonely – she was right. I was completely stressed out. I had to do everything myself and by myself, from morning till night and through the night. No relief from crying babies, changing diapers, preschool drop-offs, grocery lists, bedtime stories, teething pain blah blah fucking blah. I think I hated him… and then loved him more than ever when he would finally come home.

Until the night of the revelation.

Kids all bathed, fed and miraculously asleep by 7.30pm – thank you very much, there’s nothing a mother can’t do single-handedly! – I inhaled a bowl of cereal for dinner (fish sticks and apple slices have never appealed to me), got into bed, and watched Private Practice… by myself. Alone. Not lonely. Happy! He hated that show, always gave me a hard time about watching it. But that night, I didn’t have to answer to anybody about what I was doing, and why I was doing it. No unrealistic expectations about who was reading to whom, whose turn it was to clean up the kitchen. Only me to expect anything of – so I did it. Or I didn’t. And got into bed. With a book. Or Don Draper. Easy.

He never travels on the weekend. He always makes it back home in time for Shabbat dinner. It is easy, and we’re all used to it. His weekday schedule is unpredictable, and I never know if he’s going to be in town from one day to the next. So I assume he’s not. No expectations equals no disappointments equals happy wife equals happy life. And if he can accompany me to the JCC event, even happier wife.

But I’ve noticed something lately. Something I didn’t notice before. Or it wasn’t there. Or I wasn’t paying attention while I was wiping noses, and cleaning up after the dog, and keeping that one awake while putting this one to bed.

He anchors me.

When he’s not in town, I am not quite here either. I get it all done, and I eat my cereal, or skip dinner, or go out with my girlfriends, or attend the barmitzvah solo. And it’s easy. And even fun.

But I feel like a big red balloon that’s been let go, left to float above the leafy trees of responsibility and accountability. It’s big and blue and airy up there – and kinda scary. Actually, a lot scary. Not because if anything happens to the kids, G-d forbid, it’s all on me. Not because if anything happens to me, G-d forbid, one of those kids will have to figure it out for a bit. Not because it’s exhausting, emotionally and physically, being mom and dad for those days. All of that is true, and for single parents everywhere that is indeed the reality every day, not just some days.

It’s scary because I’m alone with me. I switch to airplane mode. I disconnect.

Because, after 16 years, four kids, one dachshund, two countries, a bunch of schools and home loans and jobs, two minivans and a gazillion flights, he is the tether that keeps me grounded. Gives me perspective. Keeps it real. Even when real is not pretty. And those blow-out arguments are still happening, with stakes now way higher than $2 a minute and we are breathing down each other’s necks instead of transatlantic phone lines.

But pretty or not, real feels better than auto-pilot.

If it’s Thursday it must be LA. But that seatbelt sign will go off.

And airplane mode will switch to fully functioning 4G.

Longing for a letter – no app for that

Posted on January 21, 2014 by Nicki

I texted 17 people yesterday. About five texts per person. Let’s call it 100 texts altogether. I have no frame of reference – is that a lot? Or average textage for a day? I don’t use my thumbs yet. I’ve been texting on an iPhone for just five years, so I still pick out the letters with one hand. I’m pretty fast. But if I used my thumbs I bet I could double my daily output!

Arranged Thursday’s carpool, scheduled a dinner for next week, confirmed the location and time of my meeting today, checked in on three friends, thanked a mom for having my son over, had a real-time “conversation” with another – just another day in the texting-life of me.

You can’t beat this mobile, portable mode of communication for convenience, efficiency and immediacy. It rocks! In the frenetic whirlwind I call my day, it’s the only way to keep all the wheels moving, on the fly, while never missing a beat. And I don’t have to talk to a single person to make any of it happen. (If only the pediatrician and school secretary would allow me to text them, I really would never have to make calls!)

I stay in touch with friends and family all over the world within seconds, send a photo of the book recommended to show I’m reading and love it, did you watch “Downton Abbey”, say thank you for having us over last night, for schlepping my children, for dropping off the surprise orchid just because. With all the gratitude, and intention and sincerity that comes with saying these words in person or on the phone. Because as much as I don’t have the precious minutes to momentarily halt the rhythm of my chaos, and say the words out loud, neither does the recipient of my message. We are human, and we love to be connected, and to feel the love and the thanks and the community – but we are busy, too busy. And this is how we all do it in 2014.

U, ur, lol, brb, abt, omg, ltr… in the US we say xo, and in the rest of the English-speaking world they say xx, and does X mean something different to x, and what if it’s xxx, or xoxo? Did Ryan not text me back about picking up the boys because he’s in a meeting, or because he’s mad at me? Smiley face or emoji? It’s an efficient way to communicate, but also the fastest way to miscommunicate. It’s too quick, too instantaneous. As if instantaneous could get any more immediate! Did u say non-fat or regular latte? Hello? Answer me now ordering, long line behind me. Why aren’t u answering?

A swirling blizzard of short-hand words, coming down faster and faster in a blurring flurry.

When I was 11 I started writing letters to my great-aunt in Delray Beach, Florida. Long, newsy letters on pages of pretty writing paper. For at least ten years, all through high school and into college and beyond. “Dear Auntie Bea…” And she of course replied to every one. On those blue aerogrammes or on pale pink onionskin paper, that weighed nothing so wouldn’t cost too much to mail. “My dearest Nicki…” in her spidery scrawl.

Those letters took a long time to travel between Pretoria, South Africa and Delray Beach. I would reply as soon as I possibly could – once I had read it in the quiet of my bedroom, or at the kitchen table, I would sit down after dinner and homework and write her back. She signed all her letters, “Oceans of love…”

Her words would fall like gentle snowflakes, and once they had settled around me, I could reply. Thoughtfully. Mindfully. Taking breaths between sentences.

I do love communicating in the 21^st century – I wrote about it just a couple months ago. Besides the essential texting, and the Instagram which gives me access to a part of my boys’ lives they would never allow me otherwise, Jon Lovitz actually read the blog I wrote about him (or so he says) and then tweeted me (or his publicist did), and how cool is that?!

But there is tension and confusion in the immediacy of our communication today. Too much potential to read between the lines, to take things the wrong way, to respond too quickly. No space to breathe. Or to think. No time to connect to ourselves, never mind to each other.

Across the vast Atlantic Ocean, a decade’s worth of letters slowly traveled back and forth carrying simple truths of stories, hopes, wishes. I am longing for a letter like that again, for the space to breathe, and to feel the snowflakes settle around me.

Text me, I’ll send you my address :).

Oceans of love.

Letters I received after writing this blog 🙂

Don’t miss your Jon Lovitz moment

Posted on December 30, 2013 by Nicki

“Jon Lovitz.”

This is the text I woke up to on Friday morning.

I love that guy. I don’t have a lot of celebrity crushes – Jon Hamm is my numero uno (although I’m not sure if it’s him or Don Draper that I adore), Channing Tatum and Bradley Cooper (good ol’ all-American heartthrobs), Jason Bateman, Jimmy Fallon, Reese Witherspoon… and Jon Lovitz.

He’s definitely no Jon Hamm. Shortish, slightly balding, but with a friendly, open face and a great smile. And funny! Deadpan, straight-to-the-gut, perfectly-delivered-every-time hilarious. That’s what I love about him. His best roles were on Saturday Night Live, but he’s been in movies like The Wedding Singer, Grown Ups 2, Three Amigos, Big, and shown up in dozens of TV shows from Friends to New Girl. Always awesome.

Sadly, it wasn’t him texting me on Friday morning! And even though I hadn’t thought about Jon Lovitz since his last appearance on SNL in 2012, just seeing his name made me laugh out loud. Because he’s one of my best comedic crushes, but for a bunch of other reasons too.

It was my childhood friend Sharon texting me before sunrise on Friday morning. She’d been trying to remember his name all night, and it finally came to her (or she spent less than ten minutes on Google, although she didn’t have much to go on). Because my California family and her New York family reunited on the beach in Miami, and we got to reminiscing about well all of it. Life before kids, before marriage, when we were teenagers in Israel together, and took the 29 bus to the beach, and saw Dirty Dancing in Herzliya (nobody puts Baby in a corner), and made up dances to Samantha Fox’s song Naughty Girls, complete with British accents. Does anyone remember Samantha Fox besides the two of us?

And Sharon remembered when I was in New York about 14 years ago, and she had taken Ryan and me for the “best cheesecake in the world” to Juniors in Brooklyn. We still talk about that cheesecake. She dropped us back at our hotel in Manhattan and, according to her, waved goodbye to me, and Jon Lovitz waved back at her! But I had already turned away, and there was traffic, and she had no way of letting me know that Jon Lovitz was standing next to me and had just waved at her (no smartphones in 1999). And I never knew any of it. Or if I did, I had forgotten it. All I remember was the cheesecake pilgrimage to Brooklyn.

So when I woke up to “Jon Lovitz” on Friday morning, I was delighted. To think about funny Jon Lovitz again. And that Sharon remembered who the celebrity was that waved at her. Delighted that Sharon and I had been friends for almost 30 years, and still had memories like this that we got to share with each other.

But really? Jon Lovitz had been standing next to me at a hotel in New York in 1999 and I had had no idea… How many other opportunities had passed by me unnoticed, unknown, unrealized? I’m a “everything happens for a reason” kinda gal, but I can’t shake this feeling that sometimes if you just turn your head a fraction, or look up instead of straight ahead, or linger in the moment for one more second, something you might have missed will present itself. And it might not be life-changing, but it could make your day a little brighter or be the start of a great story… “One time, we’d gone to Brooklyn for this to-die-for cheesecake, and then I met Jon Lovitz – you know that guy from SNL with the best sense of humor – standing in the lobby of my hotel…”