I awoke the next morning in my own bed with less of a hangover than usual, since after Cara left the rest of us were too demoralized to continue partying and went instead to our separate apartments: Kennedy to the Park Avenue-at-75^th pad that she paid a nominal fee to rent a room in, since technically it was the pied-a-terre of friends of her parents who visited, at most, twice a year (their other apartments were in Paris, London and Rome, along with their Richmond plantation); Abby to her one-bedroom in the East Village, and I to my alcove studio in Murray Hill. As my eyes adjusted to the light streaming through my window, the events of the night before flooded my brain and I checked my phone. No voice mail, no texts. The phone immediately buzzed in my hand with a text from Kennedy that read: ?!

I typed back, “Nothing.”

A few minutes later, Abby texted, “Sent her a text an hour ago and haven’t heard anything. Brunch?”

We agreed on Penelope’s, a spot in my neighborhood known for comfort food and long lines on the weekends. I showered and dressed slowly, then took my time walking over to 30^th and Lexington. Living between two of my best friends had its advantages, the prime one being that my neighborhood was middle ground and often where we ended up brunching. Staying above-ground, away from the subway, with a hangover, though not as necessary today, was always preferable, as was avoiding the packed bus or a jerky cab ride. I arrived at Penelope’s first and put my name in, then headed back outside to wait with the masses. We were lucky today, having gotten an earlier start than usual, and the wait was only twenty minutes. Within five, Abby had walked over from her bus stop on Third Avenue, shortly followed by Kennedy pouring out of a cab.

“I feel almost healthy!” Kennedy exclaimed, hugging each of us.

“I know, brunch before one pm,” I marveled, and we headed to the chalkboard at the restaurant’s doorway to read today’s menu.

“Speaking of healthy, I can’t wait to tear into a pomegranate mimosa,” Abby grinned.

Our table was called minutes later, and we headed inside to claim our seats. The early morning crowd seemed quieter than our usual afternoon scene, so we all leaned in after placing our drink orders and began to debrief.

“I’m kinda sick about it, girls,” Kennedy offered, tapping her nails on the table. “I keep thinking we should have just thrown her in a cab and told that douche to fuck off. Did he not scream Sexual Offender? I was going to Google him when I got home, then realized I didn’t know his last name. Probably Kensington or Wingate or something stupid and pretentious like that. Not that I can talk about pretentious names, but still. Gross.” The waitress set our drinks down and Kennedy lunged for hers. I was glad she had something to do with her hands—her nails were threatening to leave divets in the wood.

Abby took a sip of her mimosa and sighed. I noticed that we hadn’t done our typical brunch toast—to bad decisions—and that let me know that we all were worried.

“So we’ve all texted her by now, right?” I asked them and received nods in response. “I mean, it’s only eleven. But how long do we give her before we show up at his door with a knife and an attitude?”

There was a moment of silence as we pondered the question. Then Abby spoke up.

“I say we walk by there after we finish here. Just walk by. And if we haven’t heard from her by two, we bombard both of their phones,” she concluded.

We agreed to the plan, and an hour later, stuffed with mimosas and pancakes and eggs, we were headed crosstown in a cab.

“Fifteenth and Seventh,” Kennedy told the driver, then laughed. “Ha—Chelsea. Maybe he just wanted to give her fashion advice?”

A few minutes later we piled out of the cab and walked across Fifteenth to Reynolds’ building. We looked at each other, then the building, then each other. Nothing happening.

“Okay, I feel creepy. How long should we stand here?” I asked.

Abby looked at her watch. “It’s noon now, She’s probably still asleep, or home and too hungover to call. Let’s wait five minutes then head out.”

So we waited while nothing continued to happen, then headed over to lower Fifth for some retail therapy and further group commiseration. By two o’clock, there was still no word, so we gathered around Kennedy as she placed her phone on speaker and dialed Cara.

Several rings sounded, and on the third, Cara picked up. “Hey.”

We all jumped in surprise. “Are you there, Kennedy?” Cara asked, her voice drenched in sleep.

“Yeah, I’m here. So are Abby and Merritt,” Kennedy replied. “Are you okay?”

Cara coughed, then sighed. “Yeah, just hungover as all shit. Like, trashcan by my bed hungover. Can I just call y’all back after I sleep a few hours?”
“Of course, hon,” Abby said. “As long as you’re okay?” She left the question mark on the end, hoping for further assurance.

“I’m fine, I just need to recover. Talk soon ‘bye.” Cara rushed through her sign-off and the line clicked.

We exchanged a three-way glance, the Conference Call of looks, and shrugged in unison. “I guess that’s it, then,” I said, switching my Anthropologie sale bag to my other shoulder. “We just wait for her to be ready to talk.”

Abby and Kennedy each nodded, and we all headed home.

______________________

I had eaten my Sunday night bowl of pasta in front of the TV and considered climbing into bed with a book by the time I heard from Cara. My phone vibrated on the table—I had turned off the loud ringer so it wouldn’t interrupt my Sex and the City season 4 DVD marathon. Every few months, I rewatched the whole series at my leisure; it was kind of a motivational reminder of how this city I’d chosen really could be cinematic and magical, even when I was surrounded by beer-chugging cavemen.

I saw Cara’s name on caller ID and pressed “pause” on the DVD remote.

“Hey there, sunshine. How ya feeling?”

A few seconds went by before Cara whispered, “Can you come over?”

We all know a few people in this world so well that they can convey a life-changing status with minimal words uttered in a single tone. When Cara asked me to come over in that whisper, I knew something serious had happened. Flashes of a night spent at the police station danced in front of my eyes but I brushed them away to answer her.

“I’m on my way.”

I usually loved visiting Cara’s apartment. It reminded me of Carrie’s in Sex and the City–which was, on the show, located on 73^rd between Park and Madison, but as anyone who had ever shelled out the cash for the show’s tour (guilty) could tell you, is on Perry Street. My own apartment was a walkup like hers, but while my building looked like a tall bomb shelter, Cara’s was a legit brownstone, complete with wrought iron banisters and ornate features. Whenever I climbed up her steps, I imagined I was coming home to the apartment I had always hoped to rent in New York—the tree-lined street, the Village feel, the romance. But tonight, I approached her buzzer with a sense of doom. I had the feeling that whatever she was about to tell me would divide time: before Reynolds and after Reynolds; pre-douchebag and post.

She buzzed me in and I climbed the two flights to her apartment. Here, she had me beat as well: my calves always thanked me for only having to work their way to floor three rather than the fifth floor of my studio. Her door was cracked open, and I pushed it gently wide, stepping inside and closing it behind me.

Cara sat on the couch in relative darkness, the overhead light on its dimmest setting.  The kitchen off to one side was black, and her bedroom on the other side was lit only by a bedside lamp next to the far window. A blanket was spread over her legs and she was staring straight ahead in the direction of the TV, which was turned off.

“Cara?” I whispered, since she hadn’t appeared to notice me. She turned to me and bit her lip. I sat by her on the couch.

“I fucked up,” she said, her voice dull and lifeless. “Like, really bad.” And with that, her lip and shoulders quivered and she began to sob, placing her head in her hands.

I reached forward and put my arms around her, patting her head and back and feeling awkward because I never know what to do when people break down in front of me. Not that it happens all the time, but enough to know I’m no good at being a comforter. Freshman year in college, my roommate came back to our dorm room after a visit to the salon. She had gotten all her hair chopped off in response to a breakup, and when I first looked up I almost screamed for help, thinking a random guy had broken in. Her red-rimmed eyes caught my shocked expression and she threw herself on her bed, four feet from where I sat on mine. I was at such a loss, so emotionally underequipped to handle this meltdown, that I picked my psychology book back up and began to read about Pavlov, praying that she wouldn’t ask me to be honest.

Now, ten years later, I had at least matured enough to not turn away from Cara and ask if she had anything to eat. But as I held her, I wondered what to do next. Should I pull away and demand to know what happened, or wait for her to come out with it? A few seconds later, she saved me from the choice by pulling back herself and wiping her eyes with her hands.

“I’m such an idiot,” she wailed. “I’m a twenty-eight-year-old New York City lawyer and I did the dumbest thing a girl can do!” She hopped up and disappeared into the kitchen, returning to the couch as she blew her nose into a paper towel.

I wondered if “did” meant “have sex with” and “thing” meant “Reynolds,” and began to pray that she wouldn’t ask me to be honest. “What happened?” I asked.

My three sons and I went to the New York International Auto Show. I’m not sure how “international” it was—the most exotic thing I saw was the family from Union City, New Jersey whose Nike sneakers were made in Southeast Asia.

But it was indeed an auto show: there were lots and lots and lots of autos. Red ones, blue ones, silver ones, black ones, white ones, yellow ones—many, many colors like these. And there were large cars, small cars, cars in the middle somewhere. They all had black tires, and most ran on gas. Most of them seated between two and seven people, but there was a big black one that could seat twelve, plus three magnums of champagne, six egos, and four sets of spike heels.

The show cost $5 for kids and $15 for adults, which was very affordable, especially in light of the NYC museum option at $20 a pop, which most people don’t realize is an option and not a requirement. But of course, the price of a ticket to the auto sale—I mean show—didn’t include admission to adulthood in the form of a new car when your suburban kids turn 16, insurance for a teenager, or the cost of several thousand gallons of American blood seeping into Iraqi sand.

As you enter the Javits Center, to the left of the New York Post subscription tent, are a couple of black limousines. You must be at least 5’9” to see them, however, for a vast group of tall and wide men—somewhere between 25 and three hundred individuals—is clotted in front and mostly blocking the view. Most of the men are pretending to look at the limousines and not at the two women in red dresses who are standing in front of the vehicles. Of course, the limousines don’t move much, and the women occasionally do. (The women are real, by the way.) These women have bodies that have been carefully crafted by the best car designers over the years—designers with names like Ferrari, Porsche, and Kia. Their lines, curves, and headlights are the mood and imagination and temperament of the driver drawn, molded, and cast by these famous designers. These two women embody what men want most. They want to go fast, with Van Halen playing, and they want their friends (and enemies) to see them doing it. And fortunately for these men, the old model at home—when it wears out or needs more maintenance than it’s worth, when it makes too many loud noises that grate on the nerves, when its parts start coming loose, when it embarrasses him in front of the neighbors, when it frankly gets to be too much damn trouble to do anything with but abandon the motherfucker along the Pulaski Skyway—well, in that case they can pick up a nice, new, shiny red one at a dealership off I-95.

Just like the one they’re pretending not to look at.

Because, let’s face it: none of these men will ever ride in one of the limos.

The other cool thing about the New York International Auto Show was the people themselves. There were people of all shapes and sizes who drove in from at least thirty—maybe even forty—miles outside Manhattan. Traversing the Hudson or East River, they each paid bridge and tunnel tolls to use structures that were built in the 20th Century with bond financing and the promise that once the structures had recouped their cost they’d be free. But when you’re a municipality and your drug is nickels and dimes in the ‘50s and quarters and dollars now, it’s hard to go cold turkey.

Well, back to people.

What was really neato about all of them was that each man in a grey sweatshirt who drove in by himself, or each young couple—man with bejeweled arm around woman’s neck—or each family, kids not gawking at the city but at vehicles that they saw thirty miles earlier in front of an I-95 dealership but which were displayed so much more nicely here—each individual or group didn’t bother anyone else. They obediently followed the carpet around each of the four levels and stuck to themselves—didn’t bother anyone and didn’t much look at anyone else. They were very civil. Model citizens. They talked among themselves, laughed among themselves, and even went over to the many different food carts and bought salty pretzels or Häagen Dazs bars and ate among themselves. They were good neighbors: they had good walls.

It was time for Teak and me to go home. His two brothers stayed with friends who were also there.

We walked outside, into sunshine. A couple with an elderly parent and their 5-year-old son were also leaving. The father said to the boy, “We’re in New York City, Joey! We can hop in a cab and do anything! Wanna go to The Lego Store? Toys R Us?”

We walked through the exit—signs explained, “You are now exiting the Auto Show, no re-entry.”

Teak said, “Dad, can I sleep on the subway?”

“Yes. Of course.”

But there was no easy way to get to the subway. The Javits Center is road-locked by the river to the west, Port Authority to the northeast, cars and tunnels and cars and parking lots and cars racing down 11th Avenue all around us. I looked around and honestly did not know how best to get my sleepy child home.

Finally a nice man in a yellow car offered to give us a ride.

When we arrived at our apartment, I paid him handsomely, and Teak and I walked upstairs.

Roots 

I landed in Sarajevo at high noon under bright blue skies, the blinding summer heat had already infiltrated the valley. Lush green hills were dotted with terracotta-roofed homes and sandy-colored mosques, whose delicate minarets rose like needles among the gentle domes of neighboring churches. Think Tuscany meets Istanbul on a smaller scale. Communist era-style buildings, restored after the most recent war, stood stoic as the taxi careened into the city center.

I am a day early. Dad joins me tomorrow.

My father and I are taking this vacation together to explore our roots in the city my grandparents once called home. The last time he breezed through this part of the world was in 1967 as a student in his Volkswagen Beetle. Born in Zagreb, he fled the country in 1946 at age three with his mother and sister under the cover of night after Tito’s Communist partisans took over Yugoslavia. My grandfather, by a stroke of luck, had already traversed the Swiss border. The reunited family then did as many Eastern Europeans escaping the maelstrom did at the time. They emigrated to the other end of the world: Argentina.

Therefore, I had always considered Dad to be a Croatian-Argentine blend. Bosnia was never mentioned in family discussions.

Then, in 2003, my awareness about my heritage changed.

“You know we are Bosnian!” my father’s cousin Milkica bellowed at me when I arrived in Zagreb, fresh off holiday on the Dalmatian coast, to meet my extended family for the first time. We weren’t even out of the parking lot of the bus station when she leaned over me to peer into my face as I fumbled with the seatbelt.

“Yes, from Banja Luka?” I responded, which I have come to find out was not entirely untrue as Dad’s Catholic uncle and Muslim aunt once lived there.

“Noooo!” from Livno!”

“How your father not teach you the language!?” My relatives were aghast.

“But my mom doesn’t speak it…I speak German!” I piped up, thinking this would somehow make up for my father’s transgression.”

“Doesn’t matter!”

Nearly a decade later, I continue to explore the identity that makes my family, in part, both Bosnian and Croatian (although, recently back in Washington, a bartender from Belgrade broke into a wide, confident grin as he examined my ID card. “Radulovic! Good Serbian name!”).

Dad doesn’t remember any striking details about Sarajevo when he passed through as a young man. He didn’t spend time strolling through the stone streets of the old town or whiling the day away drinking coffee with the locals. Now, 45 years later, he was going to do those things with me.

For me, this trip was to be a journey into the distant past to find traces of the city my grandparents knew, the present to satiate my curiosity to see the impacts of the recent conflict and how the city has rebuilt itself thus far, and the future to glean clues of where it could be headed. But I was also on the lookout for hints as to how its culture may have shaped my upbringing. Would certain things feel familiar? How will Dad experience visiting Sarajevo after all these years?

Surfaces 

“Look! Bosnian safety codes.” Dad chuckled.

Hanging off the third floor scaffolding, a young man absent a helmet and harness glared back as Dad clicked away with his little camera. My father is an electrical engineer and finds anything pertaining to the built environment riveting. As Dad fixated on the worker’s lack of protective gear, I was plodding down the steep hill on Logavina Street in the old city, looking at the wake of gunfire still visible on some of the building facades.

Standing at the top of the street, I can better understand how mortar shells purposefully landed in peoples’ living rooms. Sarajevo is surrounded by looming hills. Bosnian Serb paramilitary units would rain attacks on civilians while the Bosnian Army defended the city by climbing the hills to fight at the frontlines. Sarajevans were trapped in their own fishbowl and everyone was a target.

The impacts of the war can easily elude the first time visitor to Sarajevo, who encounters a relaxed air abounding with cigarette smoke from the city’s many cafes. At first glance, one might also not realize that the brass vases being sold in the souvenir shops on Kazandziluk Street are decorated mortar shell casings, evidence of the millions that rained on Sarajevo two decades ago. But the scars of war are still present and I wanted to explore that side of Sarajevo to the extent that I could.

—

The entrance to the Muslim cemetery was situated on a side street, where a tiny ladder met a delicate white gate, which swung open easily. Dad and I walked in, gingerly wading amidst the many gravestones that ended with 1992, 1993 and 1994. Dad is a great travel companion. Most people would probably balk or muster a polite decline to join me at the cemetery, but not Dad. He’ll go anywhere if I ask him.

The graves were shoved together, mounds of earth juxtaposed among light grey tombstones that deflected the morning sun. I scarcely tripped a few meters and was confronted by a stone soccer ball perched above the grave of a 12-year old boy. A carefully tended rose bush bloomed bright fuchsia and bent protectively over the remains of a 13-year old girl. For almost an hour, we wended our way among the headstones, all of which listed the family members who had lovingly raised them. In the distance a middle-aged man and a taller, younger man entered the cemetery and sat heavily by one tomb for a few minutes, staring at it in silence. Eventually, after what seemed like a long time, Dad and I floated out. I forced the brimming tears back and, obeying, they slid unnoticed down my throat.

The site of the scaffolding that earlier caught my father’s eye evidenced the renovations throughout the city. Brightly painted walls graced many Austro-Hungarian styled buildings, just a block outside the Ottoman-inspired Bascarsija, Sarajevo’s old bazaar and historical center of the old city. In Sarajevo’s suburbs, foreign investment has built glass high-rises and bland office-park structures. I once read somewhere that you don’t build glass houses if you anticipate war again. So, while this new construction may be the markings of a confident peace, talking to the locals reveals an undercurrent of unrest.

—

“There are no jobs!” The tomato vendor lamented. “There is no money!” His bald friend sat on a bucket behind the vegetable stall and nodded gamely. Dad and I are now at the Markale Market after taking a right turn from Logavina Street onto Marsala Tita street and walking a few blocks. I have just asked Dad to purchase a pint of delicious looking raspberries and now we are buying two tomatoes. Strawberries, prunes, pears, apples, and tomatoes spilled across long wooden fold-up tables under brightly colored umbrellas. The market was the site of mortar attacks in 1994 and 1995 where, collectively, over 125 people were killed as they were trying to buy what little scraps of food were available. The site of the first mortar blast, marked by a gaping pothole and shred-marks in the pavement, is enshrined under a glass box in the back right corner of the market. The second attack, which occurred under the noses of UN peacekeeping troops present in the city at the time, prompted the US to argue successfully for NATO bombing of Bosnian Serb strongholds and for shuttle diplomacy to set in motion the Dayton Accords. The peace accords may have stopped the killing, but created what journalist Barbara Demick artfully terms a “Rube Goldberg political system,” where a tripartite government of Muslim, Croat (Catholic) and Serb (Orthodox Christian) presidents attempt to govern the country together. I can’t imagine that arrangement working smoothly anywhere, and yet, at the time, the decision makers deemed it as the only way forward.

A man dressed in a white T-shirt with close cropped hair held his plate of meat burek and scanned the outdoor seating area for a place to eat his dinner. We were in the Bascarsija  and it was about 7pm. I was gulping down some yogurt and Dad was in heaven, having just finished his cevapcici, Bosnia’s signature minced meat sausage. We scooted over and invited him to sit down with us. Alija, who appeared to be in his early 40s, eventually made his way to the US twenty years ago after being held as a prisoner of war in Banja Luka, where Muslims were being wiped out. Having worked as a truck driver for years, he now shuttled supplies between airlines at Chicago’s O’Hare. He was in Sarajevo visiting family. Alija, pronounced ‘Al-iyah’ but “people in the US call me Ali or what sounds like Elijah,” was one of many who had left Bosnia for whatever countries accepted refugees. Thus, it was tricky for me to discern who at the cafes was an unemployed Sarajevan drinking coffee for untold hours during the afternoons and who was a Bosnian-born tourist from Australia or South Africa, on vacation at home.

“My friends who work for the government say they sometimes go three, four months without getting paid. Some of them claim that they are a different ethnicity to fill a quota just so that they can even get the job in the first place.”  Since many Bosnians inter-marry, some can choose which ethnicity serves their needs as they clamor for work. However, the quota has rankled those that don’t have that option, shutting out other minorities from holding jobs. As a result, post-war policies appear to have only entrenched ethnic divisions, making it difficult for Bosnians to have a shared identity as “Bosnian”; instead they remain subdivided into Bosnian Muslim, Bosnian Serb, and Bosnian Croat.

Today, corruption also appears to thrive.

“I had a good job in the government. I studied economics at university.” N., a 23-year old Muslim woman with crimped blond hair wearing a tank top, bra straps showing, said matter-of-factly. The war ended when N. was six years old. She remembers playing in the basement because it was too dangerous to venture into the living room. Her father served on the front lines with the Bosnian troops. “But I didn’t have a sponsor, even though they liked me, so I couldn’t stay. My father was a truck driver so I don’t have the connections and you need someone powerful to look after you.” She was our tour guide for the day, one way she now earned an uncertain income.

N. flipped her hair over her shoulder and adjusted her movie star shades. “Come. I take you to the most beautiful Orthodox church here. “You know,” she spun around to look at us “Sarajevo is the only place where an Orthodox church, a Catholic church, and a mosque are within a few blocks of each other.”

Like a lot of women, I didn’t want to become my mother. I didn’t want to be a stay-at-home-mom. I didn’t want to put my family before my own career or even myself. I didn’t even want her faith, offering everything in her life with open hands to her God. We are conditioned to view that sort of woman with suspicion for being regressive and potentially harmful to the cause of women everywhere.

Ironically, it is my mother’s maternal, nurturing side that made her so successful in her later career and her life. She was not just a stay-at-home-mom to my siblings and me; she was a stay-at-home-mom to eight foster children, two of whom she adopted while she was in her early 50s. She is “mom” to several men–homeless and otherwise–who come each week to the soup kitchen and food pantry that she founded and still runs. One of those men, “Halloween” came to the soup kitchen in the summer of 2000, homeless, dressed in black, and suffering from schizophrenia. Over the course of a couple of years, her constant care for him led him to reveal his real name which allowed her to track down his former college roommate from Brown and get him the help he needed.

Despite–or because of–my mother’s penchant for mothering we didn’t always get along. Even now, my mother can say the most innocent comment that has the power to either send me spinning into an oblivion of self-doubt and frustration, or to validate my entire existence. We are both too similar and too different in all the worst ways. It’s not that I fear becoming my mother. It’s more that I fear what will happen to my sense of self if I live a life that isn’t totally about me.

—

I have a vivid memory of my mother when I was a young girl. She was wearing a black skirt that went below her knees, with knee-high black boots, a striped tie-blouse and cardigan. If that outfit sounds familiar, it’s because you’ve probably seen me wear some version of it. Something about that outfit, to my little four-year old pre-fashionista mind seemed so chic that decades later, her style still informs mine. I still want to look like my mother, circa 1984.

My mother was and still is one of the most glamorous women I know. Before she co-founded and ran a non-profit, before she was a pastor’s wife and stay-at-home-mother, she worked at Elizabeth Arden. When I was a little girl, she kept her makeup in the bathroom before she got wise to my sister and me. She had one whole plastic organizer devoted to lipstick, at least a dozen tubes of Elizabeth Arden lipstick in various shades. I can still remember the smell of the lipsticks, a scent that is indelibly linked in my brain to my mother. It was all so grown-up and beautiful.

My mother and me, circa 1981. I believe the look of wonder on my face was in response to her perfectly feathered hair.

When I was a little girl, I looked nothing like my mother. She had dark hair and eyes; I was born with golden-blonde hair and blue-green eyes. I resembled my father’s Czech/Irish/French side (and apparently, Native American–thanks ancestry.com) more than my mother’s Sicilian side. It bothered me that no one thought we looked alike, since I thought she was much more chic and beautiful than my father. Although I suppose he would agree with me about that as well.

Our similarities go much more than skin deep, although as I’ve gotten older, and my hair has gotten darker and my face has changed, I can see a clear resemblance. My mother and I are both extremely passionate people, and when something upsets us, we can’t let it go. We can then turn to the principle of the thing and start fighting a mini-revolution over nothing in particular.

—

I was a painfully shy little girl, which no one believes now, but it was true. I can see that a lot of that shyness came from my Extroverted Feeler tendencies, a radar just picking up everyone’s feelings and not knowing what to say to them. Since my parents were pastors, we were around new and often strange people all the time. I was inseparable from my mother’s side–my safe haven– in my curly blonde pigtails sucking my left thumb, avoiding condescending joke-questions from adults like “where was my Romeo.”

At the time, I was grateful to have my mother by my side. She was a refuge. I never saw it as selfish–she was my mother and it was her job to protect me from my fears. I never considered whether my shyness and fears were keeping her from talking to other people or distracting her from other pursuits or obligations.

I was also grateful for the time she invested in us, reading Nancy Drew and C.S. Lewis to my sister and me before putting us to bed. I was grateful for the homemade Halloween costumes, the one time a year we’d be allowed to legitimately wear her makeup (don’t worry, she applied it). I was grateful for the elaborate Christmas decorations and cookies she’d make every year, even if I couldn’t articulate it. All those tiny acts of love and service were taken for granted in one sense–we didn’t realize the work that went into them and we didn’t have the emotional maturity to articulate gratitude without prompting. But in another sense, the fact that the sum of those small parts was a happy and beautiful childhood has never been lost. It’s the standard that my sisters and I know we can’t really meet without a great deal of sacrifice.

I was not grateful for the frilly dresses my mother would pick out–matching of course–for my sister Jackie and me. Beautiful sailor dresses in green velvet with pink bows for Christmas, or Easter dresses in pinks and yellows. She dressed us like that far longer than we would have preferred. I only saw her sartorial choices as her attempts to control us. I didn’t realize that it was her way of giving her daughters beautiful things even though our resources were limited.

My mother, in turn, would wear the same (stylish) clothes for years.

So it would come as a surprise when out of frustration with my sister and me, she’d snap. It didn’t occur to us that she was a woman who had made a choice to devote her time and energy toward her family and that the trade-off was her own life.

—

From what I understand, my mother always wanted to be a mother, and has been for two-thirds of her life. All of her adulthood has centered around other people. When she found  herself a single mother at the age of 22, she worked at Elizabeth Arden to support herself and my brother. She did that for years–leaning in, one might say–until it became clear that she needed to spend more time with her son. She left her career to become a church secretary. She eventually married my father, a single parent himself, and became known by the congregation of his inner city church as “Sister Pastor.” Within a very short time after their marriage, the church of eleven people began to experience a revival among the drug addicts and dealers in the community.

Most people would not describe my mother as a “badass.” She was a Christian pastor’s wife who would dress her four children in their Sunday best, to go to the Alphabet City neighborhood of Manhattan, a drug supermarket, and sing songs about Jesus’ blood and righteousness. Without fear, she’d make us sit and eat with people who were affected by a still-unknown and deadly virus. Or if she was afraid, she wouldn’t show it. When santeros in the neighborhood would put curses on her and my father for their work at the church, she’d simply pray. We never missed church. She was fearless.

It was my mother’s love that made her so courageous. She had so much love to give, even if it would only be shared temporarily and never truly reciprocated. So it made sense when we started to take in foster children. She would let my sister and I help name them and she had new babies to dress in frilly dresses. We could never adopt any of them, because of policies that prevented white families from adopting African-American children. My mother, heartbroken after one baby, Susannah, now named Ashley, was sent to be adopted, took some months off from foster parenting. Ashley’s adoptive mother, noticing her depression from being separated from my mother, asked if they could visit and their family became friends with ours. To this day, Ashley refers to my mother as “Mommy Carol.”

—

I’ve written before about the ache and terror that comes with the looming loss of a parent. Over four years since my father’s bout with death, I have grudgingly come to grips with the fact that I will one day lose him. I can make no such claims about my mother. My brain cannot even conceive of her absence, and despite our many clashes and shouting matches, a world without my mother feels so barren. My heart sinks with the thought.

There are so many cliches about a mother’s love and sacrifice that cause us to feel both sentimental and guilty at the same time. We make jokes about “Mom Jeans” and sneer at women who seem to have given up on being a woman in favor of being a mother. We can never appreciate the delaying of personal gratification at our expense without realizing that the debt we owe is not only astronomical, but that it was forgiven before it was even incurred. My mother could have done many other things with her life, but like the proverbial seed, she let herself die daily so that my sisters, brothers, and total strangers could not only live, but thrive. My every achievement is credited in some way to her. The most profoundly written essay–which this is not–is only a paltry tribute to her contributions.

The Great Gatsby

I can see it in your faces: that yearning for something that isn’t in front of you, that rosy complexion generated from outdoor activity, that confused expression when I ask if you can believe how awful Brody’s daughter is. Some of you are out there, living your lives and doing God knows what, without considering the impact your hours spent away from the television are having on your life.

I’m here to change that.

Within minutes of starting our first conversation, my husband and I were comparing notes on entertainment: favorite movies, music, TV shows. Granted, we were at a dive bar while a college football team to which neither of us felt an affinity was losing a game on a nearby screen—so the conversation was ripe for escapism. During the year of friendship that preceded our courtship, we often met at my apartment to watch—and yell in disbelief—at Lost. Then we became more than friends, and I felt it incumbent upon me (as girlfriends do) to broaden his horizons. So, on a trip to the Catskills in the dead of winter, I introduced him to Friday Night Lights via DVD. He was immediately hooked, and instead of tubing down a snowy hill, we spent the weekend marveling over the Taylors’ marriage and Tim Riggins’ coolness.

Since then, we’ve gotten married and had a baby. But our love for television has remained vibrant, and you’ll find us having most dinners in front of our favorite shows on the couch (except for the odd night when we force ourselves to the dining room table to eat and talk like “normal people,” our eyes drifting toward the flat screen in the family room longingly).

We both work hard (well, he works hard; I work moderately and complain hard), so our TV viewing is a time to unwind and zone out. But more than that, we are people who respond to story. At the risk of trying to sound highbrow and brilliant while really being lowbrow and despicable, I’d like to couch (ha—get it?) our TV affinity in a greater perspective than just mindless hobby. Because here’s the thing: these shows are not just about zombies and terrorists and families with two dads and ad agencies. You know that, right? You, the guy laughing at me trying to make TV watching sound deep and meaningful? These shows, at their best, make a statement about our own humanity. They give context to our struggles and our desires, and they don’t always reflect the best parts of ourselves, but they are—more than ever in the boob tube’s history—real. Awkwardly, violently, hilariously real. And this is why we love them.

So over the next couple of weeks, I’m going to share with you the stories behind the shows we watch: what they are overtly about, and what they’re really about–the greater narrative that we respond to. Now, this is going to take some time, as the list of shows that my husband and I watch is, as the French say, ass-long. Add to that the shows I watch alone because he wouldn’t be caught dead watching Smash, and we’re talking, “Didn’t you say you have a job and a kid?” Luckily I’m setting up weekly shop here at TWR for a couple of months, so we’ll have time to talk turkey. So let’s get started. Oh—and, as always, YOU’RE WELCOME.

THE WALKING DEAD

Ostensible premise: a small-town sheriff awakens from a gunshot-induced coma to find himself alone in a hospital bed after a zombie apocalypse.

Hook: Will the decimated humans or the overtaking zombies win?

Lead character: Rick Grimes, sheriff’s deputy turned zombie attack coordinator

Lead’s likability (1-10 scale): 7. He’s a solid dude catapulted into an insane situation (after being abandoned by all his peeps–cue tiny violins!). He’s a dad and a husband. And he speaks with a Southern accent (a plus for me and anyone with good taste–although when we saw him in Love, Actually he spoke with a British accent given that he is British in real life and all). But there are the awkward occasions when his position as group leader goes to his head and he dips into despotism.

Lead’s high school superlative: Most likely to say “there’s a new sheriff in town”.

Addictive potential: High. This ain’t your mama’s self-contained weekly drama. Most episodes end with a cliffhanger or big reveal that leads either to a week of desperate waiting or clicking “next” on Netflix.

Deeper story: Here’s the thing: zombies are resurrected humans. And so, with every death and zombification, our characters have to imagine themselves and their loved ones in zombie form. This is what they are running from, why they struggle to survive: to avoid the fate of being turned into gumless, gray, glass-eyed, flesh-wilting versions of themselves. AKA, MONSTERS. Which is exactly what makes Dead so fascinating, because the survivors themselves are either turning into the best (rare) or worst versions of themselves the longer they go on. And this begs the question: which is the worse fate? I regularly have zombie nightmares after watching an episode. But the upside: no matter how bleak your life looks now, take stock again after spending an hour with Rick and crew. You’ll like the way you look—I guarantee it.

DEXTER

Ostensible premise: a friendly blood-spatter analyst for Miami PD’s Homicide Department kills bad guys in his spare time.

Hook: Will he get caught? And what happens if he does?

Lead character: Dexter Morgan, blood expert/aficionado

Lead’s likability: 6. Some training from his adoptive father led to a code to which Dexter abides by for his killings–but he sometimes strays. And though most of his victims deserve worse, his “angel of death” schtick can venture into melodramatic bloodlust.

Lead’s high school superlative: Most likely to bring everyone doughnuts, with a side of creepy grin.

Addictive potential: High. Although earlier season finales were more resolution than cliffhanger, recent seasons have ended with huge reveals that leave the viewer aching (or, if you’re like me, frantically searching for spoilers) over the months-long hiatus. And though not every episode ends with a cliffhanger, enough issues are left unresolved as to create suspense for the next installment.

Deeper story: I won’t get into Dexter’s backstory, because you need to watch it unfold yourself, but suffice it to say you feel plenty of empathy for the guy–especially as his life becomes more layered with complex relationships and roles (marriage, fatherhood). The end result of being inside his head is to ask yourself what justice really looks like. Along with some other scary questions: do the people we love really know us—and would they still love us if they knew our deepest secrets?

Stay tuned, gang—we’re just getting started here. Next week I’ll return with more tales from the tube. So queue up your Netflix and clear space on that DVR, because there are stories waiting to be told that just may leave you a little less mindless and a little more pensive about your own life’s narrative. Or just entertained for thirty to sixty minutes a week.

This month’s letter was published on April 30th, and quoted in full, reads as follows:

DEAR ABBY: What is the protocol for in-person conversations vs. phone interruptions (either via text or call)? When talking with someone, I feel it’s rude for the other individual to respond to voice or text messages. Can’t people take a break long enough to actually have a real live conversation? How do other readers handle this? Do they walk away?  Patiently wait? Or speak up? — TECHNOLOGICALLY OVERLOADED IN VIRGINIA

DEAR TECHNOLOGICALLY OVERLOADED IN VIRGINIA: Wait, sorry, can you repeat that? I was sort of half listening while Instagramming my cappuccino. What does the foam on top of it look like to you? It totally looks like a person, right? Like maybe the Virgin Mary? Or that Rorschach dude who couldn’t paint. Wow, that gypsy I met was right! Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, you were saying something about phones. Wait, sorry, hold on a again. Phone call. It’s that gypsy! OMG, this is totally not a coincidence. I need to tweet this ASAP. Crap, 140 character limit. What’s another, smaller word for “divine providence?”

Ha! Oh man, I slay myself. Sorry Overloaded in Virginia, you set yourself up for that one. Anyway, like the percentage to which I was listening to what you were saying, I would half-agree with your annoyance by phone interruptions. I would then one-quarter disagree with what you said, and then one-quarter totally space out. Here’s why I only half-agree though.

It would be all well and good if we all could sit down, have riveting conversations with each other, chock full of active listening and creepily active eye contact, but that’s both unrealistic and, dare I say it, a bit selfish. The way I see it, importance is the dominant factor in whether a person is being “rude” with their phone interruptions or not. Before labelling them as “rude,” you need to take into account whether the person calling or texting is more important than you.

For example, what if the person you’re talking to gets a call from a family member, medical professional, or hell, even a prominent political figure. Can you really blame them for answering the phone if, say, their doctor calls them back with their test results? Or if their parent calls to tell them how the nice boy or girl that lived next door said hi to them in the grocery store? Or if the President of England calls them for advice about the Eurozone crisis? Ha! Trick question! England is a parliamentary democracy–well a constitutional monarchy, to be exact–and has a Prime Minister rather than a President. See, this is why no one listens when you talk. And I see you googling that on your phone as we speak. My how that kettle is black, eh pot? (racist)

But fine, let’s say the person calling or texting is of lesser importance than you. What do you do to let them know you don’t appreciate this behavior? Doing it back to them when they get off the phone and resume the conversation is simply childish. Which is why that’s exactly what I do, but with a twist. I like to pretend I have a really tiny invisible ear bud, so I put one finger on my ear to “hear better” and then say cryptic things into my shirt collar. Stuff like “Check your six, Alpha One” or “Alpha One, who the hell stretched out my shirt collar?” That or I just forgo the whole earbuds charade and pretend to answer voices that only I can hear. You would be surprised how effective perking up, staring intently into the distance, and saying in a slow, robotic voice “I’m sorry Dave, I’m afraid I can’t do that” can be. You’ll never be interrupted again. Especially if you refuse to open the pod bay doors.

If playing pretend surveillance team or murderous supercomputer isn’t your thing, you can take a more subtle approach. If they’re reading a text, you can always jump on the texting train and send them one yourself. No need to be snarky, but just have it read something innocuous like “Hiiiiii!!!! ” or “Whatcha doing?:)” Note: absolutely do not forget to include the emoticons. If you don’t you’re just being rude. Or if its a person of interest–relationship interest, that is–you can send them something cute to let them know you’re thinking of them. Something along the lines of “I yearn for your conversation,” “I miss your musk,” or “Autocorrect turns me on.” That will direct the conversation back to you.

If they’re on the phone rather than texting you can pick up your phone and call them yourself, then when they see that its you, wave wildly from across the table with a maniacal grin across your face. Or better yet, keep a few burner phones on you and call from those. That way you can see if the person you’re talking to is actually only answering calls from people who are higher on the importance scale than you or if you’re just really, really boring. Or alternatively, if they’re just really, really into technology. In which case, I refer you back to my advice to speak like Hal 9000.

You’re welcome.

From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweiler, EL Konigsburg

This is not a new read, by any means. But this classic YA book holds up more than four decades after it was published. The specifics of these 1960s runaways (who hide out in the Met, no less) are very rooted in a historical place and time but somehow the details make the story more relatable, even if we’ve never ordered from an automat or bathed in a fountain.

The Pillow Book, Sei Shonagon

I once read this book described as the original Tumblr. And if the circa 1000 AD Japanese lady at court and author of this sometimes vicious, sometimes fashiony, sometimes scandalous diary had a blog, she totally would have posted her quotes in helvetica: “I can’t really understand people who get angry when they hear gossip about others. How can you not discuss other people? Apart from your own concerns, what can be more beguiling to talk about and criticize other people?” Amen, Sei.

World War Z, Max Brooks

It’s not just about books: summer movie season is here too. I know everybody’s talking about that other movie based on a book, but Max Brooks’ awesome post-apocalyptic dystopian zombie novel is a great read of another sort. Structurally unique, it’s composed of a series of formal interviews of survivors of the great zombie apocalypse. Is hindsight 20-20 when a raging horde of the undead is chasing after you? Find out!

The Gone Away World, Nick Harkaway

My roommate recommended this book to me for months before I read it. And I hated the first two chapters so hard I could barely keep from throwing it across the room. Fortunately, I was trapped at home post-Hurricane Sandy with no electricity or company, and sheer boredom forced me to keep reading. I’m glad I did, and you will be too, as you try to put your finger on something that’s just not quite right about a survivor’s tale of another post-apocalyptic society rebuilt.

 Winter’s Tale, Mark Helprin

Enough of zombies and monsters. Winter’s Tale reimagines New York at the turn of the 20th century, a New York that’s also slightly off in a mysterious, shimmering way. Helprin’s characters romp through the city and the English language; you’ll never wish more that you’d been born 130 years ago. Note: the book does start in the winter, but as the tale heats up, so does the weather.

The Complete Stories, Flannery O’Connor

Speaking of heat: nothing says summer like the sweaty, sultry south. As fans of O’Connor, Faulkner and McCarthy know, the grotesqueness of humanity isn’t far from the surface. O’Connor’s ability to uncover the dark soul of a person is as unsettling as it is brilliant, particularly in the few pages of her short stories. Read one or two, or read them all.

Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies, Hilary Mantel

There are dark, homespun characters that border on the grotesque, and then there are the complex, charming, frustrating, ambitious people who change the world. One such man, based on Hilary Mantel’s research: Thomas Cromwell. Mantel’s narrative style takes a bit of adjustment until you figure out who’s talking when, but once you do, history has never been more entertaining.

The Name of the Rose, Umberto Eco

If you’re really up for a challenge, kick it early 80s style – and then 14th century style – with semiotician Umberto Eco’s nerdcore murder mystery. If you can make it through the first 50 pages, you’re in for a treat. You may not have considered discourses on Aristotle, 14th century church politics and medieval libraries a treat, but why not stretch your brain one last time before hitting the beach?

   I’ve made a huge mistake.

As I look forward to another birthday in the coming weeks, I have also started my annual reflection over this past year and what I learned. It’s been unsettling to realize that some of the bad habits that I’d picked up in my younger years have followed me to this new decade. But it’s also been empowering to recognize that those habits can be unlearned.

Since my partnership with my co-editor increasingly resembles that of brother and sister–we finish each other’s sandwiches and I have to repeatedly tell him to stop hitting himself–I thought that I would copy him and do Seven Habits of my own. I’m mostly writing for the young single ladies in our readership, but really, they’re applicable to all. So here are my Seven Bad Habits You Really Need to Break. Now. In other words, stop hurting yourself.

1) Stop seeking and listening to everybody’s advice.

Well, except mine. Just kidding! In all seriousness though, consider who among your friends are wise and seem to be at peace with their lives. Consider who among your friends knows you well. Consider who takes a genuine interest in your happiness and well-being. Then limit what you share and whose advice you seek to those people. As fellow New Yorker, Cheryl James, aka Salt, rapped in one my favorite songs, “opinions are like assholes and everybody’s got one.” You don’t want to find yourself a patchwork quilt of a person, a compilation of other people’s opinions and ideas, wondering which of them are actually yours. At the end of the day, you’re the one left having to live your life and you’re the only one who has the power and responsibility to make sure that you’re living the life that you’re meant to live.

2) Stop thinking that sex doesn’t have strings or fine print.

Speaking of “None of Your Business,” while it isn’t anyone’s business who you sleep with and when, it is most definitely YOUR business. And you need to ask whether the decisions you’re making about sex are going to lead to a flourishing life or a withering one. I know, I know, sex is empowering and we shouldn’t be afraid of our sexuality. I just think that you can be aware of and comfortable with your sexuality while not ceding your power to hormonally-charged douchebags, often of the drunken, button-down shirt variety. I know more women than not who regret random hook-ups or “no strings” relationships and the ones who don’t–and still continue the practice well past their 20s–aren’t living lives or are engaged in relationships that seem healthy, productive, or meaningful. You don’t have to let yourself be used. And you don’t have to use other people in order to feel empowered by your sexuality.

3) Stop being more intentional about your career than your relationships.

It would be a huge waste of time and an act of great foolishness if you randomly took jobs that you weren’t sure you were qualified for or that weren’t a good fit for you, to “just see what happens.” You also wouldn’t go into a job interview process unprepared to do the job well–you’ve probably sought some level of training to make you ready to be a great fit for that role. With our careers we often explore our interests and abilities, the work culture, and what we hope to achieve. Some of the worst advice that I have taken for common wisdom is to “just see what happens,” with dating. So you start hanging out, maybe you start making out or sleeping together, and all of a sudden, like an Instagram filter, your perspective shifts. The chemical haze causes issues that would normally come out in stark relief to lose focus. When you “just see what happens” without first considering whether you even want something to happen with that person, you neutralize your ability to determine whether he or she shares your values or can be depended upon for emotional support.

4) Stop dating the wrong guys for the wrong reasons.

Similarly, you’ve probably been encouraged to “see what happens” with a guy who you feel physically attracted to and who has a great job and is successful. Those are all great traits to consider, but they are variables, not constants. Your partner can become less attractive over time, or he could lose his job. What you should look for more than anything is character. How does this man treat other people, especially those who are not their peers? How does this person handle adversity and disappointment? How does this person handle conflict? Is this man someone who makes you feel emotionally and spiritually safe? One of the biggest mistakes you can make is to “just see what happens” with someone for the wrong reasons–you feel lonely, they make you feel good about yourself, you set some ridiculous milestone at which to be married and hey, this guy seems to fit the bill. Then you get your emotions involved. Add to that mix the aforementioned chemistry and you’d better hope that things work out. Because if they don’t and you get your heart broken, it could take a while to heal. That’s really not the most efficient use of time. I know that love isn’t so clinical and can’t always be reasoned, but for God’s sake try to use a little bit of reason. It’s your heart. Take care of it.

5) Stop using people to make yourself feel better.

We have all done this to some extent. It could be a rebound (or a series of rebounds) after you “just saw what happened” with someone and it didn’t work out. It could be dating someone because you don’t want to be alone or because the male/female attention makes you feel good about yourself. It could be a “fake boyfriend/girlfriend,” a friend of the opposite sex who you treat as a significant other because there isn’t anyone else around who you want to date. Not only is this such a horrible way to treat fellow human beings–some other mother’s son, daughter, sister, brother, etc.–but it’s not going to solve the original problem of why you don’t feel good about yourself. Again, you’re the only person who is specially charged with your life. You have to figure out how to be at peace with yourself and the rest of the world. Start looking inward, journal, talk to a therapist or a counselor. Figure your shit out or else you’ll inflict pain on other people.

6) Stop making decisions out of fear.

I spent roughly two years of my early-to-mid 20s being completely miserable (and probably making everyone else miserable as well) at a series of ill-fitting jobs. Occasionally, I would imagine quitting–even if I hadn’t found another job–just to make the pain stop. I never did though. I was too afraid of being unemployed, of appearing like a failure, and of how it would look on my resume. I didn’t think that I had options, even though now I look back and see that of course there were ways out. I had allowed fear to cloud my judgment. Remember that you have a choice between being miserable or not. You always have options. It might not be the perfect solution, but no one else is going to be responsible for your happiness except for you.

7) Stop thinking that you have time.

There is a wise saying that bears some thought: “like a dog that returns to his vomit is a fool who repeats his folly.” Insanity is defined by doing the same action over and over again and expecting different results. 30 is the new 20 and 40 is the new 30 and someone alive right now will probably live to 150. That still doesn’t mean that you have the time to wallow around in Crazytown. You may have the length of years on your side, but why waste more time on unhealthy habits, relationships, and jobs than necessary? Because whether you deal with the fallout from your mistakes right away or let it build up until it explodes, you’re going to have to come to some kind of reckoning with your actions. You don’t have the emotional time to waste on stupid decisions. Yes, they might make for some great drama. On television. But in real life, problems don’t tie up neatly with a Danny Tanner-esque life lesson in half an hour.