the pieces of my life

First stop was the American Museum of Natural History where we watched the Harrison Ford-narrated planetarium show, The Search for Life: Are We Alone. Of course, Harrison Ford annoys me (he was incredibly snippy to me during an interview I did with him for Amazon), but getting over that, I just love planetarium shows and they really could be about anything and I’d be happy. I know Adam really enjoyed it as well: he said it was one of the best movie naps he’s ever had. We watched the Big Bang theory and checked out the relative sizes display, although half of it was lost on me as it would said, “If Hayden’s Sphere is the size of your brain, this model is the size a raindrop would be,” and I didn’t figured out that Hayden Sphere was the big round planetarium starring me in the face. After a while, I declared I was bored by outer space, so the four us tooled about the museum, getting goofy over the stuffed animals. As Adam says, there will never be another museum created like this one again, since shooting animals and stuffing them for our pleasure is kind of frowned upon these days. Oddly enough, all the primates have a look of surprised fear on their faces. Wonder why? The best part of the museum for me was a photograph exhibition called “Beneath the Antarctic,” of a diving expedition. Incredible views.

The rest of the evening was spent hitting the Hi Life bar, then dinner at Max Soho, a game of Apples to Apples (and if you’ve never played this, which I hadn’t, it is a really fun game if you’ve got a warped enough group, which obviously enough we did), and finally back to another bar, the Ding Dong. Adam and I called it an early night (what else?) and headed back for some sleep.

Funny thing, walking into the Ding Dong, I was reminded that New York places all have this incredibly identifying smell. The bars have this vaguely smokey, woody smell to them. The apartment buildings have the odor of a melange of foods being cooked at once. The clothing stores often have a slightly moldy scent. My nose alone brings back so many New York memories.

I wonder sometimes if I could live in New York again. Picturing myself there takes a bit of work. I love how much there is to do. I love how convenient everything is. The subway makes getting from point A to point B a snap, as it’s a much more extensive system than it is here in Boston. Of course, the flip side of that is that sometimes it’s nice to just get in a car and go, and not have to deal with waiting for a train or walking to a subway stop in the bitter cold (and I just heard that they’re raising the subway fares from $1.50 to $2, which is pretty criminal, if you ask me). The dirt and the noise I can live with. The biggest stumbling block, I think, is where to live. When I was 24, living in a tiny box with a loft bed and no closets and only the occasional mouse (although the cockroaches were regulars) was fun and cool and made me feel independent and oh-so grown-up. At 34, it’s not so fun and cool, and really, I’m a little sick of the independent and grown-up bit. Seriously, though, having a lot of space is a priority for me. Having my own office makes me incredibly happy. A kitchen that can fit two people cooking together is not something I like to think of as a luxury. But in New York it is. You can have that if you live outside of the city, but then, you wouldn’t be living in New York. All things to contemplate as Adam evaluates what kind of job he wants to take.

Headed downtown on Sunday morning to stow our belongings at the Tweedle Twirp’s and then met an old buddy at Benny’s Burritos for lunch. Tweeds was right: Benny’s just isn’t what it used to be. It wasn’t bad, but nothing like it was. By the time we were done with lunch at 1, Tweeds was fully awake, so out we went for some shopping. Unfortunately, my primary destination, Industrial Plastics, was closed, but we managed to do some damage at Canal Jeans, which is closing its humongous store on Broadway this week. (This feels like the end of an era for me. I outfitted myself primarily from Canal Jeans when I was New Yorker. My first winter coat came from its vintage section. All my black tops were from the five and ten dollar bins. My cute purple-flowered vintage dress was a Canal Jeans special. Of course, Balducci’s also closed this past week, but without the fanfare of Canal Jeans. Well, unless you count security guards escorting the employees out, although I read they were all offered jobs in other markets–the employees, that is, not the security guards. Not that I’ve shopped at Balducci’s more than twice in my life, if even that much, but it was nice to know it was there.) We got in on the second to last day for a bit o’ shopping at Canal Jeans. Adam loaded up on 501s, whereas I found a lovely vintage, faux-fur-collared cream colored coat for a mere $15. I will look stylin’ in that thing. Grabbed a couple of tops, and off we went. Visited Pearl Paint (for Martha supplies), and wandered in and out of stores, checking out the tres hip boutiques of NoLita, which I have major problems accepting as an actual area. When one section of town becomes too Gapped out (like Soho), they just invent a new one for the ten-foot-by-twelve-foot closets they call stores.

Of course, the trip wouldn’t be complete without a visit to the new minimalist Prada store in what was part of the Guggenheim Soho. (Is it just me or is the Prada site a little minimalist itself?) I think more gawkers than shoppers were in there, but I guess they expect that with such a design. A trippy store that words won’t do justice. I was ogling a pair of shoes that I thought were quite fetching but the Tweedle Twirp wouldn’t let me get them because the heels were too high and Adam wouldn’t let me get them because they cost $3,240. But they were purty.

What is it about the Strand bookstore that the moment I walk in, my mind turns to mush. I’ve got plenty of books on my Amazon wish list, but the minute I’m confronted with the rows and rows and rows of review books, my mind goes blank and I can’t remember a single title that I want to get. I am therefore forced to roam the aisles and discover completely new books to buy, thus increasing my pile of to-be-reads into an unmanageable state. In a state of shock, I just idled through the labyrinth piles of books. I did show some restraint and only picked up Abandon by Pico Iyer (because NPR gave it such a great review), Advanced Sex Tips for Girls: This Time It’s Personal by Cynthia Heimel (because Cynthia Heimel was Carrie Bradshaw long before there was a Carrie Bradshaw and she’s funnier and I think she’s missed out), Her by Laura Zigman (for no other reason than it looked fun), Enough About You: Adventures in Autobiography by David Shields (David is a former professor of mine and I love his writing style–he’s the one who got me interested in writing creative nonfiction), and Love Works Like This: Moving from One Kind of Life to Another by Lauren Slater (I’ve read her book Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir, which both annoyed me and intrigued me at the same time, which I think makes for a really compelling book. But my image of her as a person is rather scary so I’m repelled/fascinated by the idea of her entering motherhood. You’d have to have read her previous books to know what I’m talking about.) (Ugh, and as I’m writing this, I realize I forgot to get the new Milan Kundera book.) Adam managed to walk out with just one book, which serves him right as I wanted to hit the road early, but he said we should go to the Strand, and therefore can’t complain that I walked out with too many books I just don’t need (although really, isn’t every book a necessary book?).

And that was the perfect way to end our New York weekend.

A billboard in Connecticut that read: “Keep taking my name in vain. I’ll only make your rush hour longer. –God”

I had one of those days when things just weren’t clicking. I have two stories that I had to have finished today: one article is supposed to be 700 words and the other 900. My drafts on these came in at 795 and 1014. After begging the designer for more word count and getting laughed at, I spent the afternoon cutting them both down, only to discover that I ended up with 840 and 1026 words respectively. I think this is why I’m not the one in business school: never did grasp that addition vs. subtraction thing.

Off to bed, because tomorrow morning we’re going to wake up early to head down (yes, down) to New York for the long weekend. So you may not hear from me for a few days.

My thanks to Diana for sending me the article about Harvard funding education for those going into public service. Diana assured me my “standing in the CWITs should remain untouched by those do-gooders striving for careers in public service.” Absolutely, especially given that none of the money will go to people in the business or law school because “departing students are typically offered large salaries.”

Interesting. So instead of encouraging law students to become public defenders or prosecutors (please note, that the starting salary for public defenders in the state of Massachusetts is $35,000 a year, which according to my last calculation, means you could pay off your student loan in… um, never?) or helping business students to work for nonprofits, we’ll just assume they’ll go into big businesses and make megabucks. Seems to me that this is a vicious cycle. Charge so much that students have to go to work for big business, then don’t give them any money because they are going into big business. Why not have a program like ROTC for business schools? We’ll fund half your education (or whatever) and you commit to four years of work in a nonprofit after grad school. All those folks who would be going into nonprofit anyway would jump at it. And those who wanted to go into big business and earn those megadollars could just keep on moving.

Now, please don’t think I’m defending MBAs in anyway here. I just think that a valuable way to make better, more responsible MBAs is being passed by.

My mother accuses in my comments section (for those of you who don’t read comments sections): “AH HAAA! Your mother tried to teach you to sew on buttons, but no, you said you were going to be chairman of the board of IBM and you would hire someone to do that for you….”

This is incorrect. I, at no time in my life, ever wanted to be chairman of the board of IBM. What she may be referring to is those years between the ages of 14 and 18 when I thought being the president of Chase Manhattan Bank, after a nice career as an international banker in Geneva, might be the thing to do. Tons of money, a penthouse apartment in Manhattan with a view of the city, fancy schmancy furniture that the full-time maid/chef kept clean, and a string of handsome boyfriends also came with that package (but not husband–never husband. The idea of husband didn’t enter my mind until I hit my 30s).

What, didn’t everyone know that at one time, my aspirations went beyond CWIT? There was a time when I wanted to have a CWIT? Yes, folks, it’s true. I spent my freshman year at the University of Texas and on my application when it said pick your school, I checked off the box that said “business.” (Ah, Texas. The only school that required no essays, no real application form. Just a bunch of check boxes. I, apparently, check boxes quite well.) Two semesters of calculus (As in both) and two in economics (Bs in both) made me realize how much I hated business. So I ran away and joined a film school.

(And for the record, it was my dear mother [yes, the artist] who said–when I told her I was going for my MFA–“Oh, an MBA! That’s a great idea!” I corrected her, “No, an MFA. In creative writing.” She replied, “What the hell are you going to do with that? An MBA is much more practical.”)

My eyes are just tiny slits this morning, barely able to open up enough to see the screen. Last night was my first sewing class and as anyone who knows me knows, I am not an evening person. Normally, right here, right now in the glorious a.m. hours are my prime time. So as I was falling asleep in my lemongrass shrimp dinner before class last night, I said to Adam, “Not going to make it. Need caffeine.” The fact that the lovely weather was one of those “15 degrees, feels like 4” (which it is right now), didn’t help a whole lot (that weather simply screams for a warm bed. You thought it was the wind, didn’t you? Nope. It was the screams of the weather). So off to Starbucks we went where all I had was a tall nonfat latte. Just a single. No big deal. Except that I’ve been off of caffeine for a long, long time. It did the trick. I was up and alert in class. And after class. And when I got into bed. And as I tried to fall asleep. And at 3 a.m. Seems to have lost all of its effect now. But then, caffeine raced through my veins like it was Dario Franchitti and I was the Monaco Grand Prix. (Okay, I have no idea if Franchitti actually races the Monaco Grand Prix, but he’s the only race car driver I know of–and only because he’s married to Ashley Judd–and the Monaco Grand Prix is the only race that came to mind.) (Another digression: Want to marry a celebrity but want to do away with all the nasty stalking? Just create your own marriage certificate and vows and tell everyone you’ve married Judd Nelson or whoever your famous love happens to be.)

So (Sew?) was it worth it? Yep. I know how to thread a sewing machine. Big step for me. The teacher is a trip. She’s an attractive Russian woman in her, I’m guessing, 40s, who is very no nonsense. “You don’t like the projects we are doing? No I won’t change them. This is my class. This is what we do.” She went around the room and had us tell our sewing background (mine is I can sew on a button in a pinch, but not very well), and whenever anyone mentioned that they knew someone who knew how to sew, she would bark out, “And why did they not teach you!” On one hand, very accusing, but on the other hand, just too funny. She was very concerned about why people were taking the class (“Are you taking this because you want to learn? Or because your mother wants you to learn?”). She also told us she would be very offended if we drop out of the class. So I guess I better stay in it. Besides, next week is buttons, hooks and eyes, and snaps. How can I pass that up?

I’ve been giving more thought to the partners working the admit weekend. I’ve decided I should submit the following “A Female Partner’s Perspective” for next year’s edition of the student handbook. You all remember how much I liked last year’s, right? A conversation with a to-remain-nameless CWIT recently just reinforced all of this (yes, this is better than working on the novel):

You will be graded on a scale from 1 to 3, with 1 the highest and 3 failing. This is a forced curve, so not all of you will pass. A rare few of you who are outspoken (in the right way) and who excel in all areas will become Cook Scholars, which entitles you to a lifetime of nanny services. After all, business school is all about winning. And not only is Harvard not the exception, it is the epitome. You are no longer you. You are an HBS spouse. And at HBS, we take the CWIT (corporate-wives-in-training) program seriously.

Rule 1: You no longer have your own name. Even if you did, you are now your husband’s appendage. “I’m Joe’s wife.” Taking your husband’s name doesn’t earn you points, because that is a given. If you kept your maiden name, well, you lose three points right off the bat. On your name tag, write in big letters, “Cruella Snodweiner, wife of Herbert Snodweiner the Third.”

Rule 2: Be friendly, but not too friendly. Remember, your new friend’s husband may one day be the investor your husband needs for his new venture capitalist firm. So be helpful to the other CWITs, but always maintain the upper hand. Say, “Oh, what a darling hair cut. I know just the place in town where you can go to get those roots taken care of.” Say, “What an unusual shade of lipstick!” Say, “Has it already been six months? Losing baby fat is harder than it seems, isn’t it.” Earn 10 points.

Rule 3: Did you just ask where the male partners are? Ha ha ha ha. You get two points for making the fellow CWITs laugh, but you lose 5 points for asking such a ridiculous question.

Rule 4: Receive 1 point for every section social function you attend. Lose 2 points if you actually try to engage a non-partner in a conversation that lasts more than .75 minutes. Safe topics: the weather, what they think of the Enron case study they are reading, what their job was before HBS. Unsafe topics (immediate failure): what you think of the Enron case study that you read while your husband was playing golf with his professor; the inspections in Iraq; what your job was before HBS.

At the end of the two years your points will be tallied and your class participation will be measured against that of your fellow CWITs. After these scores have been carefully tallied and analyzed, gauging for future party-throwing potential and the ability to realize maximum profit when your husband divorces you for his prettier, thinner, blonder wife, a final ranking will be determined. And in a ceremony that occurs the same morning your husband graduates with his MBA, those numbers will be tossed out and the coveted CWIT of the Future Award will be given to the woman with the best manicure.