Writing with Rox WEEKLY—On the Radio

Yesterday, say late afternoon, Jude and I dangled our legs over the cement slab of  Lake Harriet to go see the Loons. It took some convincing. "They're the ones that go 'Ooooooooooooo?Ooooooo' like that little black and white speckled bird stuffed animal you have goes when you squeeze it," I attempted when he wanted to know what the big deal was. Of course I knew Loons was a long shot, that it was likely those fake Loons you see around this time of year, but up at the playground I overheard some more-mom-looking-and-sounding-mom-than-I tell her kids "Let's go see the Loons," so I acquiesced to the fantasy. 

Hope, maybe, and possibility create tension not only on the page, but off it as well. While I had every doubt, I held out hope a long time, even when the Loons looked a little suspicious with their clownish white beaks. Of course that made me feel horribly guilty, extremely un-Buddhist, clearly so overly attached to Loons that I could hardly recognize the individuality of this not-quite-Loonish flock. Still, even as we patiently scoped the bird clown invasion, as the setting in of that "this isn't quite right" feeling thickened, I didn't want to abandon the possibility. 

"Mama, why aren't they makin' the 'Oooo?Oooo' sound?" Jude wanted to know. 

"Give it a minute, honey," I said, "it needs to get darker." I looked around for the know-it-all-mom, but she wasn't around to back me up. "Loons like to call out at dusk."

"What's duksk?" Jude looked around as though dusk would be rounding the corner or emerging from the deep sea, for that matter, along with the Loons.

"Nothing honey. It's just poetry for getting dark." Like I said, I'm not the most momish mom at times. On good weather days, I'm selfish about enjoying the moment without having to break it down.

Still, all too soon, the moment changed when appeared a mid-aged fellow and his Golden Retriever, who kept nosing his tennis ball back into the water. At one point the other mom materialized and her toddler joyously kicked the ball back into the lake after the owner had retrieved it for the third time. Josie howled on the ledge. What was I thinking believing her about Loons, what with a toddler who does that? Still, Jude was amused and I got to go back to feeling the sun on my skin, waiting for that sacred Loon song. 

"Those aren't Loons are they?" I asked Josie's dad as we finally stood to go back. And that's when he broke the news about the Coots. I didn't ask him what sort of sing they make. It didn't matter at all by then.

"Huh. See Jude? Coots. Sort of sounds like Loons, though, right?"

"Sure, Mama. Let's go." It didn't much matter to him either.

Back in the car Jude suggested I put on a song really loud. "I'm tired of all that ram ram hare aaaaaah hare harry aaaaaaaah..." he trailed off, perfectly tired. "Turn on the radio," he ordered. "And turn it up. Loud."

"Good God, the radio? Really?" 

Like mother like son. But really? The radio? What a concept. 

So I took a leap of faith. And where there's lack of Loonsong, there is cheesy 70s music; waiting for me was that perfect sentimental summer song that goes "something something...love isn't always on time! Woe oe ooooe..." which I blasted and belted along with the 3 others just like it to follow. Oh, I was flooded with memories and feeling and drives with Ma listening to radio in LA traffic way too loud, each song better than the last.

When I looked in the rearview, I expected to see Jude conked out, but he was singing right along with me, making up his own perfect words, which never would have happened if the Loons had come down to sing.

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Favorite Radio Songs?

Loon Stories? Er, Coot Stories?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Ah Sugar, Sugar...

The other day Jude and I were hanging out making paper mache masks with our awesome artist friend and her boy, who is a couple years younger than Jude. In the way of most kids, he and Jude entered in and out of their running imaginary worlds and at one point the worlds collided; full of giggles, her boy announced "I'm smooooking..." and began pantomiming with wide gestures, waving paper strip cigarette to his lips. 

"Now Avi," my friend declared, containing her alarm more then any Jewish mother I am or know, "what do we know is worse for us than any other thing in the world? What's the absolute worst thing we can put into our bodies?"

The boy dramatically paused, posing in deep thought of finger to chin as modeled by our thoughtful elders. "Hmmmm? Hmmm... Ring Pops!"

I couldn't contain my glee. "Yes! Right! That is absolutely true! Don't ever get hooked on Ring Pops or dark chocolate M+M's or Bottle Caps or any other beautiful irresistible sugary thing, kids." I could've gone on. I could've said "at least when you quit smoking you get to have sugar!"

"Okay," his mother said, reigning us in, "yes...Ring Pops are not great for you, but no... what else? That's right. Smoking..."

"Of course," I agreed, "smoking. Don't smoke kids." I mumbled something out the side of my mouth about how it's still debatable.

Cigarettes extinguished and back to the task at hand,  my friend asked, "So why is it you're giving up sugar again?"

"Well, it's only for a month, first of all..." I said, because, first thing's first, after all. "And, well... I just want to see if I can do it." 

"Mama eats candy all day!" Jude chimed in, with which I couldn't argue.


As a kid, my dad literally had to drag me out of the candy aisle, while I anchored myself, lanky blonde ball and chain to the metallic grocery cart at Gelson's. He may have given in once or twice, consenting to say, Gatorade Gum or Good N Plenty, his downfall,  neither of which really counted. As a doctor, he balked at any compromise when it came to sugar, identifying it repeatedly as "chazari," Yiddish for junk, trash, rotten, in the same category as messhuga or mishegas, which he often trioed together in the same sentence.

I don't know how much psychoanalytics has to do with my lifetime tithing to sugar, but I do know that dad was right in that there is nothing good to come of sugar, except maybe vodka, which he was indifferent to. Everyone knows the truth about sugar; I get it, I know it and for the most part I maintain a functional relationship with it. And yet... every once in while I have to give it up for a while. 

I know it's time when I start dreaming about sugar. And lo, Monday night, the first day into a thirty-day white sugar fast, I dreamed of sugar. It appeared as a crystal, red ruby gem, which I kept knowingly both in my mouth and in my hand, the way you can in dreams; I was being chased in a labyrinth, not unlike the one from the childhood board game Shoots and Ladders. All along I knew said treasure was a red cherry Jolly Rancher, those tiny oblong hard candies that always melted a bit inside the cellophane that we got as kids on the penny shelf at 7-11, which I hadn't thought about in years. No way anyone was going to get their hands on my treasure, no matter the danger. Some dreams are embarrassingly clear. 

In Donald Miller's recent memoir A Million Miles in a Thousand Years,  he talks about an inciting incident, both on and off the page, as a moment in time in which you walk through a doorway of no return. Though I realize I am making myself way more literary than necessary in this regard, the week before Easter, one of my amazing Friday Writers declared she would be giving up sugar for one month, beginning April 6, waiting until after Easter so she could have jelly beans. We understand each other, this fella sugar fiend and I, commiserating often on the lifelong love affair we've both shared with the crystalline vampiress, right down to the methodology we similarly apply to eating Whoopers, so at first her proclamation felt like a betrayal; what do you mean you're giving up dark chocolate M+M's? You're just going to knowingly let me continue poisoning myself while you go cold turkey on me? 

I had no choice other to invite myself in. "Can I do it with you?" I practically begged. Kindly, she agreed, proceeding to outline the rules. "No artificial sweeteners, but sugar already appearing in things I already eat is fine," her intention, like mine, to stay away from processed crack-like sugar—in my case, nightly dishings of vanilla SoyDelicious with a chaser of dark M+Ms, hers something in the jelly bean family. 

By then, I was long past the point of no return. I had to do it. I didn't know why. I still don't know why. But I'm doing it and it's fucking way harder than quitting smoking, especially with Ma in town suggesting we go back to Perkins to get a sugar free mixed berry pie. (Her intentions are good; she swears it has no sugar in it one way or another).

Since Monday, my student and I have been supporting each other via daily texts and emails (see? another reason why writing heals!), ranging from the mundane to the bizarre (mine, not hers).  Man, I need her. I've also been calling TCF multiple times per day, as well as when we're together with, "can I have sugar now?" 

For the life of me I cannot understand why he does not have the same cravings as I do and I'm grateful for his patience. "Where exactly do you crave it, honey? Where in your body? In your mouth?" I get squirmy and fitful trying to explain an addiction he does not have. In turn, he encourages me to do something sweet for myself. "Do some gentle yoga, breathing...lay on the floor and remind your body to relax, honey." 

It's hard to take in what seem like platitudes those first few days. Sure, I love yoga, but really, you can't compare a forward fold to a bowl of vanilla with chocolate chips... not this late at night anyway. But I'm beginning to see the value of the nothingness left when the anticipation and ritual of ice cream and chocolate is no longer there. That same nothing is beginning to illuminate the sweetness that is there all the time: my son's smile, the lick of moonlight on my comforter, the feel of tired on my eyelids, TCF's kindness and compassion... not that I ever took these things for granted, but perhaps recognizing them for the genuine sweetnesses as they are—offerings from the heart rather than the pastel manufactured ones masked in the toxic illusion of love—is the real reason I jumped at the chance for this sort of nonsense.

Then again, it's still early. Perhaps this is still the denial phase. What I do know is that writing, as always, continues to be my sacred go to, whenever I need to battle another craving and remind myself all these melodramatics are going to ease up over time. If you'd like to follow my occasional rantings, I've made myself a nice little sugar shack at My Chazari, but it a'int a piece of cake. 


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What is your sugar story?
What have you had to give up?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Out of Character

It was strange. 

I'd like to think it has something to do with the antibiotics, the oddly warm weather we're having, the surreality of spring break. Whatever the reason, I must have looked like something washed up out of the Sahara this morning to the kind BP station manager, who greeted me with a welcome wagon, while I recoiled behind my wide infinity scarf, shielding myself from both sun and smile.

"How you doing?" he announced, heading directly toward me.

What does he want? my body wondered, long before any thought-forms appeared. I looked around the deserted station. Is he talking to me? 

What led me to be pumping gas at a surreally vacant BP at ten this morning on Excelsior Blvd was a missed eye doc's appointment, which if you can believe, I showed up too early for. Unable to swing the extra hour and a half of Jude care, I  picked up some Sudafed for my sinus infection, grabbed a Caribou, an apple fritter, and headed home, feeling displaced. 

Earlier while pulling out of the clinic garage, a Somali woman was trying to anchor her SUV in a compact spot beside me as I inched out. I felt the familiar heat, the seed of a tirade, the useless righteousness that begs the same questions in times like this, "Why don't other people follow the rules? Why do I get punished when I do follow the rules? Why oh why did I get a small car? And who the fuck needs such a gargantuan car?  I'm like a minnow out here!" She squeezed further in, obstructing my vision of oncoming cars, who honked at me when I attempted to back out. And finally I just stopped. I gave up. I surrendered to the uselessness and helplessness of the moment. I could've very well put my head in my hands. What am I supposed to do now? I'm sure the poor woman recognized the fury in my eyes when I finally made eye contact with her;  instead of proceeding in the ineffectual passive aggressive way, I raised my eyes for the challenge. I felt myself bristle and buck, awaiting the crossbars on her face. In defense, I raised my eyebrows with petulant inquiry. 

But the woman was not angry at all. In fact, what I dared to see, when I dared to look, was a smile so sweet and opening, I felt something like a flower petal dropping inside my heart. Quickly, I smiled back, the humble sort, as she waved me out of my spot, directing me with the ok sign against any oncoming happy honkers.

Of course all of this took place in under a minute, but her smile stretched timelessly. I berated myself for being so caught up in my drama, my sinus infection, my hard day, for not having more faith in people. For not being kind first. I hate it when people beat me to kindness. It's like a daily showdown: who's going to smile first, me or you? I won't if you don't, but if I do it first I really don't care if you do or don't because I don't have an ego. What? It's not conscious and I don't like it, but it happens, especially during certain times of the month. 

And on certain days of the month or whatever reason why, a random unexpected kindness only goes so far, and by the time I get to the BP Station, I'm back into my contorted form, feeling like an alien pulling into a ghost town. 

Still, I did return the greeting to the manager who was coming right at me. "I'm good," I lied, "how are you?"

Without breaking stride, he seized the nearest squeegee and slapped it smoothly across my grimy window. "As the station manager, I like to greet my customers with a little kindness..." was the gist of what he said, as he continued to iron out my windshield.

I fumbled something in response, my animal body anticipating a sales pitch, or something to posture against. Thankfully, my domesticated side knows better. "Wow. Thanks so much," I said, "that's really sweet of you."

I felt compelled to make small talk after that. "Great amazing sunny..." I attempted, but trailed off when he smiled and headed back inside. He had no use for my throw away afterthoughts. 

There's no point to this story, nothing to share about writing or memoir; there certainly isn't a "happy" ending (it's actually rather anticlimactic: I came home, ate pastries with Jude and Too Cute Face, and did the neti pot). 

Of course it all got me thinking. Whenever I act out of character—belying all sense of self I recognize and rely on—I tend to call  myself out as a phony. Even though I realize it's this type of narrow thinking that gets me in trouble and keeps me stuck, not to mention exhausted, I fall for my thoughts way too often, believing I am exactly the person that I think I am, which gives me very little wiggle room to be an animal... and animal I am.

Of course this is getting wayward, but what I really want to say is that my instinctual withdrawal from kindness scared me a little bit. Sure, I'll regroup and get off the antibiotics, but I have to wonder  because, after all, I'm not the only one who's afraid every so often when kindness comes bulldozing through with a squeegee. 

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WHEN WERE YOU LAST OUT OF CHARACTER?