No Vacancy

I swim in a sea of false starts and self-induced happy endings. I finish the sentence without checking the grammar. I allow myself to go there, to feel, to believe, without checking first if there is something to believe in.

1. My heart has a stomped-on feeling. It's not a bad thing in and of itself, considering the glamour often contained in confusion, or the morbid satisfaction in noticing that even your morning coffee tastes like unrequited love. It's that old, familiar sting; the tender heart, which means I'll probably end up doing something exceedingly stupid, like buy a pair of clogs. I've been flirting with a pair in the window of 'Grasshopper,' where--between pathetic sighs--I contemplate whether money actually can buy happiness, and if it does, if I should buy it in the form of caramel-colored Svens. If I had money. And if I was brave enough to enter a store for any reason other than to use the bathroom, hoping we won't be evicted when Benji squirts soap all over the floor.

This entry began as a meditation on 'types,' inspired one afternoon by a conversation with my grandma. Over a pile of clementine oranges, she recounted the tale of my grandfather's marriage proposal. "It wasn't a proposal so much as a suggestion," she told me, dividing the citrus with her perfect little knife-nails. "We were on a double date, and he thought it might be neat if we went down to Las Vegas and got married." I let my scoff ring 'round the room, but scarcely dented its well-honed nonchalance.

"Yep," my grandpa replied. "I had a load of produce to deliver down South, and figured I might as well make it worth the drive."

I ate in silence, trying not to reveal that my life's only illustration of a functional marriage had just been reduced to an errand. "But don't worry," Grandma interjected. "He had to move fast, or I would have gotten away. We had just broken up for a month or so, and he realized he didn't like seeing me with anyone else."

Ooh, intrigue. An almost-grandpa. You were with someone else? Who?

"Bob."

Bob?

"Yep."

Pause.

So you've dated a total of two people, and they've both been named Bob?

"That's right."

Thus began the contemplation of types. When people look for commonalities among previous partners, it seems they pull on a physical thread; hair and eye color, body type, height. Sometimes they list activities like playing guitar, or World of Warcraft. I've even heard arguments for the ever-elusive personality type, such as Outgoing! or Deeply introspective! or my personal favorite, Horrifically antisocial in group environments! What no one ever talks about are names. And why would they? However, the patterns do exist; take my cousin, who had to clarify which long-term Ryan she was referencing until she eventually married Ryan F. Likewise, my sister has dated at least three Matts. Throw in a couple more and you have one of those VH1 shows where 'Ashlee,' 'Ashley,' and 'Ashleigh' must be individualized for behind-the-scenes confessionals, if nowhere else in their bikini-clad lives.

So, at what point do we stop classifying? In general conversation, I've always resisted it. I pretend to be deep and mysterious, subject to change... even if I have worn the same jean jacket for most of my life. My grandma, on the other hand, has been with the same man for sixty-five years; which makes me wonder if she even sees my grandpa as a type, or simply a fixture in the chair that belongs three feet away from the place where she keeps the remote. I wonder. If we get so entrenched in types that we can't see the forest for the trees, that doesn't change the fact that they are there... and more often than not, some variation of green. I wonder.

Then it occurred to me: I do have a type.

Unavailable.


2. In the immediate aftermath of this revelation, which wormed its way into most conversations I had last week, I realized how silly it sounds. In actuality, I got a ton of shit from anyone I told it to, and silliness emerged from there. But like most ideas that ring a bell, unavailable clanged in my head; and like most people do, I clung tight to the sound. What does it mean, anyway? To be unavailable? I ran through a list in my head, and realized that of the people who have made their way into my heart--or at least stopped in my head on their way there--a disproportionate number have been:

a) in a serious relationship with someone else
b) emotionally stunted
c) on another continent

In other words, totally and completely unavailable.

I shared this with my boss, who blamed it on age. "There's a simple solution," she told me, tucking her phone into her backpack. "Date older."

"Men your age, even close to your age, don't know what they want. Avoid the problem altogether and just... start browsing in a different section."

So, it's my age--the age made immortal by television, and by many a thirtysomething pretending to be younger for the purpose of entertainment: looking everything the part of a vibrant twentysomething, only minus the bad skin and colossally awkward existential crisis. It's my age. But what age am I on the inside? Most days, I oscillate between seven years old and seventy. Like a baby in an old-person suit, only minus the creep-factor. I am caught between somewhere and something, at once awed and saddened by the world. So how would dating someone older than me--than my body's age, if not my heart's--solve anything?

It would eliminate the drama, for one. Most people in their thirties and forties have managed to tone down the fart jokes, if not eliminate them altogether. Then again, my uncle is in his fifties and still eats coco-puffs out of plastic bowls, which he balances atop his stack of Playboys. Age is relative.

Unavailability, however, is precise.

It began on the playground, Roosevelt School, when I was six. Developed a crush on one of the boys in my class, but shortly thereafter, transferred to OAS: and between imaginary unicorn playdates, pined for the one that got away. Not much later, a good friend and I developed crushes on each other; always syncopated, never simple. When he finally kissed me, I shrank like a sea anemone... sucking into my skin out of the terror of possibility. When he got a girlfriend, however, I reserved the right to pine mournfully, bemoaning lost opportunities and the threat of my own aloneness.

When my first boyfriend told me he loved me, I wasn't ready. He doted after me, and I disappeared. Instead, I went for one who was in love with my best friend, then one who eventually fell in love with my other best friend, and a handful of others whom I spotted out the windows of moving cars. There was the college fling, milliseconds before I took off for a semester abroad; and let us not forget Bali, where I learned it is possible to have a chip on your shoulder the size of a meteorite and still be able to operate a vehicle. On an island of 4 million people, I fall for the one who is not allowed to date. What are the chances? Well, high--considering even the deepest relationship of my life was spent on a seesaw of are they-aren't they: a game that, at its worst, hurt others with its volatility... and even at its best, hurt me with it. I became accustomed to never knowing where we stood, or if the person I'd chosen would answer when I came knocking. The lights can be on for a long time, it seems, before you realize someone can't come to the door.

But! Recently, I have tried a more lighthearted approach. Just two months ago, I drove out of my way to meet up with an interest from college, to explore what possibilities did or did not exist. He invited me, so I came; I arrived at his house, antsy but confident, and we proceeded to walk around the neighborhood. When we met up with one of his female friends, I didn't think twice. It wasn't until she kissed him--at one point, leaning across me in order to do so--that I began to wonder if I had gotten my signals crossed. Late that night, my mom came in to make sure I'd arrived home safely. "How'd it go?" she asked, and I pulled the covers off my face. "I don't know which part was better," I gurbled. "That he was a total bore, or that he took me to meet his girlfriend."

Yes.

It has become a joke that, in a room of a dozen people, I will zero in on the only one with a life partner. Likewise, show me the man with the emotional availability of a tadpole, and that will be the one I want to marry. Is it some freak blip in my genetic code? Or simply human nature? When someone is in a relationship, they put off an energy; a confidence that makes them more attractive. Beyond that, there is the masochistic reality that wanting what we can't have makes us want it even more. And believe me, I live with a two-year-old. When I tell him he can't cross the street, he'll do everything to ensure that he crosses as rapidly and recklessly as possible; and while I like to think it will leave with his baby teeth, I know better. We've all played in traffic. And I don't think dating outside my age pool will do anything to quell that irrational urge, nor do I think that the unavailable I'm drawn to can be translated to a simple lack of vacancy: there is a deeper element to it, a paradoxical presence that I find impossible to resist. As much as I don't care to admit it, I am drawn to darkness. I am pulled to those who get caught in their internal nets, because I recognize them... and every once and a while, one recognizes me back. Our eel eyes lock on each other through their watery glass, and we shudder.


3. My second Sunday in Portland, I went to ecstatic dance at the Tiffany Center. Somewhere in the second hour, I pulled myself out of the sweat and over to one of the tarot altars; knowing absolutely nothing about a 'tarot altar' except that this one happened to be draped in yellow chiffon. It was the summer solstice. I let my hand fall to a card, studied the picture, and looked up the meaning; teeny words told me that someone was entering my experience, someone with whom I have the potential to create beyond my current realm of comprehension. It's a one-time window, apparently, and not a matter of how or if it is coming... only when. Naturally, I wanted it in writing. With an exact date, perhaps, and an indicator of what I should be wearing when said vision-bearer enters my life. But I made my way back to the dance floor on a wave of anticipation, and chose to focus on the other feeling that was seeping out of my heart: Foresight. The tarot told me what I already knew. To the top of my skin, there it was... the tingling when you've met someone's spirit a thousand times before, and from that moment onward, feel the story unfold outside your range of motion. When a soul sees a heartbeat, we have no choice--we can only slide into its beat.

What happens next is a matter of opinion. Of masterful storytelling.

Interlude: Perhaps you are telling stories with one another, and you tell him a name. (Names are a common denominator). Perhaps he tells you he is in love with that name, and nausea washes through you; a snap so potent, so pure, that you feel like you are are inside the particularly good lick of an 1980's song. You want to tell him, you make me want to listen to 80's music. Not I love you, not I'm sorry, not that. Just a key-tar solo and the kick of a bass. But instead, you remain silent: it's the same self-preservation that searches for neutral thoughts in the moments before sleep, giving the subconscious anything to hang onto that isn't him. Consciousness foams in and out, and instead of studying the lines on his face in the map of your mind, you are thinking that--for some people--cilantro tastes like soap. Perhaps this thought will make its way into your dream, and you will avoid seeing each other there. Or perhaps, you open your eyes next to each other in the waking world; fresh from each other's dreams, you can only wonder why he met you in his. No use crying over kissed fingertips. There's a thought. Are you playing me? 

But he dreams of flying. And it's all you've ever known.

4. If you've never found yourself here before, you've probably found yourself staring at someone's face as they spell out their u-n-a-v-a-i-l-a-b-i-l-i-t-y behind the cute curve in their lip that you've begun to memorize. I was there recently, and was reminded of how this moment always stands frozen in time. Suddenly you're aware of every smell, sight, sound; the feeling of trying to drink someone in because you're afraid it might be the last time, and when your brain replays this later, you want to make sure you get his eyebrows right. What about that lip curve? And the place where his shoulders begin?

Probably, like me, your brain starts to munch on old standbys... thoughts like, I am so so so so so so so so tired of feeling this way and this always happens and won't anybody ever want to be with me, too? It feels like everyone else is part of a secret society that you've lost your card for. Like that stupid admiral's club at the airport. It's a terrible feeling, but oddly, a powerful one: thrumming with imminent aloneness, beautiful sorrow. I tried describing this to someone recently, the sweetness bound up in sadness, but the subtlety was lost. Or maybe it's something he'll think of years from now, as he'll think of me; partially realized, perhaps, but stubbornly un-forgotten.

"I'm tender."

I know, Tender. 

Q: How many ways are there to make Red from Tender?

I've come to this feeling again and again, of inadequacy, and only just wondered whether it's worth letting go of. I rode my bike home that night, cold... and just like that, everything changed!*

*No it didn't. That's what happens in the movie version.

In reality, it was never really there at all. All the beautiful drama, the hyper-awarness that comes from wanting to appear mysterious to others--the idea that I, in the fishbowl of my head, can only be seen when magnified from the inside out--it's all a story. A different story, one I'm just learning to tell, is how to accept things as they are. Not what they could be, not what they feel like in a moment of recognition: for what they are. The sound it makes is like saying I love you over and over again inside your head, even though it feels unnatural. That type of unconditional love, according to Elena Brower, exists only there: it's the foundation for energy, the roots to take flight. And you know what? She's right.

5. There are terms of endearment and mutual fascination that cannot be captured in regular language.

I can hear your heart... I can hear your heart beating in your armpit. 

You know?

5. It's funny how we seek validation. Like, how I can't seem to trust my own instinct; I have to know if someone feels the way I do, because that will alleviate the compulsive need to check my internal radar for cracks. If it's cracked, then at least I can get away with convincing myself that they are the tricky ones--not me. If he never calls me again, it won't be because I'm unavailable. 

But to whom? 

In relationships, I tend to slip away. I become so saturated in someone else's thoughts and emotions, and into the thirst for each milestone, that my heart and head cease communication entirely. I'm unavailable to myself in the biggest way, as many are; in relationships as in unexpected phone calls, stomach-dropping memories, or in any moment where adrenaline takes over and we cease to exist. Somehow, though, realizing this--understanding my tendency--has taken its power away. I feel like the girl in Labyrinth when she realizes that David Bowie, despite being devastatingly sexy, is really just a man in tights. A magical king at the helm of a puppet empire, sure; but a king with flaws, and a man all the same.

Some things are outside our range of motion, but it doesn't mean we can't get a grip. My heart searches for metaphor, and for that softness where the brain meets the spine. In moments, I feel I am approaching my truth; my sadness, and the exact weight of what it feels like to believe in everything. I'm navigating types.

"There is intimacy in the morning," she said. "In not knowing. Just ask."

Mine, it feels like surrender.

What's yours?

Welcome to the Funhouse

When a house advertises as being "child-friendly," it could mean a variety of things: one, its occupants are baby-crazy, and will do everything in their power to ensure maximum exposure to little ones (interacting with parents only in cases of extreme pooping or crying); two, said occupants are living in a state of arrested development, drink out of plastic Hanna-Barbara cups, and are gigantic children themselves; or three, occupants have disproportionate affection for anything falling into the category of 'cute,' and believe a house full of children to be the perfect compliment to their shelves of collectible beanie babies and Hello Kitty sheets. Or, in our case, the house probably advertised as being "child-friendly" because there weren't knives sticking out of the couches. At least, none that we could see.

I arrived in Portland on Sunday, and with little more than a 10-minute car ride as buffer, was ushered into the world of velcro shoes and ergonomic baby carriers. It's what I signed up for, and I entered willingly. Even so, it was a tough first week: the thing about parenting, especially when you're not the actual parent but instead a surrogate spit-up shoulder, playmate, and guardian when the 'real thing' isn't available, is that it is 100% on-the-job learning. Sure, plenty of literature exists on how to speak to children in their own language; studies on reverse psychology, for instance. The entire Montessori library. However, after one week taking care of Benji and Johnny--2 1/2 years and 5 months old, respectively--I am a firm believer in learning as you go. There was no way of knowing, for example, what a two-year-old tantrum looks like; or how I would feel the first time Benji stripped off all his clothes in the bathroom at Sound Grounds, screaming that he "HAD TO MAKE A POO POO!" for a solid half hour while I begged for mercy on the grimy floor. Neither would I have suspected him to be strong enough to pick up the toilet brush and whack me in the face with it; but lo and behold, he is, and he did. I left the coffee shop with my tail between my legs, the recipient of at least a dozen looks of, "Oh, that poor teenage mother," and spent the next twenty minutes on the bus trying not to cry. It's hard not to take it personally, you know. And nothing could have prepared me for that. However, nothing but the sheer joy in Benji's voice when we sing "Wheels on the Bus"--or the look on Johnny's face when he stares up at me in awe, fascinated at the simple fact of beholding another human being--could have prepared me for the satisfaction I feel in taking care of them. They lift my soul. It's been a tough week, sure, but everyone knows beginnings are the worst; it's the week you eat your lunch in the bathroom, unsure of who to talk to, and go to sleep wondering why the hell you signed up in the first place. Then the sun crowns on the second Monday, you know how to work the copier--or in my case, the diaper bag--and all is right with the world.

That is, unless you are living in a total madhouse.

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, gather round as we tell the tale of the CRAZY PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW HOW TO SHARE SPACE! Watch as they hover over their 'tenants,' leaving passive-aggressive notes in lieu of actual conversation, and expect a two-year-old to be able to function at the mental capacity of an obsessive-compulsive robot!

Up until this point, I've had nothing but good luck with AirBnB. There are bound to be more than a few stinkers in the bunch, but I dunno: I guess I like supposing that the type of people who open their homes to a worldwide search engine would not go on to form emotional attachments to their forks and knives. Then again, I've been wrong before. In a drawer with dozens of forks, knives, and spoons of every imaginable variety--for a 2-person household--was a teeny-tiny pocket of utensils, most of which appeared to have been pulled from a high school cafeteria, labeled "Air BnB." If this was the first indication of a problem, it was lost on me. Who cares if we have to use the crappy silverware? I'm dealing with a two-year-old. It's a good day when he doesn't rub his face in his food before eating it. So, I was willing to let the silverware thing go--as well as the segregated mugs, singular knife, and tiny refrigerator shelf allotted for our use--in the name of embracing the unknown; after all, the boys' mother had handled our summer housing all the way from Thailand. She searched AirBnB for long-term rentals, and came across a home that looked perfect; spacious, reasonably priced, and child-friendly. I kept this in mind as I went into the bathroom on the first night, where a note behind the toilet gave step-by-step instructions on how to use the shower curtain. Past that, in my bedroom, I noticed a laminated copy of House Rules: No partying (duh), loud music of any kind (does "Wheels on the Bus" count?), or food--including tea--allowed in the rooms. However, "quiet solo-dancing" is okay. Mistaking this to be tongue-in-cheek, I approached one of the house's owners and laughed. "I like that solo-dancing is allowed!" I said, picturing him bopping good-naturedly along with the boys as we frolicked around the house. I figured no person would be uptight enough to specify "quiet solo-dancing" as the only permitted form of self-expression. But like I said, I've been wrong before.

Come one, come all, gather 'round and watch as the passive-aggressive notes begin to multiply exponentially, as if from nowhere! Observe the poor, hapless nanny as she attempts to control the uncontrollable, dancing around inflamed sensitivities while balancing a symphony of screaming infants atop her shoulders!

What began as mildly irritating--funny, even--deteriorated into madness as soon as the notes began to infiltrate our private belongings. Suddenly, the fact that shoes had been found in our third-floor suitcase--outside the designated SHOE AREA, which as any fool would know, is in the first floor hallway--was inspiration for a series of blaringly judgmental, invasive "tips" for following the House Rules. Overnight, our groceries had been arranged into a pyramid. Notes appeared on the sliding-glass door, deadbolt, dish soap, sponge holder, bathroom wall, and kitchen shelves. I began to function like one who is under surveillance, reading NPR articles about leaks of classified information and feeling as though I better not pick my nose. The boys, neither of whom are old enough to know what a shower curtain is, let alone wonder whether they're using it correctly, still responded to the anxious energy. Tensions ran high. I grabbed Benji by the wrist every time he went to town on the dishwasher buttons, but hated doing so; and rather than ride the storm of Johnny's afternoon cry, hushed him in the frantic hope that we'd remain as unobtrusive as possible. But as anyone who has ever lived with a toddler knows, "unobtrusive" does not exist. It's about as likely as getting said toddler to memorize a system for color-coding sponges; which, for the record, these people did. As I stood in front of the sink, trying to recall if the pink sponge was for oily dishes, Johnny unleashed a flurry of spit-up into my left ear and began to scream furiously. Meanwhile, I looked over the counter to see Benji--beside himself with glee at the newfound ability to control his penis--making perfect little crop circles of pee into the carpet. I yelled, "Benji, NO!" but he just looked up at me and giggled. And who could blame him? The only thing funnier than peeing on the carpet is knowing that, within the hour, we'd find a post-it note describing the best method for removing the stain.

And so it went. I'd try to let off steam at the end of the day, but never could. It is already the curse of the live-in nanny to feel as though we never have our own space; probably because, when it's said and done, we really don't. I can cloister myself in my room with its minimal sound barrier, pretending not to hear the babies cry when I'm "off-duty." I can leave the house as soon as their mom gets home, walking aimlessly down the street in search of any food that doesn't taste vaguely of peanut butter. But that doesn't change the fact that, even as I write this paragraph, one baby is draped across the chair behind me--kicking my neck with every ounce of strength his five months have given him--while his brother alternates between picking his nose and and eating his socks. I take time to myself because, if I don't, I end up feeling like another kid: like one more thing the mother has to deal with when she gets home at the end of the day. It's like that episode of Sex and the City ("what episode? I don't know what you're talking about, I have way too many intellectual hobbies to be able to reference that inane show") where Carrie discusses the way single people are treated by their married friends; with notable exceptions, in variations on a theme of Hopelessly Incapable. It's us versus them--as in, they could never possibly understand--and parents aren't much better. When it's time to get off the bus and I can't get the bike rack to return into its original position, the boys' mother adopts a stern tone and I can tell she is fighting the urge to parent me. When the bus driver waits for me to fold the stroller into its compact position--which I'm sorry, is FREAKING LABYRINTHINE--I can feel the weight of dozens of eyes upon me, judging me. And this is on public transportation, mind you. Where people either ignore you, or tilt back their heads and explain how they got each of their mouth sores.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, watch on in wonder as the single mother collapses the 'foldable' stroller in ONE FELL SWOOP--using only the tip of her pinky finger! Behold, behold as the bumbling nanny follows from behind, grinning as she takes a cream pie to the face!

Needless to say, in a job that is both emotionally and physically exhausting; one that, like parenting, offers little to no privacy, the last thing you need is to worry if you're making noise while you pee. It's enough to have a two-year-old watch you while you do it, congratulating you on your lack of splatter.

The night before we left our crazy house for good, I lay on the ground in my room, shamelessly engaging in 'down time.' I had delusions of grandeur, of exploring neighborhoods and reading books; but when it came down to it, could do little more than lie comatose. It's not for the fainthearted, this nannying business. It really isn't. And as much as I might squirm as I settle into my place in this family--not quite a parent, but definitely not a kid--I have never, ever had so much appreciation for what it means to raise a child. For the sheer amount of work it takes to engage with another human being, to smile and cry simultaneously as they eat, poop, scream, and laugh their way through a world that they still believe is a good place. Pondering this, I heard elevated voices coming from the kitchen, and went to the foot of the stairs. The owners of the house were yelling about the way we had "blatantly" been ignoring the house rules; in fact they had "just stopped telling us when we were breaking them," because it happened so often. Meanwhile, the boys' mother was slicing and steaming vegetables, cradling an infant, and calmly preventing Benji from putting his fingers in the garbage disposal. The tone in her voice was stoic, measured, as she informed our landlords that it was inappropriate for them to go through our belongings; I watched on, mesmerized by her patience. But when the landlords crossed a line, when they informed her that she clearly had no control over her children, I had no choice. I stepped in.

"Excuse me," I began. They looked up. They had just finished telling Mira that "not all members in her party" had been using the oven vent appropriately. Namely, me. And you know what? Fuck their oven vent. "All due respect, but up until this week, I had no idea how much work it is to take care of children full-time. This woman is thousands of miles away from her home and partner, has two babies who are jetlagged and completely culture-shocked, and she is also in school all day.

No offense, but this woman does not deserve to come home and feel uncomfortable. She is dealing with enough as it is. Therefore, I'm going to have to ask you to please... shut up." 

I'd like to say that the conversation ended, that my little speech stopped them dead in their tracks--concluding perhaps with rose petals being thrown at my feet, and talk of a small-screen adaptation--but these freaky people just blinked up at me and resumed their verbal abuse. After a certain point, it just became silly: like a clown walking off the same diving board over and over again into a thimble of water, the results were invariably the same. The thimble doesn't get any bigger, so you might as well laugh when you hear the splat. In this situation, there was  nothing more I could do... except leave the house, careful to lock the door exactly as I had been shown, and purchase one hell of a brownie. I tucked it in the fridge for the boys' mother, and wrote the following:

YOU ARE RASING THE NEXT GENERATION TO BE COMPASSIONATE, FUNNY, RESPECTFUL HUMAN BEINGS

AND THAT IS WAY MORE IMPORTANT THAN COLOR-CODING SPONGES.

And of course, the irony of writing a post-it did not escape me.

In the morning, we gathered our things and waited on the sidewalk for our ride to Northeast Alberta; the funk zone, the heart of so many things, and the place we belonged all along. Benji ran around in circles like a yippy dog that had been short-circuited to perform the same action on infinite loop. Our friends pulled up and loaded us in, our bicycles and our backpacks and our crates full of mismatched tupperware, and a collective sigh filled the car. Benji garbled a made-up song about orange cats while chewing absentmindedly on the belt of his carseat, and I rattled a Ziploc full of plastic spoons at the baby; confident that, as we escaped into the Saturday air, it would be the last time we'd leave anywhere feeling like the saner ones.