the pieces of my life

The last we saw our heroine, she had just finished breakfast with her agent, and was ready to enter the perilous world of the New York scene.

What will she do in the mean big city? Will she swoon with excitement? Will she run into some nefarious characters? Will she be swindled out of her money?

Yes, yes, and no, unless you count the damage done to her credit card at such houses of ill repute such as The Strand and New York Cake.

After a morning of shopping at the aforementioned stores, she heads to lunch with an old friend from her publishing days. After a pleasant couple of hours gossiping, our heroine meets her sister, the fair and lovely Tweedle Twirp, at the Tenement Museum on the Lower East Side. Together they took the “Piecing It Together” tour, which let them “See the homes & garment shop of Jewish families who lived in the tenement during the ‘great wave’ of immigration to America.” Great fodder for our heroine’s next novel—if, that is, she ever finishes revising her current novel!

But the tour only occurred after a trip to Economy Candy and Roni-Sue’s, so our heroine could buy candy of ill-repute for her family (non-kosher chocolate-covered bacon—aka “Pig Candy”—for her hubby and candy cigarettes and bubble gum cigars for her most-definitely underaged children).

After her trip to the Lower East Side, she and the Tweedle Twirp made their way to the West Village to meet yet another friend for yet more gossip and a bottle of Prosecco. After a leisurely evening, our heroine received a text that her Boston gal pals were a mere fifteen minutes away, so our heroine and her sister rushed frantically back to the apartment.

Will she make it back to the apartment on time? Will she be so fuzzy from the Prosecco to even care if she’s on time? Will her friends get lost on the mean streets of New York? Will she write the next post in the first person? Tune in next time for the answer to all these questions and more….

Who filled my house with a swimming pool? At least, that’s what I assumed happened. Because I feel like I’m trying to walk through water. Slow. Sluggish. Not moving very fast. Time is crawling. My revision doesn’t seem to be revising itself.

Those who follow me on Twitter or Facebook already know that my weekend in NYC was, um, shall we say eventful? I’m not sure how much of it is interesting to all of you, but I’ll tell you anyway, breaking it up into multiple posts, as I do need to be revising!

Thursday morning was freakin’ jam packed. Woke up extra early so I could cram everything in: I wrote the school newsletter, ran 6 miles, volunteered at the before-school PE program, showered, volunteered for an hour in kindergarten, packed, and still showed up at South Station an hour early for the Acela (why an hour? I have no idea what I was thinking except that I wanted time to buy food). Train ride was uneventful—napped, worked, read. Fast ride—train was only 15 minutes late.

Walked to my folks’ apartment, and did the first thing one must do in New York: Meet the Tweedle Twirp for a pedi and a cosmo. After we had a French dinner outside with my parents and the Tweedle Twirp’s boyfriend/partner/other half (we had discussions about what to call the Tweedle Twirp’s legally-recognized domestic partner of 18 years, and I don’t think we ever came up with a satisfactory title, so I guess we’ll stick with Tweedle Twin) that was delicious even if we did have to keep picking leaves out of our wine. I had requested we go anywhere that was not kid friendly and the place fulfilled! (No chicken fingers on the menu and tight quarters.)

Went to bed fairly early and woke up at my normal 5 a.m. on Friday. Had a lovely run on the Hudson River Park and the High Line Park. Got dressed and walked on down to…

…my agent’s office! The office is on the top floor of a small building in the West Village, and I’m kicking myself for not sneaking a picture or two, but—as you can guess—I was so excited (and, yes, a little nervous) about meeting Laney that thoughts like “pictures” weren’t in the forefront of my mind.

The office was exactly what I imagined an agent’s office to look like—it was pretty old school. Desks in nooks and crannies and books everywhere. It’s a small office, but it looked like the kind of place you’d want to just pull up a chair, have a cup of tea, and talk books. It was 9 a.m. so not many folks were in yet. Laney and I headed downstairs for coffee.

Talking with her was both reassuring and a little scary. First, having a face to put on e-mail is fabulous. Second, I genuinely liked her as a person. The scary part was when we talked about the state of the publishing world—it’s tough out there and having an agent is no guarantee of a sell, so she’s really working hard to “bullet-proof” my manuscript. I was reassured when she told me she keeps her list small and she only takes on projects she truly loves. But it’s daunting to hear how much work this is going to take!

We talked about ourselves a bit; the only awkward moment was when it came out that my family is serious about the Red Sox. As a native New Yorker, she’s definitely in the Yankee camp, but I think it’s something we can move beyond.

This may be of interest for those of you who are writers in the querying process: I mentioned to Laney that I had tweeted another agent’s blog post and that the other agent had looked at my profile and commented that she really loves Laney. Laney had high raves for this other agent and she said that every now and then (not too often I gathered), if she got a query for a project that she thought had merit but wasn’t in a genre she reps, she’d pass it on to the other agent. Nice to know there’s some camaraderie out there!

Finally, I asked her about my name. Seriously. I have great angst about how common my name is (my father prefers to call my name “popular,” but really, let’s call it as it is: common). So the question is: What name do I publish under? When I first started publishing in literary journals, I went with initials: J. S. Brown (I was a huge fan of A. M. Homes at the time, which most likely influenced me). But given that it’s women’s fiction I’m writing, it makes more sense to have a more identifiably female name. Jenny Brown is so common, although I do generally come up in the top 3 in a Google search. But the domain for that is owned by someone who sells “cheap homes.” I do own the domain www.jennifersbrown.com, which I’ve used basically as a placeholder. As much as I detest “Jennifer,” it looks like that might make the most sense. And it’ll weed out those I know from those I don’t (e-mails and phone calls to “Jennifer” always mean you have no idea who I am).

Okay, that takes us up to 10 a.m. on Friday morning. And with that, I’m going to go revise. More later. If I can make my way out of this swimming pool daze, that is.

This is what happens when you forsake the GPS Lady in favor of the Google: A four-hour drive turns into a five-hour ordeal that still has hours to go.

The GPS Lady wanted us to take 84 to 91, which gets you off 84 pretty far north. The Google wanted us to take the Hutch. Which means miles and miles and miles of 84. No problem. Unless there’s a shooting on 84 that shuts the highway down on both sides for ninety minutes.

Freakin’ Google. Of course we left a full 40 minutes late because Pie decided to have a little temper tantrum about going, so the extra hour on the Pike didn’t help.

Once in the car, Pie took a two-hour nap. Then she got carsick, which necessitated a Coke. Which means I’ll have the Daughter Who Doesn’t Sleep in the City That Doesn’t Sleep. Thank God she’s willing to come out with me for martinis later.

We are all totally punch drunk. The boy is trying to sleep and the girl is trying to talk. She’s done math in the backseat (“2 + 2 + 2 = 6. It’s the same as 3 + 3”). Periodically she checks in on the shooting: “Shooting a policeman is a bad idea. It’s like the Libyans,” which took a little deciphering to understand. Finaly she says, exasperated, “Like in ‘Back to the Future'” and of course Michael J. Fox goes back in time because Libyans are shooting him. So we have to, once again, explain why the Libyans were shooting at Michael J. Fox and at that point I turn up my iPod, which then leads to me explaining what “bitch” means. One of these days I’ll censor the songs on my iPod but given that we have nightly dance parties to Cee Lo Green’s “F You” song, that might be a bit like shutting the barn door after the horses are out.

Where was I? Oh yes, punch drunk and trapped on a highway. Freakin’ highway. Freakin’ Google. 38 miles till my martini. Follow the olive-paved road! Follow the olive-paved road! If there’s only a beer behind the curtain, I am going to be pissed!!

I took a train to NYC before the rest of my friends in order to see my folks before they headed out of town. I hung with the ‘rents, the Tweedle Twirp came up, and we chilled till the haus fraus made it to Manhattan. Our first stop? Pedis. Down to Dashing Divas where the treatment is a bit different when you don’t come with a four year old in tow. For starters, I had time for the “all out diva” treatment. Second, they don’t bring you cosmos when you have a preschooler with you. We sipped and pampered and laughed and enjoyed ourselves. After, we went by the Strand, walked through the Limelight Marketplace, and headed back to the apartment where the HF all changed clothes. “Seriously?” I asked them. They’d been in town for mere hours. The clothes were fresh. But apparently they went to the Pie School of Fashion, which requires a change of clothes for every new thought. Once they were all decked out, we headed to Bar Pitti in the West Village, where the gracious host managed to find us all a table outside within 15 minutes.

Back story: A high school friend of mine is now a big-time DJ and I found out he was going to be [playing? spinning? performing? what’s the correct terminology?] in Brooklyn while we were in town. But the club he was playing… well, it was a bit out there. I e-mailed the haus fraus ahead of time about the show, including a couple of links to reviews of the club (this is probably the most accurate) and a note from my friend from the club that included the instructions about “not pissing all over the sidewalk as soon as you get around the corner – which, incidentally, does attract the police and they will write you a summons.” I think it was “naked” that pushed things over the edge for them: “Not for me.” “Think I’ll pass.” “Yikes!” But I was intrigued and the Tweedle Twirp had agreed to accompany me.

So at the end of dinner at Bar Pitti, HF1 and HF2 ordered cups of decaf. I turned to Tweeds and asked, “We still going?” “Sure!” she said, so I ordered a regular coffee.

“Where are you going?” HF2 demanded.

“Brooklyn.”

“To the naked club? Without us??” No biggie, I assured them. They had keys. I’d be quiet when I came in. But I wanted to check it out.

“Well,” HF2 said in a huff, “if you’re going, I’m going!”

Next thing I know, four haus fraus are accompanying me on a train to Marcy Ave. in Brooklyn. The walk from the subway to the club is not-quite a mile. But it’s an odd walk, passing through an ultra-Orthodox neighborhood in Brooklyn, one where the street postings are all in Yiddish, the school buses have Hebrew on them, and we pass men in shtreimels. It’s Shabbat. We’re wearing little dresses. I just had a cream and bacon dinner. I’m feeling a little “going to hell”-ish. But after a few “are we going the right ways?” we make it. We see a few folks standing on a street besides a random building. Suddenly a door opens. “Why are you here?” the bouncer asks.

“For Ursula 1000,” I say. We are let in to this cavern of… well, you’ll have to use your imagination. There are multiple rooms and crazy art on the walls and cheap booze and music everywhere and movies on the rooftop and couples making out and….

The haus fraus made it till about 12:15 or so. Tweeds and I stuck it out till Ursula 1000 came on. It was well worth it. But the whole night, I kept thinking I was approximately twenty years too late to the club. How much more fun could I have had then. I can only imagine….

22-year-old self: Hey, come to the bathroom with me!

41-year-old self: What the hell are those three people doing in that one single-person bathroom?

22-year-old self: I love how disorienting the decor is. You can’t tell a door from a wall from a ceiling…

41-year-old self: Where the hell is the Exit? Why isn’t it marked? Isn’t that a safety violation? Does anyone else remember that Rhode Island club?

22-year-old self: Cool! I can smoke in here! I so hate the “no smoking in bars” rule. I love  that this place flaunts that.

41-year-old self: [cough, cough]

22-year-old self: Wow, a rooftop! Showing movies! Chill!

41-year-old self: Are you serious? One rickety ladder to get up and… oh shit, an even more rickety ladder to get down? If there is a fire….

22-year-old self: Hee hee! My dress is totally billowing as I climb down this ladder!

41-year-old self: Oh shit. My dress is totally billowing as I climb down this ladder!

22-year-old self: Absinthe! I’ve always wanted to try absinthe!

41-year-old self: Dear, lord, what are those two people doing out there? Is either of them carrying condoms?

22-year-old self, upon hearing a guy exclaim that he got a cast for whacking off too much: Ha ha ha ha ha!

41-year-old self, upon hearing a guy exclaim that he got a cast for whacking off to much: [silent eye rolls]

22-year-old self, after getting “advice on ice”–italian ice that comes with a dose of advice… from a 23 year old: Yeah, you’re totally right! Only do what your passionate about! Working a job you’re not excited about is just a waste of time. And seriously, if you’re not have wild sex every night, it’s just not worth living!

41-year-old self, after getting “advice on ice”–italian ice that comes with a dose of advice… from a 23 year old: [muttering about how I, the Jewish mother, should be giving the advice, accented with plenty of eye rolls]

22-year-old self: Wow! Two vodka tonics, one rum and coke, one whiskey on the rocks, two beers, one juice, three waters for $34 in a New York club? Amazing!

41-year-old self: Wow! Two vodka tonics, one rum and coke, one whiskey on the rocks, two beers, one juice, three waters for $34 in a New York club? Amazing! [Because, really, that is amazing, no matter how old you are!]

Made it home just after 2. And I’m glad I went. Even if I wasn’t sure about it on Saturday morning’s run, it was definitely worth it. Yes, I’m almost 42 years old. But, damn. I can still party like I’m 39!

You all know that I watch most of those silly reality shows, things like The Real Housewives of Schenectady, where when they go away on vacation, they bring their entire closets with them? It’s all so exaggerated, the five bathing suits, the fourteen pairs of shoes, the thirty-seven tops for a weekend getaway.

Or so I thought, before this past two-night trip to NYC with a few haus frau girlfriends (who shall henceforth be referred to as HF1 (who is L., for those of you playing along at home), HF2 (D.), HF3 (A.), and HF4 (N.)). We went for a shopping trip. God knows why. I have never seen anyone bring so many clothes for such a short time away. Not a one of them needed more clothes. HF4 and I shared a room. She had a full suitcase and a garment bag with about a dozen hangers of outfits. The other three changed outfits multiple times a day. And here I thought this was a trait Pie would grow out of; I had no idea it would only grow worse as she aged.

And me? I brought one dress that I wear as a skirt; one short-sleeved black shirt to wear with the skirt… which turned out to be actually long-sleeved (it looks just like my short-sleeved one and I didn’t look closely enough when I packed), which means I didn’t really have a shirt, as the weather was too sweltering to wear it; one pair of jeans; one top to go with the jeans; one cardigan in case it was chilly; and one tank top to wear with the skirt… which it turns out I forgot to pack. I did, of course, bring running clothes. Because running clothes are essential.

And the shopping? We all scored. They bought dresses and flip flops and jewelry and shirts. I bought two necklaces, a bunch of cookie cutters, and books. Lots of books. Enough books to keep me reading all summer (HF2 wrote on my Facebook page, “The NY Times book review is not meant to serve as a shopping list,” although that’s exactly what it did and it was perfect!). I got home and delivered a mountain of presents to my children and Pie said to me, “I want to see the clothes you bought!”

“I didn’t buy any,” I told her.

Her face fell. “But I thought this was a shopping trip!”

“It was,” I said. “Didn’t you see how many books I bought?”

She was so disappointed. “That’s not shopping.” She was so meant to be HF1’s daughter.

Anyway, I’m back and trying to re-enter life. I asked Doodles, “Did you miss me?” to which I got a big hug and a “Yes!” I asked Pie, “Did you miss me?” She cocked her head at me and said, “No. But you can put me to bed anyway.”

Over the next couple of days, I’ll try to retrace my steps in New York and see if I can come up with some explanations for you guys for those incomprehensible tweets (explanations, I should say, other than “gin” or “whiskey” or “wine”).

But for now, I need to make up for the two nights of only five hours sleep (each night, people. I’m not a monster, you know!).

I truly that being Jewish meant that I would be able to avoid unpleasant conversations about whether Santa or the Easter Bunny was real. Yes, we have the Tooth Fairy to contend with, but she seems so benign. And I do hedge it, never actually committing to her existence, but following Doodles lead on it.

But that girl. And her Eloise. Oh, does she love her Eloise. Last trip to New York, Pie demanded we visit Eloise. It went well. The doorman apologized that Eloise was out with Nanny, but he invited us into the Plaza to see Eloise’s painting and he gave Pie a postcard from Eloise.

So, of course, this trip back, Pie wanted to return to see if Eloise is around. My parents live in Chelsea. The Plaza is on Central Park South. Not too far, but really a pain in the ass and not near most of where we go. But the girl wants her Eloise. “Let’s go see Eloise! She’s near Central Park! Let’s go see Eloise before Central Park!” How many times can we have Eloise out shopping with her Nanny? But this time I got clever.

“Adam,” I suggested, “why don’t you phone Eloise and see if she’s in today before we go all the way over there?”

“Great idea.” He took his phone and “called” the Plaza. We heard. “Hi, is Eloise available for a visit? Oh! Uh huh. Uh huh. Paris, huh? And when will she be back? Oh, okay. Thanks, we’ll try again then.”

And then, reporting back to Pie, “I’m sorry, honey, but she’s in Paris. Paris in the springtime. She won’t be back till late summer.”

Such disappointment! “But we’ll come back late summer, right?”

So I have till late summer to get her off of Eloise. Or else Eloise might end spending summer in Moscow. And since we haven’t planned our summer vacation yet, I can easily hear requests for a summer in Russia…..

Ah. I’d like to say that with the help of Dayquil, sugar, and a few well-placed threats, we made it successfully through our NYC trip. But we still have the return trip and Pie is nearing the end of her happy-trip attitude. With all the “surprises” over, she’s d-u-n-n (which is our family’s version of the word, a la “r-u-n-n o-f-t”). Tonight she got a little sad, missing her big brother. She insisted on calling him, and then after talking realized she forgot to tell him she’d see him tomorrow, so she demanded I give her the phone back to tell him. Meanwhile, Doodles is showing his innate guyness–when I said to him, “I miss you!” he simply responded, “Me too.”

My cold is somewhat fierce (and, yes, it’s still a cold. I have a lovely–but productive!–hack), but it’s well medicated, so I’m good. As you’ve seen, we’ve had a most lovely and busy day. Pie was so happy with the Plaza that she overcame her disappoint that Eloise wasn’t there. Although as she left, she asked if we could come back later in the day to see if Eloise was back, but I pointed out we’d be a little busy to come all the way back.

My mom’s show (will I ever remember? Exhibit!) at the Nohra Haime Gallery (in the Fuller building on 57th street–visit it if you’re in the area!) was the second stop, and Pie was fascinated by Nana’s latest work, which is intriguing.

But, oh, the light in her eyes when we showed up at Dashing Divas. She took right to her mani/pedi. And then the excitement at the cupcake store. So many cupcakes! How to choose! But nothing, nothing! compared with the thrill of Pinkalicious. There was actual squealing involved. And she sat, rapt, the entire time, mouth slightly agape, moving only to see around the woman in front of us (I let her sit on my lap for a better view). The musical was cute–and quite tolerable at just an hour long. I’ve never seen so many ecstatic little girls in one place: Bleeker Street, the preschool version. That was a first for me. Pie waited patiently at the end for an autograph and to have her picture taken with Pinkalicious afterward. Definitely worth harassing the ticket guy to get Pie in.

Lunch was good, but Pie was definitely fading. I was glad we made it to Benny’s–one of my favorite places from my East Village days. I ordered the same thing I’ve ordered all these years–a quesadilla grande. I don’t think I’ll ever venture to anything else.

Our only downer–other than the occasional “I can’t walk anymore!”–was when we finally trekked to the F train (in the rain!), we waited and waited. An announcement would come on, and I’d ask around, “What did he say? Did you understand that?” The crowd grew and grew and the announcement played and played “Garble garble…Broadway/Lafeyette…garble garble…J Street… garble garble.” Finally I found someone who understood it. “Train’s not running here. Walk to the next stop and take the D train.” So we trekked over to the next stop. I did look for a cab, but on a rainy day, no surprise that not a cab was to be found.

So after that slow shuffle to the next subway station, Pie’s collapse was no surprise. The walking for the entire day was fairly substantial. From the apartment to the subway to the Plaza, from the Plaza to the gallery, from the gallery to the subway at 60th St., from the subway on Broadway to 8th and University to Bleeker and Lafeyette to Avenue A and 6th Street to Houston and First to Broadway and Lafeyette to… well, that’s when she fell asleep. Sitting on the subway. She had a seat and I was standing in front of her and all of a sudden, her little head leaned forward into my legs. I asked the person next to her, “Is she really asleep?” She looked down and said, “Yep!”

Of course, this was the day I decided to wear nicer shoes, so in my heels, I picked Pie up on the moving subway, made my way to the doors, and then carried 40 pounds of dead weight back to the apartment. She woke up and that’s when she started pining for her big brother.

And me? My Nyquil has started to take effect. So I’m off to bed. The ride home will be nightmarish, but at sometime tomorrow, Pie will be reunited with her Doodles, and all will be right in the world again.

Can't miss the quesadilla grande at Benny's Burritos.

…Pinkalicious, The Musical!