Manic Pixie Dream... Woman?

Dear Manic Pixie Dream Girl,

Yes you, the girl whose entire instagram is devoted to you making faces wherein you naturally look pretty holding a stranger's dog, or in front of some silly sign. You are very pretty, and the signs are very smart.  But I think you could do better. 

At one point in my life I'm sure I was cast in your role for a few moments by boys I didn't know. I had all the outward window trappings at 25/26 /27.  I bought into it too, but perhaps was not  tiny, whimsical or dangerous enough.  I can speak to you because I'm not sure you fully exist; you're an idea created by men that we women appropriated.  It's a story, a persona,  a haircut you're trying for a while, a dress you got at Urban that you pretend is vintage. This goes beyond thinking the world looks like an Anthro catalogue, you're not only hurting yourself, you're hurting others.  You can't be a girl forever. 

What happens when the Manic Pixie Dream Girl grows up? 
A Manic Pixie Woman; not such a dream. 

You're bored because you were so busy inspiring random dudes to embrace life, that you didn't inspire yourself. They, not having the wear withal to sustain that in themselves,  have moved onto younger pixies for inspiration, or those that are less challenging.  Your random secretary/waitressing/bartending job is not enough to pay your student loans for the three semesters you took in fine art or philosophy, so you've defaulted. You've been priced out of your magical apartment, the neighborhood is changing as the hip have grown up.  Your landlord is upset due to all the noise complaints of your ukelele, and late night Shins, and Smiths records playing. It's been waking up the neighbor's kids. The neighbor's kids dont like you, not all kids like you. Your singing at restaurants, and in the middle of conversation now just makes you seem like you have tourettes. Everything in your wardrobe is patterned. You're 30 years old and don't own a pair of pants. Your stray cat is dead, who knew they couldn't just eat tuna and drink milk? It worked for Audrey Hepburn. If you want to do drugs people make you pay for them now.   All of those selfie campaigns now make you a little nostalgic and sad.  Who were those posts for? You're tired after years of dragging man-children behind you (Josh Radnor, Zach Braff I'm looking at you.)  They've all eventually left  you because being with someone who only challenges you,  whose moods swing, and may actually be more than a plot device is tough. You woke up one morning and realized that women in their late twenties/early thirties are not meant to be great unsolvable mysteries, and eventually when guys figure out you're a real person they may bolt. In the story those people are the ones you want,  this should not be true in real life. You MPDG have groomed them for this; wanting a beautiful mess, wanting a girl not a woman. 

I know writing this to you may be redundant. It's been done I get it, but as a young woman who came of age with this trope is still affecting our relationships and cries for attention. I acknowledge that I'm being a slight hypocrit. I speak too quickly, wear large framed glasses, love Annie Hall,  and talk to small animals. Most people have not seen me wear pants till this year. Although cliche these idiosyncrasies are mine. Yes, I tend to date boys instead of men, and have been a pro at justifying whatever choices they have to make for their story.  'It's his work. It's his family. It's his past. It's timing.  He's going through something, It's this thing he has to do on his own.'  IT'S BULLSHIT. I can justify the narrative because it's not my story. I've been just a supporting character ; 'The Girl' no... just 'A girl'.  As I've gotten older I've grown tired of this. When you realize you're just a supporting character it doesn't feel so cute. Reduced to being the 'supporting girl' you turn into the 'crazy girl'. No one knows they're the 'crazy girl', you're just attempting to get back into the narrative, even if it's a story you weren't sure you wanted to be in. The main characters take you back in bits because they like the inspiration, but it's still their story.  

What if we focused on our own stories? What if all the energy of those clicks and likes, and photos were put back into the narrative that was happening now with us? What if that energy wasn't given to what or who we wanted to create or attract? What if we lived out our own ideal? One in which other people's stories come and go. One in which feminine can be silly, grounded and strong; without being scary.  

I'm never going to not be weird or quirky.  No matter how many times someone calls me ma'am I'l probably always look behind my shoulder, but I'd rather be curvy than a pixie, and I'd rather create for myself than an audience that isn't  really listening in the first place.  

(And I don't care what anyone says I still love Annie Hall.) 

(Drawing by Seamus Gallagher) 

The first cut is the deepest (an essay)

I remember the first person who broke my heart. I was six, sitting in the backseat of a volvo. It was the first time I realized that you can't make people feel what you feel. It was the first time that I realized that I feel a little harder than most. Her name was Maude Pinter**, and she was my best friend in the world. She had a pet rat that would sit on her shoulder, short curly hair,  and she was the coolest person I had ever met. She had this magical confidence that only children have, and this quiet adventurousness that turned trees into nature expeditions.  I'd tell strangers about her, starting multiple sentences with "My friend Maude…" which probably prompted a lot of Cat Stevens, and funeral  jokes that I was not aware of at the time.

 She had moved away a few months earlier, and was visiting our suburban neighborhood. We were driving back to my house where her parents would pick her up. I don't remember the pre-amble to the conversation, or if it came from nowhere. Most 'break ups' seem to come out of nowhere for one party. I do remember just staring at the door, at the button you press down to lock it, at the handle that let me out.
"You aren't my best friend" she said.  "I have a new best friend. Her name is Jenn*."

 In two sentences my identity was shattered. I had so many questions; what did I do to be replaced? How could she leave me? I was the one, I was her one. You don't leave your one, right?
 My eyes filled up. I stared at the door handle as the car moved past my elementary school. It's funny, I don't always recall exact conversations but I always remember what I was looking at. My memories of emotional conversations are filled with snippets of looking at street corners, ceilings, chairs, dugouts, but rarely the person involved. I'll remember upholstery fabric but not someone's eyes.   I remember the worn door handle and patch of grass in the school yard out the window. I remember wanting to open the door, and just roll out of the moving car,  but I kept it together until she left. At six I was wise enough to not give her the satisfaction of losing my shit in front of her.

My mother recalls me throwing myself on the ground sobbing the entire night.

"MAUDE!!!!"  I couldn't breathe.  "MAAAUUUUUDDEEE!!!!"

 I was choking on tears, a flailing pink, blonde, bony mess. I asked why it hurt this much,  and when it would stop? She didn't have answers. I imagined this... Jenn. Who was this JENN? Was it 'Jenn' or 'Jen'? Who was this girl was who was better than me, who'd replaced me as the best? Was she seven I bet she was seven! Who was this person who was now the chosen friend of my chosen friend?

 "I want to turn it off!" I said.

"You want to turn off what?"  My mother asked.

"My heart. I want to turn it off."

"You can't turn off your heart Lissa."

"But…I…I…I…want t-t-t-t-t-to."

"You can't, it's what makes you you."

"Then I don't wanna be me! I want to turn it off."

I cried the whole night, and went into the guidance counselor's office the next morning on my own accord. When asked what happened I replied "I lost my best friend." My mother got a call from the counselor asking if there was a death. No death, she just moved to Downingtown. This was the second time in first grade that I had pulled myself into the office. Months earlier I had snuck out of class, and inquired if there was 'a support group for children of divorce'.  This time the counselor looked at my puffy pink blue eyes with pity.

"Well Melissa, perhaps you can make new friends too?"

 Sure lady, and while I'm at it I'll get a new father and new nuclear family. Why don't you give me a pamphlet for that too?


Over twenty years later my mother brought up the 'Maude' incident after a recent break up with a guy.  It was nowhere near as earth shattering, but then again I wasn't six.

"You just crumpled on the floor" she said. "You just couldn't understand, and there was nothing I could do to make it better. You cried until you threw up. You were just in it."

I pictured a small heaving child in a jumper screaming like Brando, and my mother waiting it out by her side.  I asked her if she thought at the time that I was a lesbian; in love with Maude, or emotionally imbalanced?

"No, I just knew then and there that you were going to be incapable of not feeling with everything, and that that would be a scary thing for other people to reciprocate."

 I looked at her and smiled, "Well I haven't thrown myself on the ground since, or vomited. So that's good."


*The girl's named was not actually Jenn. It was something stupid that I kept repeating to myself but now can't remember because I was 6.  I do remember saying "Who names a kid ___?"
** Maude Pinter grew up to be a lawyer in Ohio, and is a pretty nice person.

The Eyes of Troutman

for Annie the best eyes a building ever had. 

ANNIE, 67

You know they're just trying to kick us out?  I don't wanna call. I call them and then it gives them more reason to have me go. And I'm old and on this thing. This breathing box. This machine that gives me life. Ha! Some life. Attached to a box.   They don't tell you to save, you know? Don't have kids okay? You have kids, you don't save anything.  No I'm not gonna call them, have em get me out so they can sell the place.  No one's here. The girl downstairs, a neighbor said she saw her crying over a lover. She's gone, and that window out front, a crackhead could slip into it. Never underestimate crackheads. I'm sure you've never had to consider them before, but they'll get in.  They're like human accordions crackheads. This whole place is empty except for you and me, and maybe the guy upstairs, and I'm just stuck- with this box.  It gives me the herby-jeebies. It's a siv. It's a cesspool. A siv.  And they don't care cause they sold it, to the hasids. And they probably thought they'd get a million for it and then you sit down and they say 750.  They change their number when they get to the table, and I'm not being racist or anti-semitic or anything. It happens. They get to the table they give them a lower number.  They knock down this place build a high-rise. Drug dealers still live next door. Crackhead's sneak into it as the build it. And you'll go somewhere, back west of whatever, and me? I don't know where I'll go. WIth this box. I lived in Soho, had an antique shop in the West Village. Lived on Mercer. Lived on Jane. This was years ago, when my son Jesse was little. I could have had an apartment in Battery Park, rent controlled but I was stupid. And now they got Brooklyn and I got this thing. I got this box.

Apparently when I leave Brooklyn I turn into Nordic Larry David; A Play in One Act

There are moments when you realize that you are not as mature as people perceive you to be. 

A Conversation with a Tribeca Mom,  while walking the dog  *

Me: So do you work in the area?

Lady: Oh no I'm just waiting. Going with my daughter on a class field trip -we're walking over the Brooklyn Bridge. 

M: That's great. Cold day for it.  You going to go to Patsy's after?

L: Nooo they don't let them eat that. 

M: ...Right. 

L: Yeah. My daughter goes to PS150 over there. 

M: How old is she? 

L: Seven.

M: Oh that's great. 2nd grade? Does she like it?

L: We love it. She could have gone to 234 but we like 150. 234 is good but 150 is comparable to Hunter, or  Chapin, Brearley...Fieldston.

M: ...Totally... That's good to hear about the public schools in New York. I think about that sometimes. 

L: Oh yeah. We're really happy. Do you have kids?

M: No, but I like them...(strange look) 
Or would like  to have them (stranger look)...come out of me someday...(Even stranger look) 
I mean I'm not there yet, but someday I will be there, or here... or wherever I am.  

L: ...Yeah you don't seem like you'd have kids. 

                               (BEAT)

M: Yeah... After conversations like this apparently not..ha...but hopeful...very very hopeful.... Only takes one right? 

                               (Joke not accepted.)

M: Well, nice meeting you, have a great field trip at the bridge. Don't jump!
 (Another awkward look as the dog sits there and refuses to go as I pull him.)
*
*dramatization

Heartbreak before Myrtle Ave

AYANA, 6 sitting on the  J train, to the little boy across from her. 

Okay. Nah. Nah. Nooo! You do it like this.
(She takes her hands and makes a heart over her chest.)
Yeah, yeah yeah, you make a heart and send it to me. No come on send it to me- give it to me.
Like this!
(She places the 'hand heart' on her chest, and pushes it out into the air.)
Now catch it! For serious catch it. You catch my heart. I gave it to you. You catch it. I ain't gonna play with you no more if you jus drop it. Nooooo take it.
(She tries again.)
It's special. You can't jus be dropping it and not even tryin.  Like this.
(She makes a hand heart.)
Now you give me yours...
 (Nothing)
Awhhhhh for real? I ain't give you nothin if you ain't give me nothin back. What you just playin? 'snot funny, 'snot.  Come on! Yeah that's how you make it, not give it. Cause it ain't real till you give it away. Then I catch it and I give it back. I'll be careful.
(They send the 'heart' across the subway aisle, back and forth once.)
Now don't you drop it. It's almost my stop.
(Back and forth again. He gets bored drops his hands.)
IWell ain't you gonna give it back? You took it, you gotta give it back. You gotta give it back. You gotta. You gotta.  Mommy he dropped it! I'm sitting. 'Kay. I'm sitting.
 (She scootches back on the seat. Quiet. Then...)
It ain't stupid, you're stupid. You don't now how to do it right. Like this.
(She holds up her hand heart to her chest.)
I just keep it, I just keep my heart. I don't need yours. I got mine.



(Apparently this movement was patented. My apologies to google.-mo)

The first sleep

One of the best compliments I ever got from a new boyfriend  involved napping together. To me that first sleep says a lot about a relationship. 

photo by Paul Schnegge 

LIZ, 29 (to her non-live-in boyfriend of less than a year)

The thing is...the problem is you're not good at sleeping, with me. At first I thought it was because of me, that we didn't fit. I don't know, maybe that's it.  You're a horribly insensitive sleeper. And it's not because of the snoring, I can deal with the snoring, that could be cute. It's just sometimes you hold me, obligatorily, and you let go, and I wake up and you're across the bed. And sometimes I inch my hand, my arm, to touch yours and you flinch. In your sleep you flinch. The most real honest deepest part of you flinches minutes, hours after being intertwined with me.  It doesn't matter- it doesn't matter how intimate we are before or after, because then you can't touch me. Unapologetically, you just don't want to. You flinch.

 And i remember the first night, before you told me that you had a problem with it; with sleep. Before I noticed the pacing and Charlie Rose, and that stuff...before I knew that it was a thing with you.  I'm laying there awake, so utterly alone, wanting to just touch you, be held. And I inch over and just let my leg hover near your hand, just hover, and you roll over. You just roll away. And I felt cheap and used and alone. And I stared at your ceiling, and I watched your fan move, and I thought I guess that's it. I'll wake up early and he'll offer to make coffee I'll say no thanks and I'll go and we'll both know what it was. If there was any confusion before, the after always makes it clear what it is.  But we woke up the next morning and I stayed for breakfast, a sympathy breakfast I thought, and we walked to the train and you held me, you held me tighter than I had ever been held in my life. Like you didn't want to let go, like if you did, something would happen. And you do, you always hug me like that with this extra squeeze at the end - like you're afraid to let go. Like if you let go you'll just crumble, and who knows maybe you hug everyone like that? Maybe that's just how you hug?

 I love you. Against all my better judgement I do.  I love you when you're awake but when you're sleeping, when you're sleeping there's a part of you that doesn't want to let me in. It's this unapologetic cold part. It's  there when you're awake too, I guess.  I'm starting to see that. Maybe it's there when you're lost in work, or disappear for a few days. When you go someplace else and just let me talk, and pretend to listen when I go on about school or my family. It's there in those moments where you're just done, and for a split second it's like I'm a stranger. It's rare, but it happens.

 This whole time, nearly a year now, I've been afraid that that's actually you. I've been afraid that you at night, the you that flinches, is actually you. It could be, because you're not trying to be polite, or a good a guy, you just want what you want.  And what if  what you really want isn't me?  Would we both be better off? You spend half your life asleep, and what if we don't fit?  What if you were just nice and made breakfast? What if I just left and you didn't walk me to the train?

Cry to me.

(Just imagine Solomon Burke's "Cry to Me" in the background fading out).

DEBRA , 45 to her younger co-worker, who is in a bathroom stall.  

I don’t mean to do the whole I’m older than you thing, but I am. So I will. I don’t know what this is about, or why you left the room, and I know you’re embarrassed that it happened like that, during the presentation. Okay, that was unfortunate. You can get some extra tears out on that one. But you can stay in the restroom as long as you want. If you want I can tell the guys that you’re on your period and your grandma just died. No, don’t tell me what or who it is, I don’t want to know. Just stop saying, “I’m sorry” Okay? Just stop. Stop. Please stop. Don’t be sorry just get it out.

(She sobs even more.)

It’s fine. Really. And you’re not crazy. Stop saying you're crazy. Stop. Sometimes it just happens. You know me. I don’t feel emotion. I mean I pretend to socially. I fake care so people like me, but it’s not my thing. I get sent cute pictures of puppies and I just sort of feel sorry for them, and the people that wasted 2.5 seconds of their life looking at them. But years ago, this was before I got married. Joe and I had only been dating for a couple of weeks and he ended it, did the whole slow fade thing. I didn’t care, he was just some guy. 

And I’m uptown at Fairway or Zabar’s getting something to go visit my great aunt.-  I think it was a knish- and I just start to cry. And I’m crossing 72^nd street, standing in the middle of the street, and I’m just sobbing. Sobbing gripping onto this knish for dear life.  I almost fall into the ground I’m crying so hard, and I’ve never… This went on for what felt like three minutes, just squatting and crying like I was going to throw up.  Heaving. I was crying so hard that I just started laughing, laughing like an insane person in front of Urban Outfitters, just laughing through sobs.  Teenage girls were just staring, and I’m in a standing fetal position on the cement with a knish.

The thing is I wasn’t crying about Joe, he wasn’t important enough for that. I was crying about me.  I was crying out me. I was crying out everything that I hadn’t. Everything that I was afraid of that I knew and that I didn’t know about. I was crying for everything that I hadn’t felt, and then I was happy that I had the chance to feel all of it.  I was ringing out my system.  So I finished. I've completely lost control, which I don't do. I have mascara just pouring down my face, my eyes look like raisins, and my hair is a mess. I look like a mental patient. And I rounded the corner, and the fucker is standing right there. Joe -who lives downtown mind you- is standing right there, and I thought. “Okay now I am ready, now I can do this, now I have space for this”.

It’s like getting the flu. If you get it once a year it’s healthy because it purges your system. Not to be gross, but you get things out. And I think that’s what you’re doing now. You’re cleansing the system. You're making space. And that’s okay; it’s just easier to put it on a person.  But that person's just a person. I'll watch the door if you want to keep going. 

 Listen to this.