Spark

On Friday, I said to myself: "Who are you and what have you done to Amanda?"

If I were starring in the Lifetime movie version of my own autobiography, that afternoon would have been the scene were I look in the mirror, scream, grab a pair of scissors and start hacking off all my hair.

Because, don't you know, this is what women do when they reach a breaking point, the tears mixing with the shorn locks as they slowly fall, swirling toward our feet. When it's over, the remaining strands stick up in uneven tufts, and I would run my fingers through them, no longer crying, only giving my reflection an icy stare. For some reason, Pat Benatar's "Love is a Battlefield" starts playing in the background and I reach for a black, tight-fitting, cropped leather jacket that miraculously appears in my wardrobe, insert hoop earrings, drawn on the reddest mouth possible and give my reflection one final nod before heading out the door. Even though moments before, the floor had so much hair on it that it looked like what I would imagine as the bottom of Robin William's drained hot tub, somehow it's all swept up when the camera pans down again.

In the next scene, the tufts have, of course, arranged themselves into a perfect Anne Hathaway pixie cut and people gasp at my courageous beauty as I pass them on the street. Will I receive the same baseless hatred she does if I post the photos of my new do on Twitter?

But I didn't hack my hair off and there is no melodramatic movie about my life. At least not yet.

However, I knew it was time to change things up.

I'm just not having enough fun. Working at home long, exhausting hours, going out mainly only to work events and the occasional social meetup in many of the usual places, not making time to explore, or even see a movie, I just wasn't taking advantage of the great city I live in anymore. I realized I've been treating New York like a worn out spouse, not allowing myself to see or experience the attractive parts of it that made me want to commit to the relationship in the first place, or find better ways of bringing back its romance. I was making excuses for it - too expensive, too fattening, too late, too early, too tired. On top of all of this, by Friday, I was left blinking in the smokey trail of yet another failed romantic situation with an actual person. One that was now peeling out of view. I was angry at him, but mostly at myself for believing in the situation's all too apparent impossibility in the first place. Silly me.

Clearly, this was the moment to start having fun again.

Though I wasn't exactly feeling up to it, I met with old friends on Friday and stayed out past my self-imposed F train curfew, splurging for the cab. Saturday, on fumes of sleep and with Irish whiskey likely still jigging in my bloodstream, I honored a long standing, out of the way, brunch date with a colleague that I was slightly dreading, but ended up thoroughly enjoying. I walked all the way downtown in the crisp, but summery air, feeling confident at my newly buff body in a figure-hugging dress. Making my way through the east 30's, I allowed myself to walk past and look in to Grandma Nina's old building for the first time in years. I usually go out of my way to avoid that corner. As I paused there, I let the nostalgia and sense of loss swell into my chest and held it, almost savoring it, then felt it deflate again at the corner once the light changed.

I continued walking and observing. Through the Union Square farmer's market (no sour cherries for cocktails yet - dang!), down along the Bowery to witness a casual, broad daylight drug exchange because no one told these guys the East Village is over! The rest of the day finally taking in that movie, and loving it beyond expectation, with John. The two of us then ventured to unexplored territory in a now unfamiliar section of my old Brooklyn neighborhood, ending the night with seats at what is usually an overly crowded bar, with a snifter of Calvados and just the right vibe to end the night. I even got home on the train quickly from there. On Sunday, with Father's Day plans on hold till the next day, I skipped my work out for the first time in months, managed to run errands, clean and have enough of the afternoon left to see another movie. I let myself have two true days off in a row! A real weekend, and I did stuff, for once! My lover, the city, had done the equivalent of bringing me an unexpected bouquet of roses, and I feel a renewed affection for it.

As I type this, I realize I should probably be doing work now before cooking dinner (tequila-marinated chicken in my future!). But because this is all about me making time for myself, it feels more right to jot things down here in this neglected depot of essays.

It's nearly my birthday, dammit. And I am not letting myself go sour.

Rabbit! Rabbit!

It's June!

I had a memory last night of the year I was going to turn four. I was tired of being three. At the time, my best friends were a brother and his sisters who lived down the street from me. The brother was already four and his sisters were a couple of years older. I was the baby. I didn't want to be the baby anymore - I wanted to be all grown up! I wanted to be four! 

Four meant I was old enough to climb the ladder on the playground slide by myself. And not the baby one with only two small steps, but the "big girl" ladder - the one with five steps and the bigger, swooshy chute. Four meant I could swim with the big kids in the public, chlorinated, man-made pond with a sandy outer rim, the closest thing we had to a beach in that little, land-locked town I grew up in. I would no longer have to stay in the shallow section behind the light pink and blue floating buoys with the other babies. 

I was a tall toddler. Way taller than the other kids my age. I once overheard my Brazilian nanny, who held nothing back, telling my parents that people who didn't know me thought I was mentally challenged. Ok, for the sake of 1970's authenticity, you know those weren't her exact words. Well, Judy also had a pretty outrageous Portuguese accent. She said they thought I was "e-retardit" because I was so much bigger than the other kids in the baby section. There must be something wrong with that old thing sulking by herself next to all the drooling little people who can't talk. 

I used to try to swim right to the line of buoys, holding on with my hands, letting my toes float infront of me into the big kid section - please, at least let part of me be with the big kids?- hoping the lifeguard wouldn't notice. Then the whistle would blow and I was back with the babies. One of them probably peed in the murky, brown water right next to me just for good measure. 

When I was turning four, I had just learned what months are, and that June was MY month!  

I have to say, that anticipation for the month of June hasn't gone away. I'm excited for this month! Another big birthday coming up, although now at the age of, um, at my age now, I want to play with the younger kids again. Luckily no one thinks I'm "e-retardit" for doing so. Great things happening. Certain beans were already spilled, but I think there still might be some hiding out to surprise me later. 

It's been busy and I've had almost no time for things I even *like* doing. But playtime is (fingers crossed!) coming up soon. Things could still go wrong, as they do, which is why I still had to say "Rabbit! Rabbit!" first thing when I woke up on the first of the month, for good luck. 

Besides, I still think rabbits are awfully cute... 

Multiple Personality Traits

Baby needs a day off.

This has been wonderful, don't get me wrong. I am THRILLED that the start of this year has brought me so many unexpected opportunities. I'm back in the game, bitches!

But it has been nonstop. Each day starts earlier than the last, compelled to get it all done. The vernacular of my work ethic simply does not allow for "piecemeal," "later" and "gently past due." Each day is a sprint. Since this entails completing tasks for at least four out of my six or seven (could it even be eight now?) freelance jobs in a given day, I have to creatively allot focus for each. Twitter is a daily multi-personality disorder, posting in different tones for different accounts.

But those "tones" have started having their own conversations with each other. I am lost. Don't understand what I mean? Imagine yourself as an actor who is doing a play and a movie and a TV series all at once, portraying different characters. One day you find your theater self addressing the movie character, who just made a cameo on the TV show. It's six o'clock and you realize all the characters went out for a drink and left you crashing, exhausted on your couch. Are they getting schnoggered and talking trash about you?

Some days do that to me.

At least the editorial work is wonderful. I love being an editor. I really do. But that is also its own set of unsustainable energies that could use a little R and R.

People tell me I look good. Thank you. But at my age, you only look as good as the quality of your eye cream.

An appointment near Central Park on the consummate spring day in New York City made me realize what I've been missing. The appointment finished earlier than expected, and I had gotten enough accomplished before I left the computer to do a little remote work in the park. Outside. Like, sitting in the warm, lithium rays of the sun, with cute little birds around me and flowering trees. I needed some nach-ah. As long as I could still see the buildings in the distance, I wasn't wandering too far, was I?

And you know what? I got everything done that day, even with that little break. I really need to start telling my inner drill sergeant to give it a rest. Maybe put some ambien in his coffee. The work will get done. As an old friend once said to me, when his grandma was on her deathbed, she never said, "I wish I'd worked more."

Now let me go before my bourbon account starts doing shots with the Irish vodka.

You Better Work!

Ah, it's good to be back in the game!

Reason I've been so quiet over here is there has been very little time to focus on my own writing. I miss it, and have now completely missed the deadlines I set for myself to finish my novel, but in a way, that's a good thing. I needed to be busier with projects that, you know, pay me.

In the past month, on top of the social media and PR consulting I do on the side, I helped launch a new online beverage industry magazine, Alcohol Professor, and I'm Senior Editor in Chief this time y'all! It's exciting to choose content, curate assignments and do all the behind the scenes production, plus spread the word on social media. A lot to do, but I'm digging it. I feel like I'm back in the groove.

I'm excited that tonight I will be attending my first Whisky Live in years where I don't have to make up some sheepish bullshit answer if someone asks me what I'm up to.

That is soooo 2012.

(Well, and 2011, 2010 and 2009, but who's counting?)

But yes, that's what's been going on. I'm a working hussy again.

I'll write again soon. No really.

Cheers!

Selected Shorts

So I went ahead and did it. I entered the Selected Shorts 2013 Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story contest. Yep. The one on NPR. Maybe you've heard the show some Sunday afternoon while chopping vegetables.

Of course, having known the date of the deadline for months, I let it get down to a week before to figure out what to submit. I had it written, but knew it needed editing. Then when I re-read the contest rules I discovered the story I wanted to use was something like 2500 words too many!

The rules:

• Must be about complicated family relationships
• Must be no more than 750 words
• Must have a title.

That last one tormented me for days. Couldn't figure out what to name my baby. Still can't, but what I came up with will have to do. 

The chances of them choosing my story from the hundreds of submissions (guess that's why the lame word count?) is slimmer than Posh Spice with a flesh eating virus. But hey. I did it. Cheers. To. That.

Here it is in case you want to read it. All exactly 750 words of it. And yes, a longer version of it is in the part of the book. Enjoy.

Like Aurora and Emma

By Amanda Schuster

Sitting beside my daughter as she sleeps off another round of her medication, I can’t help but think of all the times I’ve wanted to kill her. 

I swore when Delia became an adult and moved out into the world, I would find a way to forgive and be more involved in her life. Terms of Endearment always made me cry. Not because the daughter dies in the end, not the transfer of exquisite pain at a mother’s loss. It was witnessing Shirley MacLaine and Debra Winger as mother and daughter, as best friends. The first time I saw it I cried at my own lost chances. The second time I cried from sheer jealousy. From then on it was the line, “Momma, that’s the first time I stopped hugging first. I like that.”

I had to take her back in again.  Guess I’ll have to stop calling her an asshole behind her back. 

I know none of her behavior was meant to intentionally hurt us, but it did. Ira said he left when our young love went empty, but all the trouble she caused took its toll. Why couldn’t they give Delia drugs back then? These days, kids don’t feel like reading in school, and it’s diagnosed as a legitimate disease. I would like to be the doctor to say, “Sorry Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So, I’m afraid your son/daughter has Childhood. I suggest you let them play outside for an hour and threaten not to let them watch TV if they don’t do homework.” All those screens and flashing pictures now. It’s no wonder they can’t concentrate! 

None of the doctors could find anything wrong. Compulsive lying is not a disease, they said. Everything else checked out. She was happy. She was perfectly normal in every way. She would grow out of it, just a phase. She even made them laugh. Everyone thought that conniving little scamp was so funny. 

Things would be different if I knew she really couldn’t help it. 

Now she has something real. They have a word for it, but they don’t have the right drugs. Why is it they can cure Distraction but not this? 

One of the worst humiliations happened when the school moms held a gathering at Jane and Phil Fogerty’s house. I never enjoyed those mandatory social events. I wouldn’t voluntarily call or hobnob with these people if our children didn’t know each other. They always looked at me in my hippy skirts like I was some sort of gorgon.  

Almost every mother from Delia’s class was there. The house was decorated in hues of noncommittal, muted colors that matched in their collective blandness. They drank white wine with ice cubes. Phil walked in, made some comment about being afraid of so many women in one place (I’ll bet, Candyhips), filled his own glass and left the room. No one offered me any, so I helped myself.

I got strange looks. Was some unseen servant supposed to be doing this for me? The wine was too sweet and a little skunky, but I drank it anyway. I heard someone behind me say, “Marcy, I can’t believe you’re still so thin!” Said in that way those women had, the last word in a sentence emphasized with a corrosive shriek. 

I turned around. Everyone was staring. One of the ice cubes made a popping noise and slid further down the glass. I noticed most of the ladies were looking at my hand. The one holding the glass. Or was it the glass itself? Was I using the wrong one? I thought that was forks. 

“Still?” 

“How far along are you now? According to Delia, it must be at least five months!” she shrieked. 

Delia sleeps with a hand under her head, same as her baby days. Would she be able to take some soup soon? Maybe what’s left of the bond between us can be bridge by food. That is, if she eats what I prepare for her.  

As I peel the carrots, I think about the days and weeks ahead. Will I have my “GIVE HER THE SHOT!!!” moment with the nurses? The real panic is more immediate. She’s going to wake up in a few minutes. I haven’t got a goddamn clue what to say to her when she does. 

Let’s start with soup and go from there. 

Ode to the Blood Orange

It's fitting that blood oranges are in season the week of February 14th, because I am in love with them.

I love everything about them - the gradations of reds and yellows on their skin like a sunset, slicing them open to reveal that striking, sexy and luscious dark flesh on the inside, the surprise of its flavors. There is a cool citrus sweetness there, distinctly, well, orange. But then things turn up at the end into a sharp bite of bitterness, akin to grapefruit, but more focused and quick. "Don't mess with me," it seems to say. "Take me seriously. Treat me with respect." Like most great lovers, they're only around for a couple of weeks and then disappear. They return the next year, and all is forgiven, but fleeting. Squeeze them wrong, their juice sprays all over, and it will stain. As it should.

I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day. I never was, even in the times I've had a man to spend it with. Like New Year's Eve or St. Patrick's Day, it's one of those holidays accompanied with too much pressure. Nowhere is safe. Places normally of refuge - my favorite bars and restaurants, feel it's necessary to come up with some sort of love theme menu, at a "special" price to make it easier, take the guessing out of ordering. Doesn't it occur to them to NOT do that, for the people who are already in love, and know what they want, what their significant other wants? It's a favorite restaurant because they serve favorite foods, which is incredibly romantic. But no, on that night, you have to order something else. At a higher price.  Dessert isn't desired, it's settled upon, because it's included in the price. Bet you didn't realize Valentine's Day is actually a Jewish holiday in disguise.

Then there are the choices with anti-love themed items. Why does it have to be either or? Why can't I just be a person on Valentine's Day? If I'm not lucky to have someone to love, then why do I have to be made to feel a sociopathic response to it instead?

Don't get me started on the cocktails. Cloying, Gooey, sticky, fatty - an excuse to get rid of all the bottom shelf liqueurs. Yeah, that'll make you look super hot with your clothes off.

But back to blood oranges.

Bitter, sour, sweet, all at the same time. The embodiment of love and love lost. And being forced inside because nowhere is sacred. Enjoyed in privacy, letting that sweet juice run all over, and no one will care. Perfect.

For Valentine's Day, I wanted to create a cocktail with ingredients that frame the inherent flavors of that sensuous fruit, using ingredients that, like love, are rare and decadent in their own right, and rich in flavor but not heavy-handed. The Dell'Erborista amaro adds a drop of punishment, but used sparingly, keeps it sexy.

San Valentín Sagriento (My Bloody Valentine)

2 oz straight rye whiskey
1/2 oz Barolo Chinato Cocchi
1/4 oz Amaro Dell'Erborista 
1/2 oz fresh blood orange juice
1-2 bar spoons (depending on how much of a spanking from the  Dell'Erborista you can take) of good quality maple syrup
3-4 drops Bitters Old Men Macadamia 
1/2 wheel of the blood orange for garnish

Combine all ingredients in a shaker with ice. Shake until joined and cold of heart. Strain into chilled cocktail glass. Attempt to balance the half orange wheel on the rim, but it's Ok to let it fall into the glass. The greatest love is never perfect.

Cheers!

Eras - Ending, Beginning and Enduring

"The end of an era" has become an all too familiar term. I am now at that age where I hear it on a near weekly basis. In New York City, in particular, in the current state of commercial realty, there is physical evidence that eras have been ending all over the place.

In the past month, eras ended for two of my good friends, who both lost their mothers after long illnesses. One of them, was a Broadway stage actress and beloved voice teacher. Both of them were just all around excellent moms and fantastic women.

Yesterday, I had dinner on the Upper West Side with a dear friend I don't get to see very often. One of the reasons we reconnected recently was because an era had ended for her, and I was a significant part of it in some way. She had informed me a couple of weeks ago that her best friend from childhood, and someone I knew at one point well enough to invite to my wedding (as most of you know, great party the marriage had no chance of living up to) had died suddenly from lung cancer in November. My friend's grief was still so new, raw and perplexing, that it hadn't occurred to her to inform people until months later.

When she told me, I was gobsmacked, although I can't claim that this person was someone I considered a close, inner circle friend. We had exchanged a few letters when we were teenagers, she in Westchester, me in Connecticut. Mostly as a show of solidarity and support for our mutual friend, instead of what could have been a brutal rivalry - teenage girls being what they are. We reconnected again some time before I was married, and stayed in touch for a few years after that before she permanently moved to Paris and started a family. Our mutual friend would show me pictures, and give me updates on her life. I would wish her well, and ask after her. But we had stopped communicating entirely, mostly because we were both busy or otherwise pre-occupied - middle aged adults in different countries being what they are. The mutual friend and I had also pretty much stopped communicating in the last couple of years. Though we live in the same city, our lives are very different in many ways. It was just one of those things.

It was wonderful to see her last night. Over a cocktail and subsequent dinner near Lincoln Center, we caught ourselves up with the highlight reels of our recent lives. Over dessert, she gave me the full rundown on what happened to our friend. One of the reasons so few people knew is because she was in complete denial that she was dying, even at the end. Her health had so efficiently turned against her that she when it became apparent she wasn't going to make it, she didn't have time to process what was happening, or leave instructions, or say goodbyes. When the day came, it was so sudden and so physically far away, that those close to her could only go into a sort of logistical autopilot of arrangements and plane reservations.

This was all very sad to me. When we parted in the cold, windy night on upper Broadway, my friend and I promised to be better at staying in touch, which I believe we will be. Life is indeed too short, and we have now reached the age where we can no longer have faith that people we once knew are still kicking around somewhere. I walked past Lincoln Center, which never ceases to take my breath away when I see it lit up at night, the fountain in the foreground, the huge Chagall paintings adding colorful backdrop through the windows of the Met in the distance. How many times have I walked past this scene through the ages? It always seems to be there for all my life's turning points. Won't it always be there for me? In that moment, I became so aware of time passing that it was as though I could feel it slicing through me. It's not a good feeling. I don't recommend it. Hard on the eyes on a cold night...

So this morning, when I learned of the passing of Mayor Ed Koch, I was taken aback in a different way. This man was such an integral component of our culture, like it or not, that it simply never occurred to me there would be a day he'd cease to exist. A face and voice I'd known and appreciated since I was capable of knowing anything, and now it's gone. Maybe he made some unpopular choices, but I still feel an affection for him because of how much he truly loved this city and (I like to think, anyway) the people in it.

So on this day, the first of the month, which is also the 100th birthday of Grand Central Station (where as a child I thought Michelangelo had painted the ceiling), I bid adieu to lost eras, while welcoming new ones, and celebrating those wonderful structures I hope will always be the scenery in the ever-changing narrative of my life. This calls for a cocktail.

(courtesy Saveur.com)

I thought about creating one especially for him, and to commemorate Grand Central Station maybe, and all the things I appreciate about this city, but also the elements that make it challenging. But you know what? That cocktail already exists. It's called a New York Sour. This recipe calls for rye, but I think bourbon, irish whiskey or brandy would work just as well. Maybe for Koch float some Manischewitz instead of a typical dry wine. Up to you. Cheers, New York City! Here's to many more memories, sweet and tart.

Via Serious Eats: The New York Sour


2 ounces rye whiskey
3/4 ounce fresh lemon juice
1 - 1 1/2 teaspoons sugar (or 1/4 - 1/2 ounce simple syrup), to taste
splash chilled club soda (optional)
1/2 ounce dry red wine


Add sugar and lemon juice to a cocktail shaker and stir to dissolve (if using simple syrup, skip this step).

Add whiskey to lemon/sugar mixture and fill cocktail shaker with ice.

Shake well for 10 seconds, and strain into either an ice-filled rocks glass or a chilled cocktail glass. Add splash of club soda (optional).

Carefully pour the red wine over the back of a bar spoon so it forms a layer atop the drink.