A Good Player

“You’re a good player!” enthused my niece Sasha, then about 5 years old. I think this might be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. We were sprawled on the floor of my apartment playing – I don’t remember, really – something from the toy closet.

It’s funny how some things you hear about yourself – for better and for worse – are immediately and seamlessly integrated into your identity. I can assure you I have self-identified as “a good player” ever since Sasha made her happy pronouncement, and would be honestly dismayed to be stripped of my title. Similarly, I was raised to believe that I’m a pain in the ass and the belief is, even still, a cornerstone of my character.

Maybe the reason I took to playerhood so gladly in my mid-30s is that I was not a good player as a child. It’s not that I lacked imagination – more that I was overwhelmed by reality. Here’s me playing along:

“You’re charging WHAT for tomatoes, supermarket check-out girl?!? That’s outrageous! I simply won’t pay it.” Exits in a huff.

I was also the serious sort, bookish and often alone. I prided myself on being “mature for my age” at least as much as I now am pleased to have “kept some of that childhood innocence.” Or found it lying about disused and adopted it, as the case may be.

I just turned 39 – maybe that’s brought on all this thinking about age-appropriateness. (I’ve decided just to tell everyone that I’m 40, because who’s going to believe a single woman who says she’s 39?) It could also be that I’m very nearly the oldest person I hang around with regularly – and sometimes I find myself tiresome in this regard.

When that happens, I hula-hoop.

“Y’know… for kids!” – The Hudsucker Proxy

Hula Girl

As if my life wasn’t already the height of ridiculousness, I’ve taken up hula-hooping. It just seemed like the kind of thing a retired person in her thirties should spend hours doing, so I decided to give it a shot.

And now I’m addicted. See, I sway back and forth when I stand for more than a minute or so anyway. Add a hula-hoop and I just look amusing (rather than, say, disturbed or mentally disabled). Honestly, I feel like I was born to hula-hoop. I can’t believe no one mentioned it earlier. In fact, when I told my mother I had started hula-hooping, she said “I used to do that for HOURS.” Good to know, since that’s where I got the swaying from to start off with. I’m having one made for Mom so we can swap tricks on Skype.

Not that I’ve got more than one trick, that is, unless dropping the hoop on the floor counts. For a girl who spends hours a day hooping, I’m not particularly good at it. And I’m OK with that, as it’s the first time I’ve had fun doing any kind of exercise. I’m not in a hurry to be an expert – what if it gets boring? How will I spend my time?

They say you can learn to hoop in 10 minutes (and by “they” I mean internet sites that promote hoops and hooping). I believe that most people can and do. Not me, though: it took me a determined few hours and a surprising amount of bruising considering this isn’t a contact sport. Physical intelligence has never been my strong suit. I’ve worked so hard to get every movement right, though, that I can teach people tricks in minutes that take me hours to learn. I considered thinking less of myself for this, but decided instead that I have a future in Hooping for Dummies books, CDs and videos – you know, in a few years when I know what I’m doing.

For me, learning new hooping skills is the kind of action adventure other people need to go bungee jumping to achieve. First of all, I bruise easily, so learning to hoop around the knees results in looks of horror and pity at the supermarket. Some concerned neighbor is going to send the police to rescue me from domestic violence. Alas, they will find only Gus the cat.

Or maybe they won’t. Early in my hooping history, Curiosity smacked Gus in the snout with a hoop, and he’s been skeptical ever since. For weeks he would skitter off upstairs whenever I started moving furniture or produced my hoop. That turned out to be more time upstairs than he was hoping for. Now he sits on the landing of the stairs and watches, which is smart of him as I don’t think a runaway hoop could reach him there.

And run away they do, often when you least expect it. I hoop in the house, because I prefer to listen to music while I do. The risk to appliances, windows and breakable décor just adds a frisson of danger to the undertaking. In an act of clear solidarity, the metal stick-figure cat in the living room lost a toe during a particularly violent hooping episode – on the same paw as MY broke-ass toe. The rule is, now, that all liquids must be around a corner or otherwise hidden / protected from flying hula-hoops. I made that rule after the first major liquid spill. When the second one happened, I hadn’t even started hooping yet; I have a talent even for leaning the hoop in the wrong place. The wording of the rule is under review to prevent further carpet stains.

I’d spend more time hooping if it didn’t get in the way of other activities. I can’t reach my computer keyboard while hooping, for example. I’m also no good at walking while hooping, which really puts a dent in one’s productivity. I’ll read on occasion, but this is not recommended for people prone to motion sickness. Hooping while watching television makes me feel simultaneously better about watching television and worse about hula hooping, neither of which is a welcome development. Instead, hooping is more like meditation – or an opportunity to think through a thorny problem from beginning to end.

I know I’ve got it bad. I’m sure eventually someone will need to take me aside and give me a stern talking to. When the time comes, I’ll try to listen. I know I’m not ready yet, because I was pretty disappointed when my friend suggested it was time for an intervention.

Already? But I only just started…

Telling Tales

I called my father early this week (about topics unrelated to flatulence, I assure you) and he told me this story:

“I was at this new pizza place having lunch, and I had gas. The music there was pretty loud, so I figured I could get away with it. Half an hour later, I’m feeling much better but, when I look around, everyone is staring at me. Then I realized I had my iPod on.”

“You did not!” I replied, giggling.

“No. I didn’t,” he confessed. “But it’s a good story.”

We Bramhalls adore a good story – the best kind being those we can tell on ourselves or our loved ones. And while we appreciate veracity, precise accuracy is optional; humor is king. One time my uncle tried to correct his mother’s telling of a well-worn family tale, and my grandmother waved him off, saying “don’t bother me with the facts; I’m telling a story!” This was an idea the whole family could get behind, because there isn’t a single member of Dad’s family who doesn’t have some ripping yarn about a bear at a campsite, a dog named Lancelot, or the car they called “Leaping Lena”. My father still laughs ‘til he cries telling the story about Uncle Din buying him a $500 surfboard because he thought it cost $5 – and he’s been telling that one since the 1960s.

The characters in these tales become part of a permanent pantheon I’ve been relating to most of my life – take Flossie, for example. When my parents were on their honeymoon, the legend goes, there was a waitress named Flossie at the diner. She was… friendly – my guess is she flirted with Dad. And so it became a running joke that Flossie was my father’s other girl – the woman he’d wind up with if my mother died or left him. (You’ve got to appreciate a family that has honeymoon stories – there’s another one about my father water skiing, then waking up the next day convinced he had Polio.)

So Flossie’s been around longer than I have. I’m rather fond of her, in fact, though it’s true to say she’s a grabby little bitch; my mother has no time for her. “I’m leaving my jewelry to you,” she would say. “For God’s sake don’t let Flossie get it!” On the other hand, I never met my father’s Marine Corps sergeant, but I’ve thought poorly of him ever since I learned he took Dad’s watch off his dislocated arm. Admittedly, some family anecdotes need polishing to bring out the Funny.

The family folklore masterpiece comes from Uncle George’s visit to Bramhall Hall in England. His knock on the door of the stately home was answered by a butler. Uncle George explained that his surname was Bramhall, and he wanted to explore the land from which his ancestors had come. “Yes,” replied a bored and snooty butler as he closed the door on my uncle “many of the serfs took the family name when emigrating to America.”

I once told this tale to an Englishman with a plummy sort of accent and an attitude to match, but I’m not convinced he appreciated it properly. He seemed embarrassed for me, as if I’d told him some great confidence. Mostly, I was patting myself on the back for working the word “serf” into normal conversation. Let this be a lesson in knowing one’s audience. Here’s another:

My father and Ron, a friend from his office, were dropping me off at college. The campus was dotted with charming streetlamps – old-style black poles with a base that rose above knee height and a cross-arm just below the light. As a fire precaution, the lights were built to go off for 5 minutes if the bulb came in contact with the panes surrounding it. As we parked in front of one of these lamps, I was regaling Dad and his colleague with tales of drunken escapades, most of which involve head-butting the lamps.

“Head-butting?” they asked.

“Yes,” I explained. “The base is the perfect height to stand on and grab the cross arm, using it as a handle to propel one’s head into the lamp, knocking the light out temporarily. Here, I’ll show you.”

I got out to demonstrate. Watching me through the windshield, Ron says gravely, “you must be very proud.” As I climb back into the car, he adds “I’m gonna let you tell this one at the office.”

This one's for you, Daddy.

I'm a Big Fan

I used to think being a fan was a bad thing.

Oh, who am I kidding? Part of me still does. I don’t have much patience for glittery signs or women crying “I wanna have your baby!!” I can’t think of a good use for autographs, and I don’t take pictures. Despite being a promising screamer in my youth, I have lost my zeal for high-pitched keening. I considered being tongue-tied around the object of my affection, but my mother informs me he puts his pants on one leg at a time. (I’m meant to fear acrobats, apparently, and to be unafraid of people who don’t leap into their pants. I couldn’t tell you why; I just do as I’m told.)

Being a fan can be embarrassing, really. People think you’re just a little bit crazy – like you’re not entirely in control of yourself. This turns out to be true even if you don't paint your face or cry when your team loses. On the other hand, I know plenty of people who can’t control themselves when they’re angry, and they’re less fun to be around. If you’re going to let go, do it in joy.

Despite the protestations above, though, I qualify for the role of fan better than most. While I don’t have the fearless self-confidence required for genuine stalking, I do specialize in showing up – time after time after time – which makes a splash in its own way. I also know all the words and do all the dances; it’s true. But mostly my brand of fandom is about attention and attendance.

See, showing up is the kind of thing I take seriously. Attention is the most important gift we have to give to others. Where I come from, presence *is* love. If we vote with our dollars every time we buy something, then we also vote with our time when we choose what we will attend, to whom we will listen, and where we’ll be present.

And here’s the thing: after I’m done being defensive, I still believe that being a fan of other people is a natural state. It’s being a fan of ONLY famous people that’s worth being embarrassed about. I have a friend named Mo with a smile as big as the sun who can make anyone she admires feel like a rock star. She admires a lot of rock stars, come to think of it, but some of us normal civilians as well. She’s an unabashed fan of people she loves, and I admire that about her. You could say I’m a fan of her fandom…

Shouldn’t we root at least as hard for our friends and family as we do for the Yankees? Shouldn’t we celebrate their victories with at least as much fanfare? Being a fan is about enthusiasm. And if you don’t have that for the people in your life there’s a good chance you need new people in it.

Fiddle, Fiddle

I spent a lot of my early 20s (as I remember it anyway) piling too many friends into some Pontiac P-O-S of considerable vintage, or similar rickety transport. My friend Todd had the prime example: none of the locks worked. None! How does that happen? Shouldn’t one forced entry point be enough? And if this is my ride, what are the chances there’s something you want to steal inside? This ugly brown automobile also sported a non-working heater. And if we, crammed two-people deep in the back seat, forgot and asked Todd to turn up the heat, Todd would do his best to oblige:

“Fiddle, fiddle!” he would sing optimistically, waggling his fingers in the direction of the heater. And then once more, with a bit of doubt in his voice: “fiddle…?” It was more a concerted aspiration to produce heat than any physical attempt to restore the heater to working order. It also had a welcome bit of Gone With the Wind “fiddle-dee-dee” in it.

I loved it then, and still do. I particularly like the sheer cheerfulness in the face of grievous obstacles – as if Todd lives in a world where the heat may in fact respond. (You don’t know; it could happen.) It suggests all the complexity of playing a nimble violin. Still, “fiddle fiddle” is a playful opportunity to do one’s best – it says “I’m game” or, in the words of one of my favorite songs “better to be a rotten egg than to skip the race.” This is an important attitude to maintain if I’m going to participate in the world. The likelihood of failure is high in my life (I put this down to being talentless), but it turns out that’s where the fun is.

Though I’ve since graduated from the era of ramshackle, unheated transport, I continue to find “fiddle, fiddle” the best response to many a daunting challenge. It’s what I do at work when I don’t know what I’m doing – and more often than not it works. It’s even fitting for a bad hair day.

I don’t have a temperament suited to an infinite amount of fiddling, though. If pressed, I will eventually yield a bored sounding “futz, futz,” and this is not the direction in which one hopes to be headed. Futzing lacks the patient hopefulness of fiddling. Futzing may be serious and can lead to annoyance.

Nobody wants that.

Use Your Head

Dateline: 5:15 p.m., Shuttle Train, Track 1, Grand Central Terminal.

I don’t usually go home this early, and the trains are packed full to bursting. The kind of full that means you’re all up in the grille of your New York neighbor – the kind where you’ve already tucked some guy’s shoulder under your armpit in an effort to find something to hang on to.

Here they come – not one but two women who believe they’re exactly what is needed at door 2 of this subway car. And yet there’s no way in. There’s not enough room to push past. There are already people needing to hug their briefcases close as the doors shut. The next train has arrived across the platform. Do they shove off for an empty car, our intrepid pair? No. Instead, without any discussion, they simultaneously turn around to face the platform and try to push their way into the car butt-first. Why? Why, Lord, why?!

They do not succeed. Butt pushing is not the kind of thing New Yorkers succumb to.

If you're bored during your subway ride there's poetry to read, or bunion removal to contemplate. But for a real rival to people-watching, you need the MTA itself -- hands down the best producer of transit signage in the land. To wit,

here’s a tiny placard informing riders that assaulting an MTA employee can result in seven years in prison. Emphasis on the (big, red) seven. But why? How does this prison term compare with the penalty for assaulting a run-of-the-mill straphanger? Or a member of the above-ground NYPD rather than the Transit Police? Is there a lower number of years served that would cause assaults on subway personnel to skyrocket? (See, for four years I woulda kicked yer ass, but SEVEN?? That’s just crazy talk.) Exactly how offensive are the folks at the MTA, if the rest of us need to be reminded regularly not to beat them? I have a lot of questions, and precious few answers.

As if to clarify, the conductor of the 1 train tries to shut the doors at 59th street while there are folks still getting off the train, much to the dismay of those hoping to board. (Those considering retribution are visibly deterred by the 7 year sentence.) As we push on toward 66th street, he makes this announcement:

"Ladies and gentlemen, USE your HEADS! Don't stick your arms, legs, bags or what have you in between the subway doors when they are closing."

Perhaps this is where the butt-pushers went wrong -- they should have used their heads.

Spain: A Gypsy, My Cousin, A Mugger, And Me

Giving the mugger my purse simply wasn’t an option: I was the only one with a wallet.

My travel companion lost her money and credit cards early in our trip to a gypsy woman with a newspaper, a kissy face and some quick hands. In fact she lost everything in her bag, seeing as it was upside down and empty when she checked it next. I escaped with my possessions thanks only to compulsive behavior. Whenever someone bumps into me I open my bag, find my wallet, and close my bag again – this the result of years of up-close subway riding. That’s what I did the first time the woman touched me; Suzanne saw me do it but thought I was going to give the woman money. It didn’t even occur to me to warn her – I was just doing what I always do.

Being moneyless in a foreign country is debilitating, but the wallet was just the first sign that things weren’t going smoothly in Barcelona. I never did get the late nights and siesta schedule working properly for me. We’d be up until dawn, then sleep in. By the time we were fed and showered and ready for the day, the whole country was preparing for a nap. Someone threw water balloons at us one evening as we headed out. It seemed there was nothing on the radio except Cher's comeback hit "Believe." And we were constantly lost, notwithstanding the map of Barcelona clearly marked with an 'X' at the drippy church.

Also, unbeknownst to us, one flies from Barcelona to Madrid; the train is simply not the done thing. On the contrary, it is a long, slow, cigarette-saturated mistake. Madrid itself was an oasis, and my memory of it hazy. I remember a Christmas fair, churros y chocolat at a coffee shop, and dinner with my cousin, in Madrid for a semester abroad. We were rested and refreshed from our stay in the MTV-meets-brothel hotel. We were ready for our next adventure.

On the way back there was a train strike – something to do with political separatism, I think, but then again I don’t speak Spanish. They put us on a bus for the remainder of the route and, while I worried that I’d take an accidental trip to Toledo, we rode through puddles so deep they seeped into the luggage compartment and soaked our clothes. This is why it doesn’t pay to worry; I so rarely get it right.

We weren’t even meant to be in Barcelona the night of the mugging, but the bus arrived too late for us to get the train to Sitges, so we returned to the same hotel in Barcelona. And then we set out to find a bar, tottering down an alley so quiet and poorly lit the people in the movie audience have to be screaming “Don’t go down there, fool!” If I’d had any sense, I would have left my passport, a bit of cash and an ATM card in the hotel room. Sadly, I had no sense.

Honestly, the only scary part was hearing stones crunch and turning to see someone lunge at me. I didn’t know if he had a knife. When I discovered he only intended to snatch my purse, I set about beating him. I called him all walks of names, too. I remember being glad I called him a bastard, as I was confident it translated. Eventually he had enough of being hit, and ran off. (Don’t you wonder how HE tells this story?)

We were probably 50 yards from our destination at the time, and my friend suggested we go in and have a drink. But I had to go back to the hotel immediately, where I could hyperventilate and cry in peace. There, reliving our vacation on our final night, my friend and I came to the conclusion: Spain can eat me.

I’m going to Amsterdam where I can smoke things my mother won’t approve of, and no one will mug me. Then I’m going home to Manhattan, where I don’t have to worry about crime.