Birding In The Time Of Corona

I am not a stranger to grief or struggle, but this is a new kind of hardship. Being quarantined in New York City, laid off from a job that I had for almost a decade, unable to perform or see my friends, unable to see my sick mother, unable get tested for peace of mind to travel - it’s been a hard time. I was running daily, but I pushed it too hard and injured my IT band, so I don’t even have that anymore. I’m without purpose, unmoored, agenda-less, and frankly I’m too stunned to create or be artistic. I don’t have faith that it will get better anytime soon, or that I’ll have work to return to anytime soon. I’m grateful for my health and the health of most of my family and friends, in a time where so many don’t have that. But I have been struggling.

This time has provided a rare and quietly powerful clarity on who and what are really important to me. I’ve been moved to tears by my wonderful, beautiful, considerate friends whose generosity and thoughtfulness has no parallel. My incredible sweet, strong, and noble partner Olivier Miller reminds me daily that l am loved, secure, and blessed to have a found my perfect mate. My creative strong-willed Mother, who despite struggling with her own health, talks me off the ledge each morning, encouraging me to start scheming for the next big thing. And birds.

Observing birds bring me great joy. Recognizing the squak of the blue jay or the chirp of the cardinal out my window without looking, or identifying the tilt of a goldfinch in flight, it makes me feel like an insider to a foreign world that exists in plain sight. Observing new birds that I didn’t even know existed humbles me; they’re little fluttering signs, gently and kindly chirping “you don’t know this beautiful wide world like you think you do!”. It’s a simple pleasure that comes without agenda. Even as the world we’ve built around us shatters, birds still fly, migrate, nest, forage, and sing. As I personally struggle with the dread of losing my apartment, my job, my art, and my life as I knew it - birds still surprise me, memorize me, entertain me, and ground me. Their world is the real one, the constant that has been here all along and will be here after we’re gone. My world of expensed lunches, self-importance and oiled agendas was an illusion… An illusion that maybe wasn’t serving me well.

It was heartwarming to be with all the birders out there yesterday, finding joy observing birds in this dark confusing time. Standing far apart we excitedly shared our sightings with one another through our masks. One girl with a set of binoculars and a large camera told me through her purply paisley mask that this is her new quarantine hobby. I was happy for her. I was happy for me. I don’t have an answer for what I’m supposed to do next. Right now I’m just… nesting. Foraging when I need to. Existing. And quietly discovering parts of myself that were always there, fluttering in my heart, that I’ve been too busy to see.

A Great Egret in Prospect Park, Brooklyn

The list of birds I saw yesterday in Prospect Park, Brooklyn

Fathers Day In The Dead Dad Club

Let’s talk about the Dead Dads club. It’s a thing. You don’t know it’s a thing until it’s your thing, and then you’re very aware that you’re in it.

When you’re in the Dead Dads club, you naturally have some anxiety around Fathers Day. There are so many great dads around you being rightfully honored and showered with praise and love. But members of the Dead Dads club are excruciatingly aware that their father isn’t around to have dinner with anymore. Dad’s not going to laugh and shake his head when you give him a dumb Snoopy card with a lovely message, and he doesn’t need your help to weed the garden anymore. Because he’s dead. Everyone in the Dead Dads club shares this same reality and mourns for their father in their own personal way. 

Now let’s talk about the Dead Dad club for someone who’s father was not a great guy. 

I had a complicated relationship with my Dad. When he died two years ago it all became very final. At the time of his death, our relationship felt broken, and nothing blows your chance at redemption like death. I’ll never make more moments with him, or be able to try to mend our painful relationship, because he’s gone. The finality of his death meant we’d never be fixed. It’s a hard thought that I struggle with, and most days I just try to not think about it. 

My dad was sick and depressed my entire life. He was depressed because he was sick, and got sicker because he didn’t take care of himself, because he was depressed. From what I’ve gathered from other members of Dead Dads club, this is not an uncommon phenomenon. He didn’t participate in a lot of family life, but didn’t go on disability to help us out either. He didn’t do much of anything but watch TV and lash out when challenged. He wasn’t violent, except on a few occasions when he was, and those dark moments were hushed up, justified, and ignored. He was waiting to die. It’s incredibly harsh, but unmistakably, achingly, unfairly true. 

When I was a kid, I didn’t know. I felt sorry for my father for being so sick. I felt sorry that he couldn’t work, or make friends, or participate in our family. I felt sorry that his illness made him sit alone in the den watching TV 24/7, sleeping on and off all day. I thought that was normal because I didn’t know anything else.

As I got older and came to see other people in worse health be more involved parents, I started to resent him for not being able to rise above his struggles. It was a hard moment when I realized it wasn’t his diabetes or heart condition or hearing loss that stopped him from being involved in our lives - it was him. I resented him for not fighting harder to be a better father to my brother and I, and for not trying to be a better partner to my mother. Eventually, that resentment turned to anger when it seemed like he just didn’t care about us enough to try. 

After his death, all of my angry feelings were mixed with sorrow of his passing, the trauma of his last few months and days, and the guilt that I didn’t do more. Replaying in my head the trips I didn’t take, the phone calls I missed, how he’ll never meet my future husband or his grandchildren (but would he care to be in their lives anyways?) It’s a lot of feelings that I try to turn off - ‘Don’t go there’ is the family motto. But covering something up doesn’t make it go away, it only makes it more scary to eventually lift back the covers and deal with. When Father’s Day rolls around, it’s impossible not to go there. So, today on Father’s Day, we go there.

One truth that I have learned in my adult life is that you don’t get anywhere without being grateful. It’s not just the bullshit of self help books and woke millennialism - it’s true. Being grateful makes you happy - not the other way around. Fathers Day and Mothers Day are about honoring the people who made you. This day has made me face my biggest elephant in my darkest room - I have never really felt grateful for this person who made me.

That’s messed up.

I can’t walk around carrying the sadness of a failed relationship with my father for the rest of my life. If I can’t have empathy and compassion for my own father, the person who made me, then no amount of self care and great friendships are going to make me happy. I’ve trudged through life so far with a big bundle of emotions in the middle of my heart room that I pretend isn’t there - I cover it up with smiles and comedy and boyfriends and food. But, it’s there. Girl, it’s always there! It’s Dad! I know that feeling empathy, compassion, and gratitude instead of negativity towards my bundle will make it less oppressing. I’ve heard the phrase - if you want to change your mind, think different thoughts. It sounds so easy, but it’s actually very hard. It’s actually wicked fucking hard.

But, I’m getting too old for this. All this sadness and drama is too much weight to carry around all the time. And most importantly, to only feel the weight of the bad feelings is not fair to him. It’s wrong to ignore all the good things that he brought into my life, and for the gifts that he did give me to go unrecognized. He’s not here anymore, so I must consciously and intentionally make space in my head and my heart to feel gratitude, empathy, and compassion for someone I’ve largely felt negative emotions towards. Because ultimately, I get to choose how I live my life, and I want to live with love and gratitude so that I can be happy. So today, I will focus on all the things for which I’m truly grateful for my father.

I’m grateful for when he’d take me and my brother every weekend to McDonalds to play the Monopoly game and we’d eat french fries in the car. We’d sit in the parking lot with the windows rolled down and towels in our lap to wipe the grease on. It was warm, cozy, and safe. 

I’m grateful for him showing me how to drive (terribly) with my knees. 

I’m grateful for him teaching me about rocks and crystals and leaving me with some of his rock collection, which is very cool and very heavy.

I’m thankful for the way he encouraged me to be into the sciences, and taught me all about the stars and outer space.

I’m grateful for all the times we lit fireworks - I love a good explosion because of him. 

I’m grateful for every meal he perfectly grilled for my family. 

I’m grateful for the silly swear words that he would use in replace of real swears, like nincompoop and ralph.

I’m grateful for the hours we spent in the car together listening to Motown, which gave me a rich taste in music. 

I’m grateful for him taping Dragon Ball Z for me every afternoon for two years when I went to Catholic school and got home too late to watch it live. I am not grateful for him sending me to Catholic school. But that’s ok. 

I’m grateful for all the mornings he made pancakes.

I’m grateful for him taking me to the ice cream shop for strawberry ice cream sundaes. 

I’m grateful for how he’d come to every youth soccer game I ever played, and how he'd stand by himself almost incognito in his old worn cap, aviator sunglasses, and an oversized blue hoodie. 

I’m grateful for the excruciatingly annoying way he’d eat so fucking slow.  

I’m grateful all the dumb baby animal calendars he’d get me every year for Christmas.

I’m grateful for when he said I love you.

I’m grateful for the ways he showed he cared.

I empathize with the depression he felt as a result from his illness. I didn’t realize until recently that he was deeply depressed and never sought or accepted help. I don’t think it was in his capacity to admit he had a problem, and I can empathize with that too. This same illness killed his mother right after he was diagnosed with it - I’m sure that was terrifying, and I don’t think that she took care of herself or her illness either. Giving up and sinking into the depression was easier. 

Sometimes, I too feel a creeping sadness from the center of my being that makes me feel useless, stupid, and sick - a paralyzing dull weight that aches in my bones and whispers “retreat to the couch and watch reruns all day! Forget this life, it’s too hard!”. In a way, my father taught me what not to do. He is an example of why not to let that feeling linger, and why it’s so important to get up off the couch and live your best life even when you feel overwhelmed with fear and sadness. He showed me why it’s so important to get up, reach out, and get help. Because you can get stuck there. You can die there. Maybe this will be the most important thing he’ll ever teach me.

I have compassion for his struggle. Yes, he couldn’t slay his own monsters. Yes, they got bigger and badder than his will to try for his family. And that’s ok. Not everyone has a hero’s journey. I still love him. 

 In Dead Dads club, we can still mold our relationship with the memories of out fathers. We can grow to honor them. And I will try to do that for now on.

Daddy, thank you for doing what you could. I know you did your best. I know you loved us. The good things were not unnoticed. I really wish I could sit down and share another excruciatingly slow meal at a terrible restaurant with you. I love you, Dad, and I honor you. Happy Father’s Day.  

Letters From Rinjani

Molli King and I flew to Indonesia this summer to hike Rinjani, the second tallest peak in Indonesia and supposedly the hardest trek in Southeast Asia. This is a letter I wrote on July 24th 2016, just before dawn on the third day of our trek. We had just hiked over 12,000 feet, and I was so done. Enjoy!

I can't sleep because there is no comfortable way for my legs to be touching the ground. Yesterday was so hard. I pushed through wall after wall after wall until I broke, and then kept pushing through new walls that I didn't know I had until I really broke.

On the first day, we hiked for 8 hours to get to 2600 meters, the rim of the volcano. First I was sluggish, then Molli, but overall we set a good pace and served as excellent encouragement to each other. The vertical height was crazy – it was the hardest hike I've ever done up to that point, and the highest elevation I've ever been in. The air definitely feels different at this altitude - you take deep breaths but it doesn't quell the shortness of breath, so every few minutes we had to stop to give our breath a chance to catch up with us. When we reached the top rim, it was everything. Incredible. Breathtaking. Any description isn’t do it justice, as it was the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed. Granted, we were maybe crazy with the altitude and totally spent from a day of hiking, but I was laughing and crying at the same time because it was so absurdly beautiful. The sun was setting over the clouds beneath us, lighting their pillowy tops in the most brilliant whites and yellows and pinks.  The tents are set up on a 10 foot wide trail, with drop offs on each side, so imagine rolling hills that we started from  6000 feet below on our left, the crater lake of the volcano surrounding the smaller, active volcano 2000 feet below on the right, and Rinjani's impossibly tall peak with clouds rolling off its face right in front of us. Once it got dark - my god, the millions and millions and millions of stars. I felt high; I was witnessing this great, great beauty that is only viewable by those who put themselves through the most intense physical efforts to witness it. I don't want to be cliche, and I know I can wear my emotions on my sleeve, but it was this moment (and moments like these) that truly affirm for me that there is this a higher power. To create such stunning glorious beauty that tiny humans like me not only appreciate, but are humbled to witness it and silenced by it so profoundly - that is a work of God. She is here, great and terrible and intensely beautiful and terrifying, winking at me from all sides. I don't know what She does the rest of the year though ;) It felt so wildly good.

No picture will ever do this view justice... But here you can see the trail to the top of the mountain - the white line in ash.

The next day - yesterday at this point for me- was the hardest day of my life. The guide described the morning hike to the summit as a three part hike - hard, easy, and very hard. I would instead bill it as the hardest thing you will ever fucking do for 4 hours. The first "hard" section was this very intense vertical climb for about 90 minutes on a trail that's mostly loose sand at 30-40 degrees in angle. Every step we'd take we'd slide back down a little, but there were still branches and trees to hold onto at this point. We hauled up this steep beastly terrain to the top of the high ridge of Rinjani by 3:30am. That's when the altitude sickness hit me. I felt like I swallowed a big rock and it was hard for me to catch my breath. The nausea felt like food poisoning, but I couldn't throw up. I live my life at sea level, so at 9,000 feet is apparently when my body is like NOPE. But I pushed through. The thing about ridge trails is that they have drop offs on either side - you're climbing the ridge of the mountain, the highest point on either side. Any other ridge trail I've done has been in the forest, so you don't notice the drop off as much. This one was above tree line, and the mountain is volcanic, so it's ridiculously steep on each drop of side if not a sheer cliff, and the drop off is about 8,000 feet. To make it even more laughably scary, the trail we are walking on is about the size of a bike lane - yup, some stretches about 3 feet wide. The wind was ridiculous, I'd say constantly blowing at 30 mph, with gusts to 40, and even though we’re on the equator we’re so high up is freezing cold, wearing multiple jackets, hats and gloves. So imagine me, fuuuuucking actually me, arty/theater/yeah-I-run-a-few-miles-sometimes me, on this ridge of a volcano 10,000 feet up, in the dark with howling wind, death cliffs on each side 3 feet away. To put the cherry on the top of this absurdity, at one point as we trudged along in darkness, the guide shouted over the howling wind “Oh look! Magma!”, and sure enough, you could see the red magma pooling inside the crater of the volcano. That was the first time I felt afraid. But I kept going, just staring at Molli's feet as she slowly paces ahead of me. If I only looked forward, I couldn't see what scared me. The sloping part of the ridge is a 90 minute walk - uphill, but not extreme, and mostly packed gravel and pumice. This is the “easy” part. Then the "very hard" part comes, according to our guide, this very nice tiny Indonesian dude named Ahde. This "very hard" part has the steepest drop offs, the hugest winds, a ridiculously steep incline - felt like 45-60 degrees -and it's all loose volcanic ash. You take two steps forward and you slide a step back, and the howling cold wind whips the ash in your face. And it's dark and now we're at 11,000 feet and I'm sick and very cold and and feeling like I'm sliding down the mountain more than up. I'm very very afraid. This was a new wall, a new level of fear I have never felt before. I have never in my life have felt truly afraid, truly scared until now. Fifteen minutes into this part, I was done. I was so scared I couldn’t move. Every step was horror. There are little piles of stone on either side of the trail, and Molli and I hid behind one and Ahde came next to us, saying another 45 minutes to the top. I said I couldn't do it. It wasn't my legs, or even the sickness, it was the fear. The sun was starting to come up, and the dim light made it hard to ignore the drop offs. I asked if there were any more rock piles likes like the one we were hiding behind between here and the top, and he said no. Molli said let's go. Ahde held my hand and we walked up another 40 feet, but I was crying, everything in me screaming hell no. So I planted my feet, told Molli ad Ahde to go on without me, and slid back down to my pile of rocks hide out. We had passed so many people that couldn't make it to the top huddled behind piles like these, I thought I would just be one of them.

I sat there for 10 minutes alone watching the sun start to rise, and saw so many people like me huddled to the sides on this trail all the way down the mountain. And then a few people began to walk past me, just a few steps at a time. And I got up and walked with them. I wish I could say it was some inner inspirational moment, but it wasn’t. I just thought, ‘what the fuck, come on girl’. I came around the world for this hike. The top is 40 minutes away. If these tiny Indonesian dudes who smoke 2 packs a day can do it - I can do it. So I got up and walked. Slowly. I kept my eyes directly in front of me and... I sort of just blacked out and did it. The crazy fear fueled this crazy adrenaline and I did it. Alone. Well, for the most part. When I got close to the top, passed the open ridge, there was this very steep switch carved in the rock at the top, and people were already coming down. They were so encouraging - saying "you can do it, you're so close!". I slipped a little and lost my footing, but this trail of 20 people packed into this switch hoisted me up and passed me to one another up about 10 feet. When I really couldn't move anymore, people were there to help me up, literally hositing me up the mountain. It was cool. I got to the peak, found Molli - who was very surprised to see me, and we tearfully laughed, maybe a little crazy from the altitude. 12,224 feet, the hardest trek in Indonesia and the tallest mountain I've ever climbed three times over. We took some pictures - the view just incredible, but we were maybe too tired to even appreciate it. And then we went down. Only spent about 10 minutes at the peak.

view from the top

It’s worth noting that going down is so much more fun than going up, but still pretty exhausting. It’s so steep, you sort of ski down the volcanic ash, as with each step you slide about 5 feet. Molli and I took it slow, taking pictures and chatting on the way down, almost as if we didn’t just do the scariest and hardest thing we’d ever done in our lives. I picked up a bunch of pumice, which I would keep in my backpack for the rest of the trip, and thought about how cool my Dad would think that was if he was still alive.

Molli coming back down the mountain

We got back to camp at 9 and sort of ate breakfast. The exhaustion was hitting hard, as well as the nausea from the altitude sickness. Our muscles started to cramp up, and we felt pretty terrible. But at 10:30, it was time for another 9 hours of hiking.

This is the part of the day in not proud of. Really… the whole rest of the day I’m not proud of. I was just so tired. We hiked for four hours down a very steep clip side to the crater to the lake and I was so, so tired. Ahde said that this was the part where people cry. I didn’t cry, but I wasn’t happy. I was scared. If you loose your grip and fall, you don't just hit the ground, you fall 60, 100, 1000 feet. You definitely rather hike up this kind of terrain then down, but this was it. So I hit a new wall as a new fear of falling mixed with exhaustion echoed in every cautious step. We stopped for water, and I told Molli I didn't want to die on this mountain. She thought I was being glib. I pushed past it, because there was no other option. I kept going. We reached the crater lake and the volcanic hot springs by 2, and took a soak. We left the lake an hour later for 4 hours of hiking to camp, all uphill. Here was a new wall. My body and mind exhausted, and oh great- a switchback trail that was literally 2 feet wide, with a sheer drop off to the lake. The higher we got, the closer to camp but the higher the drop off. I had to stop looking, but at one stretch it was maybe 2000 foot cliff that i was HIKING 2 feet from. After two days of exhaustive hiking, I had no more adrenaline, so it was just terror in me that I was trying to suppress as we hauled ourselves back up to 2600 feet. That's when I really started to miss you. I just wanted to talk to you, to be near you. I started listing off all the things I love about you in my head - your mischievous smile, your levels of excitement, your hands, your hair, your voice, your laugh, your love. How you make me want to make your world great for you. How much I care for you and want to care for you. The way you cook. The way you care for me. How you pick out nice wines and cheeses. How you creep into my conscious every other minute of the day. How you care about yourself and your life and want to include me in it. Why am I so far away risking my life when I am so in love with this man and he is so in love with me? Why aren't I sipping rose with him at an outdoor cafe in Brooklyn, not choosing to flirt with death on this VOLCANO? What is my fucking deal? I'm on this cliff scared out of my mind and my inspiration to keep going is ok - 2 hours from now I'll be back at camp writing Steven. 1 hour. 45 minutes. Swallow your fear. 30 minutes. Keep pushing. 20 minutes. It’s so steep that we can’t use the poles and we have to scale 12 foot rock faces. 15 minutes. 10 minutes and I'll be writing. We get to the top, I've never in my life been more tired and... We can't find the porters with our tents. We walk for another 15 minutes as the sun beautifully sets above the clouds, but I can't watch because I'm deliriously tired and need to focus on my footing so I don’t fall. Then Ahde hears from another guide that our porters did the next part of the trek - they made camp 30 minutes away, down a steep rocky trail. Which we now had to hike. In the dark. I lost it. LOST IT. In all fairness - this was 7pm now. I had started hiking 15 hours ago, I'd been from 2600 meters, up to 3800, down to 2000, back up to 2600. My legs and my mind were jelly. And now I had to hike another 30 minutes downhill - which is way scarier than uphill - in the dark. I started crying. Sobbing, really. And I couldn't stop. This was the wall I couldn't push through. This is what “done” felt like. Ahde held my hand and pointed with his stick to where my feet should go and walked me down the mountain. Molli was exhausted too but she didn't cry. We did eventually get to camp, and I was shaking. I sat in front of the tent with Molli and looked at the millions of stars, and kept crying. I couldn't stop crying. It's close to 6am now. Birds are making noise, and the wind on our tent is calming down. We have another 6 hours of hike to go - Ahde says it's the easiest stretch - but I struggled getting into the tent earlier, I don't know how it will go. I hurt so much. Once we're down, it's off to paradise. Gili Air is supposed to be very beautiful. Turquoise waters, beautiful surf, great food, and there is this snorkeling beach called sea turtle heaven. Laying on the beach, we will have the view of the mountain we just climbed in the distance. But it's still so far away. My muscles are screaming just lying down. I am ready not to feel afraid anymore. I did the hike, I've climbed the mountain, and then some, I want to be done. I knew this would be the hardest thing I've ever done, but I didn't know how deep that feeling would go. To my muscles, my mind, my core. I'm still on the verge of tears. I need to sit in a beach and reflect for days. With beer and wifi. I love you. I love you. When you get this message it means I didn't die on Rinjani. I miss you and I want to explore adventures of the heart for now on with you, no more of this mountain shit.

*EDIT at 8:03am. I've had pancakes and feel a little better. My legs still hurt but it's a little less dramatic. **EDIT at 2:30 WE MADE IT. Holy. God.  This last day was actually the easiest day. For the first five minutes of the trek it was like each step was wringing out sore muscles, but then we flew down the mountain. My ankles are swollen, my muscles are screaming, but we are in the car on our way to Gili Air! ***EDIT 3:30pm My earlier message was a bit dramatic but I think it's still worth recording the experience. I was definitely at my lowest of lowest of lows. I feel better now. I am no longer freaking out about getting down the mountainside alive. It was very very very hard but I'm glad I did it. I am sure I will still like hiking. Well… Maybe. Thinking of you really did power me through that last hike on the second day. I love you.

If you ever have a panic attack on a volcano at 5am... let me recommend this pile of rocks to hide behind for the rest of your life because you are never moving from this slightly less terrifying spot.

My Father‘s Fake Obit

My father passed away on Tuesday February 2nd 2016 from complications from pneumonia, surrounded by family. He was 67.

This is not the obituary that will show up in the paper, but it's how we remember him:

William Ross Feltman passed onto the other side February 2nd, 2016, surrounded by family. He is survived by his son, William Hopkins Feltman of Dennis, his daughter, Julie Angelica Feltman of Brooklyn NY, and his former wife, Angela Feltman of Sandwich.

William, better known as Bronco Bill or Uncle Bill, was born to Priscilla and James Feltman in NY, NY in the summer of 1948. The middle child of three, Bill grew up in Alpine and Tenefly NJ and attended school and camp around the New York and New England areas. Bill drove a cab in New York City for one summer during college and would use that experience to justify his terrible driving all his life. Bill would take joy in scaring the crap out of you as he'd stop short or cut people off. He wouldn't say anything, he'd just look at you and smile at your terror, and it was infuriating.

Bill met Angela Araujo while he attended Boston College when they lived in the same apartment building. She was unsuccessfully bleaching her hair one afternoon when he came to the door and asked if she and and her hot roommates wanted to attend a party. She recognized him as the cute tall guy downstairs who smoked the good weed. Despite Mom's bad dye job and Dad's terrible jokes, they hit it off. They were married for 35 years until Mom wised up. They had two children together, Will and Julie, a successful business that Angela fully took over when Bill lost his hearing twenty years ago, and many furry pets in an antique house in Downtown Sandwich.

Bill had a strong appreciation for the sciences, teaching Earth Science at several North Shore middle schools and worked for a geotechnical engineering firm. After he stopped working due to illness, he would come in to his kids' elementary school and guest lecture about rocks. He still had thank you cards from Julie's 3rd grade class.

Bill was sick for a long time with diabetes, hearing loss, a bad stomach and a weak heart. He was tall, gangly, and unsteady on his feet. He would never admit that he was hard of hearing. In a conversation, instead of saying he couldn't hear you, he would just nod and smile and respond to whatever he thought you said, which was usually wrong but funny.

Dad smoked Marlboro Reds for twenty years, stopping after his quadruple bypass in '96. He then secretly smoked Marlboro Reds for another twenty years. That, or he took a lot of outside breaks.

Bill loved to watch TV - with closed captioning of course. His favorite programs were Gunsmoke, Star Trek, and anything with John Wayne. One of the last things he said to his family in the hospital was "Where's the remote?". His daughter and son do not enjoy TV without closed captioning.

Bill had a out-of-control beard all of his adult life with the exception of the time he lost a bet to his son in 2003. After 9/11, a concerned Sandwich citizen reported a suspicious looking bearded man stumbling around downtown. We're pretty sure that was Bill.

Members of the Holly Ridge Golf Club would recognize Bill as the worst golfer in Sandwich, who was so unsteady on his feet he'd almost fall over mid-swing while shouting nonsense curse words. His terrible playing would force dozens of golfers to play-through each game. They'd mutter passive aggressive things as they passed, and Bill would nod and smile graciously at them - he couldn't hear them and thought they were just being nice. He'd let his kids drive the golf cart, which was the only part of golf they enjoyed, and buy them hot dogs and French fries at the club after he told them to work on their short game while he smoked a secret cigarette.

Bill was a picky eater. He would drive almost daily to Roche Brothers in Mashpee to get buttery corn and mashed potatoes from the hot bar that would then sit in the fridge for days. It would take him 45 minutes to eat a sandwich. He tested his sugar twice daily for his diabetes and if it was low, he'd reward himself with a large strawberry ice cream sundae from Twin Acres.

Bill would root for the Dodgers just to be difficult.

But there was nothing that Dad loved more than blowing things up. Every summer he would drive to New Hampshire and spend hundreds of dollars he didn't have on a huge fireworks display. On Fourth of July the Feltmans would have a huge party where he was in his absolute element. For one day out of the year, he wasn't the quiet, sick, mostly deaf guy sitting in the parlor watching Gun Smoke - He was The Man. After a day manning the grill, all of the family and friends and friends-of-friends would go to Town Neck Beach, light a bonfire, and cheer on "Team Feltman" as he orchestrated an obscene fireworks display. It was wonderful. One time someone asked him if he had any bottle rockets, and he said "Bottle rockets are so blasé". He was never more alive.

The last years of Bill's life were spent in an independent living facility in Vero Beach Florida. He had a lot friends there who will miss him dearly. Bill enjoyed walking around the facility's grounds spotting alligators and flirting with old ladies with tiny dogs. He was in it mostly for the dogs. Bill loved dogs and is undoubtably up in heaven sneaking scraps to his best animal friends, Rosco, Barney, and Tobey.

Bill's memorial service will be Tuesday, February 9th at Nickerson Bourne funeral home in Sandwich from 4-7pm. Dad's wish was to have a Viking funeral, set afloat in a raft as fire arrows light up a piling with his body. Later this spring we'll build a little raft, put his ashes on it, and light it up at the beach as we set off fireworks in his honor. The Feltmans will accept donations towards bail after we set a date for the celebration. He will be sorely missed.

Joe

It's been about four months since my cousin Joe died in a motorcycle accident on an otherwise unexceptional August day. I keep seeing things I'd like to buy him for Christmas. My reflex is that he's still here, and likes ironic t-shirts. Not witty irony, but stupid irony. Like, a t-shirt with a picture of a t-shirt on it. He'd think that's hilarious. And then it washes over me and my heart just drops. The thing about sadness is that you carry it with you all the time. It's like a rock in my pocket, banging at me with every step. Sometimes I forget it's there, it's weight gets so familiar. Then I reach into my pocket searching for something else and there it is. The loss is still so devastating. In the middle of the night he's there, the whole family there together, and he looks so young. He'll always look so young. Sometimes it's like nothing ever happened. Sometimes I'm the only one who can see him and talk to him. I wake up and feel empty and haunted by lives that don't exist anymore. His and mine. The whole family. It's so different now.   And the sadness is there all the time.

Trump Tampons

Gina sits alone at table looking sad. Enter Georgie. 

Georgie- Hey girl! Why the long face?

Gina - Oh, Nothing. It's just... Well, I got my period again.

Georgie - Oh, I'm sorry. Is that why you're being aggressive and emotional?

Gina - yeah (Makes an aggressive face and an emotional face in quick succession), but it's also that I just hate seeing what could have been a possible baby bleed out of me for five days strait. It's just so sad! Georgie- Oh, I'm so sorry. Did you try, you know, “asking for it”?

Gina - Yeah! I prayed, I wore skirts - Oh, I'm sorry, not a “skirt” --

Gina & Georgie - (in unison) --a “Sex Me Drape”--

Gina - --yup, wore ‘em all month long, and baked cookies for guys at work! And no one asked me out, or sexually harassed me, or even drugged my drink at a party I wore a low cut top to, KNOWING single guys would be there! I mean, HELLO?! And now I just have this sad, bloody, five day reminder of what I failure I am to reproduce.

Georgie - I'm sorry.

Gina- Maybe I should just settle for that kind of loud, rude, fat guy at the office who tells racist jokes.

Georgie - Well, maybe you should. You are 28 and the clock is ticking. But in the meantime, I have the solution for you!

Gina: What's that?

Georgie: TRUMP TAMPONS! Hands Trump Tampon to Gina. It's the new Tampon that Trumps all other tampons!

Gina- Cool! Where’s the applicator?

Georgie- You don't have to worry about controlling how it's inserted inside you, it just shoves itself up in there when it knows you’re ready, no questions asked!

Gina- Wow! 

Georgie - Yeah, and on the string there's all these really funny comments about women!

Gina - Oh. Looks at tiny note on tampon string "You're disgusting and sad".

Georgie - Hilarious right!? ha!

Gina - That's sort of insulting.

Georgie - You're exaggerating because you're really sensitive right now.

Gina - "You're a fat gross pig."

Georgie- These tampons don't have time to be politically correct! Your complaints are so frivolous and illegitimate and brought on by menses. I mean, your concern doesn't even deserve to be voiced, let alone addressed.

Gina - "Kill yourself"...?

Georgie - Well, its clear you're the problem here, isn’t it? AND OH MY GOD, you should hear how it compares to other tampons!

::::Trump tampon puppet comes to life in Gina’s hand. It’s has angry eyebrows and is wearing the signature Trump toupee::::

Trump Tampon- Trump Tampons know what Americans want, and it's to speak frankly about how dumb you are! We are too busy and important to be held to standards or have our behavior second guessed! We're just having fun, you downers!

Gina - Um... How are you at absorbency?

Trump Tampon - Oh, yuck! First of all, I don't have to absorb anything, I already have everything I need. Secondly, I wouldn't touch that stuff, you’re gross! Bleeding all week without dying - it's disgusting. Bleed everywhere for all I care, you freak.

Gina- Oh, so you don't really work?

Trump Tampon- Honestly, I've been nothing but nice and fun with you. If you don't like it, then you must not like all men and that's why you can't get knocked up, you killjoy. It's not my fault you're out to get me.

Gina - ...Oh.

Georgie- (Turns out to audience) Trump Tampons. Brought to you by the republican party and Trump Sanitation Pads (holds up blond toupee stuck to a sanitary pad)- Because strong confident men who aren't insecure about their looks at all wear ridiculous looking toupees - and so can you!

:::Trump Sanitary Pad puppets come to life:::

Trump Sanitary Pad- “You're fired!”

end

                                  Julie has opinions that want to be heard. Share that shit.

Ruin

I feel like I’ve been ruined by a former lover

He loved me too much and then it was gone forever

And I never knew how lonely it was

To walk home alone to be alone to sleep alone

Because he was always there.

I see him now and I’m reduced to the quiet child I was before

I liberated myself and my power when I walked away

But I sit on a cold couch

Wondering if his light is on.

My friends won’t hear his name anymore

They’ve almost stopped saying mine

It’s been years.

Politics come and go, movements rise and fall

Friends wed, babies are born

And I have a smile

I wear it generously as I stand beside them and laugh and coo

But it’s only half of me

Because the other half is him.

Build up your new life, they say

Have a new self

Broader, deeper, more honest and deserving of me

But I sit on my cold couch scared

Shirking my responsibilities to scroll through non-news on my news feed

Anything to distract me from my half self

A girl who just breathes, just exists

And wonders if his light is on.

Love

I want a movie kind of love

The kind that sweeps me off my feet and plays music as we dance

We play games light fires life and cry in epic rants

That makes me act foolish in a loving giving romance

I want a novel kind of love

That’s fated

Complicated

Perfectly mated

Completely sated

I want a ballad kind of love

That starts off soft and builds so strong

The chords never sound too much or wrong

And it goes on for way too long

But you put it on repeat it’s your favorite song

I want a TV kind of love

Where love’s funny happenstance

Makes the nice boy take a chance

On the strong girl afraid to meet his glance

He trips over words and rips his pants

But they fall into a kiss

And it’s made for TV bliss

The wedding episode you won’t miss

I’ve seen it, heard it, watched it, read it,

But myself I’ve yet to get it

I think I do, but roll the credits

It’s over and I try to forget it

Counting Chickens

Most people: I have 200 eggs. Better wait until they hatch before I count how many chickens I'll have. 

Me: I have 200 eggs. I AM GOING TO HAVE 103 LADY CHICKENS AND 97 BOY CHICKENS. THEY WILL BE DIVERSEIN COLOR AND SIZE, AND HAVE THOUGHTFUL AND UNIRONIC BELIEFS CONCERNING POLITICS,SPIRTUALITY AND MINDFULLNESS. THERE WILL NATURALLY BE DISCORD THROUGHOUT THE COOP- SOME OF THE CHICKENS WILL TRY AND MAKE OTHERS FEEL BAD ABOUT BEING SMALL BREASTED OR SPOTTED HENS, BUT THERE WILL BE NO TIME FOR SUCH NONSENSE IN MY FLEET. THROUGH A SERIES OF DIVERSE CHICKENS TAKING LEADERSHIP ROLES, AND SOME TOUGH TALK WITH OLDER CHICKENS WHO GREW UP IN A DIFFERENT FLOCK, BIAS SHALL BE ELIMINATED IN MY FARMYARD. 

89 OF THE BOY CHICKENS WILL PAIR OFF WITH 89 OF THE LADY CHICKENS IN PERFECT HARMONY. THEY WILL COMPLIMENT EACH OTHERS DREAMS AND PASSIONS AND SUMMER UPSTATE AND TAKE COOKING CLASSES TOGETHER. THEY WILL MARRY YOUNG AND LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER UNTIL I FUCKING EAT THOSE CHICKENS. 

3 MALE CHICKENS WILL ONLY EVER HANG OUT WITH THE LADY CHICKENS BUT IN A NON SEXUAL WAY, ENGAGING IN A COMPLIMENTRY RELATIONSHIP WITH THE LADY CHICKENS AND IN A THROUPLE WITH EACH OTHER. THIS WILL NATURALLY LEAD ME TO BELIEVE THAT I HAVE GAY CHICKENS. I WILL PROMOTE ACCEPTANCE THROUGHOUT THE COOP BY ENCOURAGING THOSE CHICKENS TO GO INTO FASHION, ART, AND POLITICS. THEY WILL BE THE HAPPIEST OF THE CHICKENS.

6 MALE CHICKENS WILL JUST BE BADASS COCKS THAT NEVER WANT TO SETTLE DOWN INTO THE COOP. THEY WILL HAVE COOL HAIR DO IMPROV COMEDY AND SORT OF INSIST UPON BEING UNHAPPY. THEY ARE ADULT CHICKENS AND STILL PLAY VIDEOGAMES ON A REGULAR BASIS AND TALK ABOUT COLLEGE LIKE IT WAS THE BEST TIME IN THEIR LIVES. THEY WILL INTRODUCE NEW CHICKS TO THEIR EX GIRLFRIENDS SO YOU GUYS CAN BE FRIENDS. WHY WOULD YOU EVER WANT TO BE FRIENDS? ISN’T THAT SORT OF FUCKED UP? THEY WILL CHASE SOME OF THE SINGLE FEMALE CHICKS LIKE THEY ARE FUCKING ROCKSTARS, AND THE MOMENT THOSE LADY CHICKENS SHOW ANY INTEREST IN THEM, THEY WILL DROP THEM LIKE IT’S HOT AND MOVE ONTO THE NEXT CHICK. THEY ARE TALL AND HAVE BIG HANDS AND ARE BASICALLY SEX COCAINE. 

10 LADY CHICKENS WILL MAKE THEIR GOAL TO FIX THOSE MALE CHICKENS. 10 OF THOSE LADY CHICKENS WILL THINK THAT IT IS THEY AND THEY ALONE WHO CAN BRING THOSE LOST BOY CHICKENS INTO THE LIGHT. THESE ARE NOT STUPID CHICKS. THESE ARE COLLEGE EDUCATED, SUCCESSFUL, WONDERFUL GROWN-ASS CHICKENS. THESE CHICKENS HAVE ACCOMPLISHED GREAT THINGS IN THEIR PERSONAL AND PROFESSIONAL LIVES. THESE CHICKENS HAVE BEEN AN INSPIRATION NOT ONLY TO THOSE AROUND THE FARMYARD, BUT TO PASSING FOWL AND FAUNA ALIKE. THEY ARE BEACONS IN THEIR FEILD. BUT FOR SOME REASON, THESE SMART SEXY TALENTED LADY CHICKENS THINK THAT IT IS POSSIBLE TO CHANGE THESE 6 STUBBORN COCKS. IT CONSUMES THEIR EVERY DAY THOUGHTS AND DISTRACTS THEM FROM THEIR HIGH PAYING JOBS. THOSE CHICKENS WILL WONDER WHY THEY SPENT ALL THIS TIME LEARNING TO BE A BADASS SUCCESSFUL GIVE-NO-FUCKS CHICKEN WHEN A ROOSTER BRINGS THEM TO THEIR KNEES. IN TIME, THEY WILL LISTEN TO BEYONCE'S NEW VISUAL ALBULM AND CELEBRATE THEIR POWER AS FEMININE AND SEXUAL CREATURES, AND TAKE OWNERSHIP OF THEIR GENDER’S FLAWLESSNESS AND DESIRABILITY AS SENSUOUS AND EXPERIMENTAL BIRDS. THIS WILL MAKE THEM FEEL A LITTLE BETTER ABOUT SPENDING EXHAUSTIVE MENTAL ENERGY ABOUT WHO IN THEIR LIVES COULD SUSTAIN A POWERFUL DEEP AND EMOTIONAL PARTNERSHIP WITH – WHO IS THEIR JAY-Z. BUT UNFORTUANTELY, IT DOESN'T IMPROVE THEIR TASTE IN MEN, OR PROSPECTS ON THIS FARMYARD. MOST WILL MOVE OUT OF THE YARD BACK TO THE STICKS AND BECOME THEATER TEACHERS AT MEDIOCRE HIGH SCHOOL DRAMA CLUBS AND OCCASIONALLY AND DESPERATEFLY FOOL AROUND WITH TOWNIES THAT ARE PRACTICALLY MALE ESCORTS. 

3 OF THE LADY CHICKENS WILL BE LESBIAN CHICKENS. EVEN THOUGH THEY SWEAR THEY ARE NOT INTERESTED IN EACH OTHER, THEY WILL HAVE MANY REITERATIONS OF THE SAME LOVE TRIANGLE. THEY WILL MOVE IN WITH EACH OTHER FIVE SECONDS INTO THEIR RELATIONSHIP AND ENGAGE IN AN INTENSE AND HIGHLY EMOTIONAL PARTNERSHIP. THEY WILL BE COMPLETELY DEDICATED TO EACH OTHER, UNTIL THEY AREN’T, AND FALL OUT OF LOVE JUST AS FAST AND A NEW RELATIONSHIP WILL OCCUR WITH THE CHICKEN WHO WAS PREVIOUSLY OUSTED. WHILE THEY HAVE THE MOST DRAMA OF ALL THE CHICKENS, THEY WILL ALSO BE VERY HAPPY CHICKENS BECAUSE WOULDN’T A MEANINGFUL THOUGHTFUL EMOTIONAL AND SEXUAL RELATIONSHIP WITH A WOMEN JUST BE THE BEST. 

Turns out eggs were unfertilized... so just regular old eating eggs. 

Most people: Cool! Yum. 

Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH

                             Julie has opinions that want to be heard. Share that shit.

If you want to write musical parodies of famous movies, you have to study the classics. And by classics … I mean The Simpsons.

The following 5 Simpson singing scenes each provide a valuable lesson for the aspiring musical parodist. Parody musicalist. Funny music writing guy.

Lesson 1 -...

I Don't Feel Skinny

By Julie Feltman 

This year I lost 30 pounds. It was a conscious but not focused effort throughout the year. I didn’t go on crazy diets or do a ton of exercise, I just ate less crap, exercised more than I used to, and weighed myself more often to try and remain accountable. I also went through a heart-wrenching breakup, worked and performed more then I ever have in my entire life, and had a kidney infection and food poisoning. Twice. So maybe 1/3 good habits and 2/3s harmful stress to my mind and body? That math makes sense to me. Sometimes my work clients tackily bring it up in professional settings as an icebreaker, and I give them a deadpan stare. My girlfriends say how thin my legs look which I love. My grandpa didn’t say a word to me, but mentioned it to my cousin at least 16 times. I liked that the best. 

Here’s the thing - I don’t feel skinny. Thirty pounds ago I would literally fantasize about being this weight. What I would wear, who I would date, what it would feel like to be enough. And now, I still don’t feel like I’m enough. That’s fucking bullshit, right? Intellectually, I know that I majorly kick ass and my worth is not tied to my waistline. Practically, I can assess that I’ve achieved something I wanted to achieve somewhat healthily. But it doesn’t feel like it’s “enough”. Even as I type this there’s this little voice inside of me saying “God I really want to lose another 10 pounds. Wouldn’t it be amazing to lose 15? Another 20 I could look like a model”. The FUCK. I know - I KNOW - that I am not the only woman thinking this. I have a lot of kick-ass amazing females in my life who say and think the same stuff. THE. FUCK. LADIES. 

So who is this obnoxious, insecure, image-obsessed teenager living inside of us? This awful voice that measures our worth by how small we can physically become? Let’s call her Britney. She has no relation to Britney Spears. JUST KIDDING SHE LOOKS JUST LIKE BRITNEY SPEARS. She’s blonde and wears cut-off shorts and lacy tops, has a flat stomach but drinks beer and still remains skinny. I fucking hate her, but don’t tell that to her face, because then she’d smoothie me in the cafeteria at lunch. I listen to her because I think she’s cooler than me; slightly plumpy, clumsy me. She never says I’m fat, but she makes me think “just a little more and you’ll be better”. She tells me to put off getting head shots until my face is thinner. She says that I weighed this much in my early 20s, so really, I just stopped being gluttonous and now I’m back to being regularly fat. She tells me that I’ll have more success attracting the right kind of man if I lose another ten pounds 

What a fucking whorebitch. I am an intelligent, sassy-assed woman and I know this shit doesn’t matter, so what is UP with my Britney? Why does she exist? Did I watch too much TV as a child? Do I have some deep seeded Daddy issues that make me feel like I’ll never be enough? Does every woman have a Britney telling her she has a weird ass? Probably all of the above. But, I’m lucky to be level headed enough to know that real people that I want to associate with don’t care how much I weigh. It is literally the last thing on other people's minds if I wear size 30 or size 28 jeans. Fact is, we would never judge other people as harshly as we judge ourselves, because we’re not bitches. Britney’s the bitch. 

If you’re overweight, weight loss will make you healthier. Exercise can actually be addicting and fruit and veggies make you feel good, but it has no effect on your self worth. We are already enough. Britney is just as loud and obnoxious at any weight. Britney brought up the other day that the bottom half of my face is too long. THE FUCK, BRITNEY!? That girl’s an asshole. Let’s stop hanging out with her. Let’s stop giving her power. Let’s chill with Beyonce instead.

                              Julie has opinions that want to be heard. Share that shit. 

14 Things A Woman Can Do To Be More Attractive To Men

By Julie Feltman 

There's a really unfortunate article trending on Thought Catalog right now called 13 Things A Woman Can Do To Be More Attractive To Men, written by clearly-a-pseudonym John Smith. I would link it, but this misogynistic bullshit doesn't need anymore traffic. And I want you to read mine instead. Here's the gist though - John's concerned that men tip toe around holding women to a certain standard of behavior, and gives a lovely list of things that woman should do to be more attractive to men. Stay in shape. Be submissive. Be child-free. Cute. Well, I too am afraid that woman aren't holding ourselves to a certain standard. So here's my listicle (which sounds a lot like testicle, John) for what ladies can do to be more attractive to their partners. 

1.     Let your freak flag fly

YEAH, you watch anime. YEAH, your dance moves are a cross between a feeding praying mantis and one of those youtube videos of lions being released into the wild for the first time. YEAH, you sweat when you’re nervous or excited or happy or sad or really just experiencing any extreme emotion. SO DOES HE. We’re all freaks here. He’s a freak. You’re a freak. Stop pretending to be cool and be freaks together.

2.     Do the weirdest things to your hair, makeup, and clothing.

Your hair. Color it. Cut it all off. Tease it. Curl it. Spray weird shit in it. Your makeup - paint your face a thousand fucking colors. Try countour. Try eyeliner. Try a temporary face tattoo. Try nothing at all. Your clothes. SO MANY CLOTHES. Short skirts, long jackets, be a geisha today and a goth tomorrow. Dress for success, or dress to show off and be the envy of every girl in the room, or dress in your purple flannel doggie pajamas. Change a zillion times. Your style is an expression of you, and your expression changes daily (and is only partially dependent on how early you wake up that day).

3.     Make funny faces

Yeah, so, without the help of botox, one day you’re gonna have more lines on your face than lines my old roommate would snort on the weekends. He had a problem. But seriously, when I see an older lady with lots of laugh lines on her face, I know she had a great fucking time. So let it go - contort your face and gurgle while making funny armpit sounds, stick out your tongue and roll your eyes and sing show tunes. Why hide any of that? 

4.     Make jokes.

Make em laugh! Guys love it when you joke about penises. Guys don’t at all feel threatened by your experience with other men, and enjoy self-depreciating retort. JUST KIDDING, THEY DO, AND THEY HATE THAT. But it’s my article, and seriously, how come no one talks about how techniques fluctuate depending on the gurth and length of a man’s member? Seriously, there has been 5000 articles in Cosmo about the best handjob techniques, but not one has mentioned how that technique might be different for an erect member that resembles a miniature snickers.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m sure he has many other talents, but you may not do the three-fisted-twist-and-swirl on Mr. Snickers. Whatever, make jokes. 

5.     Lean towards your man when you fart

You just had your morning coffee and it’s time to let one go. Do your man a favor and when you’re squeezing it out, lean towards your man when you toot. That way you’ll both enjoy the musical mischief that escapes your ass, but you propel the smell in the opposite direction. It’s a science and its love.

6.     Don’t be afraid to kick his ass in video games

Nothing says true love like repeatedly lapping your man in Daytona 500. If he gets grumpy, remind him that he’s being a little bitch.

7.     Don’t be afraid to be taller than him.

I’m talking high heels, ladies. You feel powerful with those extra few inches in height, which makes you radiate confidence, beauty, and poise. Plus they make your legs and ass look amazing. Isn’t it amazing that fabulous shoewear is commonground for women everywhere? That women of every age, race, and economic standing can fully appreciate the fabulousness of a good pair of pumps? Don’t abandon that to be petite because that’s more comfortable for other people. If your man needs you to look and act diminutive with him, suggest that he takes up a relationship with a bunny rabbit.

8.     Be a leader

Make strong choices. Ask and give direction. Delegate, and compromise where you can and push for what’s right when it’s your instinct.

9.     Don’t settle for bullshit

Sometimes our men can be colicky man babies. They were only children and don’t know how to share, or Mommy never taught him how to do laundry or wash dishes, or Daddy never talked about feelings and would just be a dick and now he thinks that’s the appropriate way to deal with conflict. It’s not, and you both deserve better. Call him out for it, but not in a bitchy way, just in a “Hey man, let’s be adults and get real” way. You’ll both be better for it.

Sometimes us ladies can be emotional wackjobs. We were only children and don’t know how to share, or Mommy never trusted us to do anything for ourselves, or Daddy had weird emotional issues that make our egos painfully sensitive and we just flip out over the tiniest conflict. That’s not right. You are not always right. He’s going to be, occasionally, in the right. Let him have it, and be open change and becoming more flexible. You'll both be better for it. 

10.      Live hard

You’re only going to be young once. Pack your schedule with awesome shit that makes you feel good and challenges you to expand your mind and sharpen your talents. A good man is doing the same thing, and is gonna find your journey towards self actualization mixed with your unhealthy work habits sexy as fuck.

11.      Don’t be embarrassed to unabashedly lazy sometimes

Girl, sometimes you need to watch an entire season of West Wing while lying face down on your couch eating buffalo chicken pizza. Your man gets that. Let him sit on the far end of the couch, and order enough for two.

12.      Beyonce.

Beyonce isn’t just a pop star with astounding vocal range, flawless skin and magical hair. Beyonce is a verb – to Beyonce is to act as an empowered female while looking gooood. Beyoncing taking our raw feminity and using it as a powerful tool to conquer. So, Beyonce your day. Beyonce your job. Beyonce your life. Beyonce, Beyonce, Beyonce. Beyonce all day, every day.

13.      Don’t put stakes in a no-stakes situation

Don’t tie your ego to things that don’t matter.  If you want to be a stressed out mess, preplan every possible outcome for a situation, and then torture yourself and your ego when it doesn’t go the way you've planned. SHIT NEVER GOES AS PLANNED. You’re setting yourself up for constant stress and disappointment. Just put down your mental planner and all the emotional stakes that come with it, and actually recognize the joy in life from the amazing gifts it brings you every day. Seriously. What if you’re really just present in the moment? Living. Breathing. Noticing. Give yourself the presence and the space to experience humility. You got to be, like, fucking loving to yourself.

14.      Be Yourself

You do you, you beautiful assholes.

                               Julie has opinions that want to be heard. Share that shit. 

Being Dreamgirls

by Julie Feltman 

It's 10pm in the Gym on Friday night, and I'm standing on a shaky scaffold 8 feet in the air feeling my heart break in half. We spent months designing, contracting, and building a gorgeous - sturdy - steel catwalk for kids to dance on, which was professionally constructed by a licensed welder. It was a work of art; sleek, modular, and ironically the most structurally sound thing we've ever built. But with our school being taken over by a new charter network, there is more oversight and red tape then we've ever dealt with before in getting sets approved - and the heads of school deemed the catwalk unsafe for kids because the back wall was bearing too much weight. We cried when we tore it down, as it was months of time and effort and budget down the drain. 

As a quick solution, we decided to order scaffolding instead. The scaffold would roll with locked wheels, we could assemble it quickly, it's modular, and we could reuse it year to year. "This would be great!", we said. "We are making lemonade with 1,200 pounds of useless metal lemons! Optimism! Bright sides! Singing in the rain!". The scaffold came, and after working all afternoon directing the kids, I assembled it with a group of mouthy 16 year old boys at 10pm at night. And it wasn’t good. As I stood there atop my shaky scaffold - physically and mentally exhausted from working the last 14 days strait - I had to give into the heartbreaking realization that this scaffold was not going to be safe enough for kids the dance on. It was shaky, the handrails sucked, and there were parts definitely missing. This thing didn't even come with instructions. We're 12 days from opening night and we have no set. We were screwed. 

I look at my mentor Kate and I can see she is thinking the same thing. I can tell by  her eyebrows shooting up into her forehead while simultaneously furrowing into her face, in this disbelieving way that I am painfully familiar with. I feel like I have failed her - I'm the one who suggested the scaffolding. And man - it sucks disappointing Kate. Kate is the nicest, most super human I have ever met. She's inspiringly talented with the kids - I have seen her make the most rowdy kid tearfully contemplate what their art means to them and their community. The kids think she is some sort of God. She's an amazing artist, a talented painter, and an inspirational speaker. She is stylish, beautiful and thin, and she makes the most perfectly organized color coded excel sheets. She has perfect hair and lives in a beautiful brownstone in Brooklyn with her three kids under 5, totally nice cute husband, and cool rescue dog. It's just absurd. And somehow - someone thought it would be a good idea for me to fill her shoes this year as director while she Mom-ed a little more full time. Me. I can barely do my own dishes. My purse is filled with dirty receipts and banana peels, and I swear a lot around children. Somehow, someone thought that I should fill her impossibly cute shoes and I feel like I'm failing most of the time. Kate knew and perfectly executed every nuance of Bronx productions for years - and I am just barely figuring things out, and people are noticing the difference. Students. Colleagues. Disgruntled security guards. Everyone. 

In all fairness, this job is really ridiculously hard. No joke, no exaggeration, it's really really hard. In my day job I organize some of the largest outdoor events in New York City with Urbanspace - orchestrating 100s of vendors at pop up markets, contracting with different production companies with dozens of workers, different parks agencies, the DOH and SLA and graphics companies and decorations - and this job is much much MUCH harder. It's ridiculous. If this was just directing a show - this would be a damn cakewalk. It's developing a report with all of the parents, developing a report with all the teachers, and making sure all my kids are passing their classes. If they aren't - and they aren't - it's following up with them and their teachers and mapping out how to succeed and following up with them individually. Then it's dealing with their personal issues with each other, their parents, themselves. Then it's dealing with the politics of the school and it's administrators, which are heightened by the fact the school's being absorbed by another charter network and no one knows if they'll have a job next year. Then it's also being prop master / set designer / stage manger / only person with carpentry knowledge. Then it's building the mic grid, the costume grid, the scene by scene for each kid. Then it's taking my only time off and building a 30 foot extension to the "stage" - which is actually a gymatorium. And then - THEN - it's getting the kids to show up to rehearsal consistently, on time, and not only being memorized but really comprehending what they've memorized.  It's just too much. I fall behind, kids fall through the cracks and I am failing them. It is humbling as fuck, I'm emotionally exhausted, and I am standing on top of a rickety, useless scaffold. It is my darkest hour.

"Can we tighten it up? Can we take the wheels off and have it be more sturdy?" Kate asks, with her adorable eyebrows furrowed and already knowing the answer.

"No. We can spend the next three days creating bandaid solutions for this thing, or we can just give into it not working and me building a catwalk out of wood."

"But when are we going to do that?" 

"I don't know. We'll figure it out".

Skip ahead a few days later. Lights have loaded into the gym, all props have been ordered Kate has magically organized all the costumes which is a huge weight off my shoulders, and I've mentally prepared myself for the physical task of building the catwalk this week. I'm actually having a productive day with the kids who are on their best behavior - the orchestra is rehearsing down the hall and sounding slamming, and I think it's motivating the kids to finally turn it on. I'm immensely grateful for a good day of rehearsals, and equally excited to get out of there and go home.

As we are packing up, Senior Jada G. comes up to me and asks for help with her gospel Solo. I have a special place in my heart for Jada. I have known her and her mom for 7 years, since she was in 6th grade and playing a munchkin in The Wiz, and I was a naive broke 21 year old new to the city with a dream of making theater. Jada's always taken a liking to me, and vis versa. She can be reserved, but right beneath her facade is a hilarious young woman who constantly riles me up with her wit and humor. She calls me white Tyra, and I ask her about black girl hair. We are cool with each other. 

Jada's not had an easy go of life. A few years ago, Jada's older brother - a popular and handsome young man who had just graduated - was shot and killed in a drive by as he was leaving a party with some friends. We were shocked. This was a completely random act, and it couldn't happen to a nicer family. I was devastated for Jada, and for all these kids - it's not fair that they lived in a world where this happened, that life was so random and unfair and cruel. We came into rehearsal the next day and wept for her and her family, and Kate lead a discussion with the kids talking about how we felt in that very raw moment. One of the kids stood up and said that he was glad to come to rehearsal that day, because while the world is scary and unfair, this makes their world better. That the theater they were doing - the art they were making - made their world better. I'll never forget that, and I'll never stop believing it either.

I stayed with Jada after rehearsal ends to work on her solo. Jada is in the chorus this year, but wanted on of the Dreamgirl roles really badly. Jada gets in the way of Jada - she's probably one of the most naturally talented vocalists I've ever met, but she just backs off phrases almost uncontrollably as her nerves stampede her sound. She needs no direction talent wise - she just needs a confidence boost. I know how she feels.

  I tell her, "Jada, close your eyes.

"Now imagine the cooler version of Jada that you find yourself wishing you were. You know who I'm talking about, you think of her all the time. She's the fiercest, funniest, prettiest version of yourself. She always knows what to say, and does what she's suppose to do. She's your dream you. 

"Think about how her hair looks. Think about what her body looks like. What clothes she's wearing. 

"Think about what she sounds like. Think about what her boyfriend is like. Or what her girlfriend is like.

"Think about what her friends say about her - they love being around her. Think about what her enemies think about her - they want to be her.

"Think about how she acts, how she walks with confidence and speaks with knowledge. 

“Think about how she is the fiercest version of herself all the time. Unapologetic. Smart and strong.

"Now open your eyes, and look in the mirror. Yes. There she is. You are her. You are the fiercest version of yourself. You can choose to be her right now, and from this point forward. You can live your dream self right now. Because you already are her. You already are your dream girl.

“So sing your solo."

And so help me God, did Jada ever sing her solo. God, did Jada sing. She opened her mouth and wailed - she made a sound with her voice that no one else in that school is capable of making. Vocal nerds - she was belt mixing high As, then coming down and riffing in her chest like a pro! And she was serving it up hot emotionally, giving me all this sassy attitude with her hands and facial expressions. I cheered and laughed and hollered so hard as I made her do it again and again - I jumped up and down and shouted and pounded my feet until finally I lied down on the floor, heart pounding, laughing and crying. I was lying on the dance floor in front of a riffing Jada laughing and crying. Because every ounce of exhaustive pain and heartache over the past month was worth it for that one moment in time when Jada was living and breathing and singing the fiercest version of herself, and killing it. And that I was a part of that.

I don't feel I'm as good at this job as Kate is. But it's going to be ok. She's really amazing, but I am too. The show is going to go on, and these kids, their world, and I - we'll all be better for it.

Dreamgirls runs May 21st - 23rd at Bronx Preparatory Charter School. Tickets are available at http://mad.ly/fe6ec4?o=fs&facebook_like=true  This story was posted with the permission of Jada. 

To The Man In The Big Yellow School Bus

You’re right. This could be love.

I shouldn’t have been so resistant to your advances. It’s just not every day that I'm so aggressively cat-called by a man driving a big yellow school bus. I got to tell you, In retrospect I am filled with regret. I mean hey, who doesn’t like a forward guy, right? Screw this foreplay, let’s get right to the ass talk! But seriously, I can tell we have a lot in common. We live and work in the same neighborhood, we’re both invested in the future of the public education, we’re both missing some teeth… Oh wait, that’s just you. Sorry. I digress- you’re a morning person, I’m a morning person - I’ve always said a little hey-mama-shake-that-ass-talk at 8 in the morning gets me rip-roaring ready for the day! That and a cup of coffee. You have a steady job, a car with a whole lot of horsepower – Rawrrr - AND you can tell that I’m everything you want in a woman from behind! I admire your perceptiveness.

You like to express yourself from the driver’s seat. I like to express myself through song and poetry. And poetry translates better to paper. Here goes:

A Limerick For My Suitor:

His whip, well it made such a fuss,

As he catcalled to discus newfound lust,

His admiration of my behind,

Oh, it proved in my mind,

My prince charming, he drives a school bus.

When you’re done dropping little Holly and José off at school, call me. Let’s do this thing. Let’s make the wheels on the love bus go round and round, all through the town! I think I love you.

My Cover Letter

As a recent college graduate and hopeless dreamer, I am highly interested in applying for staff position at your organization; a position that I am undoubtedly unqualified for. As a highly unrealistic person who constantly finds herself watching TV illegally online while trolling Facebook and twitter / mindlessly eating, I believe that my familiarity with current events and social media, alongside a charmingly delusional personality, paired with a willingness to bullshit, thrown in with my unmistakable self loathing, would make me an excellent writer/ assistant writer / copywriter / freelance editor /paid intern/ unpaid intern/ coffee runner/ janitor for your organization.   Throughout my academic career at Pace University, I worked as a Stage Manger and Production Manager for several prestigious off-Broadway theater companies that you’ve never heard off. During my time in the theatre, I put up with a shameful amount of utter stupidity that would make any self-respecting person run in the opposite direction. Transferable skills include, but are not limited to: manipulating fire codes, turning 45 minutes into 15 minutes, believably congratulating talent, wrangling obsessive compulsive audience members out of a 99 seat theater, smiling and nodding, skipping meals, willfully ignoring the blatant lies of my co-workers, covering up dead rat smells with green-friendly-non-allergenic perfumes, not crying when lots of people yell at me, and silent bathroom crying.     As for my Educational pursuits, I just graduated with a very fancy impressive sounding degree in Business Science Economics with some fancy Greek sounding honors. Boo-Yeah. So, I am like, really really smart. I understand what Treasury bonds are. I talk about stuff that only short geeks and awkwardly tall but fascinating and adorably clumsy smartly accessorized women talk about. Guess which one's me. I also wear glasses that say I am both trendy, and intelligent.   In addition to my slow, spiraling decent into a personal hell of unemployment and moving back in with my parents (dare I say a popular hell-trend amongst my demographic), I wish to work for an organization that doesn't suck or make me stress eat, and requires skills sets that cannot be replaced by inanimate objects. I believe my ability to put up with idiocy and my sad, sardonic take of my completely ordinary and unimpressive life - some call it a sense of humor- would be a excellent contribution to your team. I am available for immediate hire, and have attached my rediculously awesome and enticing resume. Try not to drool all over my transferable skills, for they could be all yours for a highly negotiable salary. Highly negotiable. Thank you for your consideration.    Somewhat sincerely,

The Cake Mistake

I stayed out late last night to see a comedy show that didn’t even start till 11pm, a time I’m usually slipping on my doggie pajamas and trolling Netflix for something to fall asleep to. After the mildly-racist-but-hysterical adventures of a Jewish American Princess, my friends and I were sloshed and thought it’d be hilarious to enter a late-night improv workshop. This was the best idea ever for five seconds. We assigned ourselves outrageous stage names, dropped our placards them in the bucket, and right as I handed the Mini-pencil back to the curator, the awfulness of this choice sunk in. This shit show, usually contained within my circle of friends, was about to hit the fan and splatter all over the theater. Ew. The only way I could deal with the impending shame was aggressive drinking. Spoiler alert: this was a poor choice.

I took many victims last night – my scene partner, the bartender, that girl I stole a cupcake from, and worse of all - the guy who sat on my cupcake. I felt the worse for that guy. He was kind of upset in that really upset kind-of way. In retrospect, putting a cupcake on an empty seat, two seats away, was probably NOT the best place for safe keeping. But I had my reasons. The chair right next to me already had my Clementine peels on it (I was stress eating). And that freshly baked marble cupcake I lifted was too precious for me to place on the slightly wobbly looking chair directly next to me! What if it slipped off? That’s more then just drunk logic, that is logic. Besides, I was already resting my beer there. And who takes the aisle set? Move in! Selfish really.

This is how our altercation went. I think. It was kind of loud in there:

Cupcake Victim: Oh my GOD! Who puts a cupcake on an empty chair in a dark room?!

Me: Um, well… this girl. I’m sorry! No one was sitting there!

Cupcake Victim: Yes. That’s why I sat there.

Me: Right. I am so, so sorry.

Cupcake victim: You know, not only am I upset with you, but my wife and daughters are going to be upset with you too.

Me: -Wait what? No way, your dogs will love me for it! They’ll be sniffing and licking all over you when you get home!

Cupcake Victim:… I said daughters.

Me: …Oh.

Cupcake Victim: Are these... Orange Peels? Is there a bird in here?!

This was going from bad to worse. After apologizing profusely for the next two minutes, he made me swear never to put food on a chair in a dark room for the next 67 years of my life. Yes, 67 years. I appreciated his optimism for my longevity, so I promised. I couldn’t tell if my friends were embarrassed for me or of me, so I grabbed my purse and stumbled outside to hail a cab. I may or may not have licked frosting off my fingers in the backseat on the ride home. Fresh cupcakes are hard to come by.

To the drunken homeless guy on the corner of 42nd and 7th, CC: Cookie Monster,

Not cool, man. Not Cool. I speak not only for me, but on behalf of that family of shocked Chinese tourists, Mickey and Minnie, the Big Bird, and all the other patrons, cartoon and human alike, littering the streets of Midtown Manhattan today. With their heads and hearts in mind, I say to you: lay off the Cookie Monster. What has he ever done to you, man? He’s just trying to wave at some tourists, score some hugs, and bring some good mojo to suckers who probably spent way too on their lunch today. I know I did. I know I appreciated his big, fixed furry smile as I ate my absurdly expensive Europa salad, drunk/homeless guy. He’s there for smiles and pity nods, not offensive rambling! So why did you have to get death-stare-incoherent all up in his blue grille?  

Before I go on, I hope it’s ok to assume that you are drunk/homeless. In no way am I trying to stereotype drunks or the homeless. Maybe you’ve taking the grunge trend too far. Maybe it’s just a Diet Coke your brown-bagging in an attempt to fit in with your down-and-out peers. Or maybe, since you are hanging out on the Broadway, it’s all just an act; a long form improvisation to understand and embody poverty. If so, the stumbling and muttering is dead on, but the drool and heavy-lidded stare might be a bit much. Pull back the craft. I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you are indeed not a drunk homeless man, I apologize in addressing this letter to you as such, and know that in no way do I look down on the drunks or the homeless. The economy sucks. I love drinking. I hate paying bills. I get it.

I’m going to go ahead and try and justify it for you, strangely-aggressive-possibly-drunk-and/or-homeless dude, because I hate to say it, but you looked a little Crazy. Who berates Cookie Monster? Only the strait-up Cray-Cray. Ah! There I go again with the stereotypes. And I don’t want to be that girl. So it’s clear to me that you need someone on your team, someone to come to bat for you, a sympathizer, I get that. So I thought up a number of possibilities where you might have actual beef with the Cookie Monster. Ew… Beef cookies. Ew. I Digress. I wish to share them with you to try and gain a little more mutual understanding. Originally, came up with 8, but 3 had to do with Eugenics and were wildly offensive, so I narrowed it down to 5 reasons why you might be harassing Cookie Monster.

You are part of neighborhood watch, and were trying to peer through Cookie Monster’s mesh mouth to discover his true identity. Law and Order Special Victims Unit taught me that most of these dudes in the cartoon costumes are sex offenders getting their jollies by hugging starry-eyed children. You have assumed the drunk/homeless dude identity to get uncomfortably close to him to save the children, and prevent Amber Alerts, resulting in less unfortunate push-notifications to smart phones city-wide. You were even muttering all the answers to yourself, just like that guy on Law and Order Criminal Intent. Pulling from my vast pool of experience of New York crime shows, I feel confident assuming you’re an undercover detective, and I applaud you.

You’ve recently contracted type 2 diabetes brought on by a lifetime of overindulgence. After several painful and intrusive sessions with your psychiatrist, you’ve discovered that all your poor eating habits can be traced back to watching Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster consume cookies without restraint or consequence. That, and your Father didn’t show you enough love. Seriously though, how dare he be allowed to spread this nonsense?! We’ve taken the cartoons off cigarettes and the toys out of Happy Meals, but we worship at the feet of this, this monster. This tub of fur is endangering the health of millions of innocent, susceptible children! Think of the children! You are the Anti-Cookie Crusader! It’s your right, nay, your duty to harass this fatty – and who are we to judge?

Cookie Monster has been getting a little handsy with the Elderly. You’re part of an elaborate sting operation, acting as a distraction as the police swarm in on this plush poser. “Hi Grandma! Grandma, give Cookie Monster a big hug! Cookie Monster loves grandma’s cookies, tee hee! Yea, that’s right, Cookies! I go crazy for your cookies, Grandma. Cookie Monster is loving-all-over-Grandma’s-cookies-hmm-yeah-I-just-wanna-be-all-up-on-your-cookies-What was that!? OH NOTHING! Tee hee! Take a picture with me, Grammie! Take two! This one’s for your grandkids, and this one is just for me, Tee hee! I love you!  Come rub my belly full of cookies, Yeah Grandma! Yeah. Yeah. Now, Cookie Monster’s gonna show you how to get to Sesame Street…”. Absolutely appalling.   

Cookie Monster has been roaming the city, using his seemingly innocent childhood icon status to lift purses, phones and watches off of unsuspecting tourists. Pretty impressive, because really, who wears a watch anymore. As our hero, Homeless-Man, you fight such heinous crimes, and have seen this despicable behavior with your own half-open eyes. Unfortunately, the NYPD doesn’t take your complaint seriously, since a major news organization demonizes your so-called “super” behavior, swaying public opinion against you! The very same newspaper you work for! Ah, the cruel twists of fate! The only way to stop the crimes from occurring is by standing at a socially unacceptable distance to the monster and shouting hateful things keeping his potential victims at bay. I dare say, it’s working.

You also applied for the Cookie Monster job, but didn’t get it because you were too tall / smelly. You now cannot contain your jealousy, and feel the need to lash out against the current Cookie Monster. The mere sight of him is a sad reminder of societal consequences of tall/smelly prejudice. I can totally relate. Well, to the tall part, anyways. Mostly. I sweat a lot. WOW, I should stop getting so personal! Anyways, hit the job trail! Let go of your anger. Get back on the wagon, rework that resume and monsterjobs-it. Fight the man, fight the power, not an innocent cog in the machine! There’s a more admirable path, bro.

Of course, in order to deduct whether any of these answers were possible, I would have to understand what you were saying, but I couldn’t due to your whispered slur. It’s actually kind of impressive, slurring and whispering at the same time. I mean, whoa man. I’m trying it right now. Pretty hard. Maybe it’d help if I was drinking. Wait…

To conclude, nothing makes me happier then life size plush cartoon characters waving me down in the street… Ok, Ok, you got me, that’s a lie. Since I don’t want close on a deceitful note, I’ll admit that it’s kind of creepy. But, I’m not going to be that asshole to ruin it for all those sheltered tourist kids loving on Cookie Monster, spreading his cheer and poor dietary habits to all of Times Square. I’m going smile and pity nod. Since you lack the wherewithal to explain your demeanor, I’m going to go ahead and say that you were that asshole. It’s unfortunate. Lay off the mean spirited muttering, you jerk.

Sincerely,

-me