These Days by Stephanie

Last week, we flew to Florida on Wednesday morning to visit my husband’s parents for the annual member/guest golf tournament. Although this year’s visit was a hardship, we felt it was important, and made the trip. As we settled onto JetBlue, we were exhausted – but at least there would be sunshine while our cell phones rang and we remained slaves to the laptop. We are grateful to have jobs, yet find ourselves working overtime to sustain a lifestyle, and bolstering the lives of our three twenty-something’s along with their significant others as they prepare for changes in an uncertain world: Moves, graduation, graduate schools, a business start-up, and generally trying to make ends meet. As for my nearly 90-year-old parents, my sister and I are a great tag team – she had me covered while I was away.

It was rainy, windy and cold in Florida until Sunday when we left under sunshine and blue skies. We knew that would happen. Our youngest was at home when we returned – back from Spring Break with three loads of laundry – so I tackled the laundry and unpacked while Mark hit his PC and accessed info he couldn’t get from the laptop. Come 10 p.m., not only did it feel like we’d never been away, but we knew things would just pick up speed come morning when the alarm rang at 6 a.m.

When we moved back to New York City from the suburbs three years ago, we pictured ourselves with shorter commutes, and therefore more time, dinner for two at on-the-cheap neighborhood restaurants, and stolen weekends away. Romantic notions that didn’t pan out. Time, in particular, became more elusive.

We are hardly alone when it comes to being in our middle age and feeling this wasn’t even remotely anticipated.

Indicators of tough times are literally close to home. Yes, there are the global headlines, but I am a firm believer in grass roots evidence. My husband reports that he sees more and more patients with chest pain and shortness of breath – and more often than not, the symptoms are those of anxiety. The emergency room calls at least once a night, typically around 3 a.m., when a sleepless stressed soul wanders in. The liquor stores where we live in NYC’s Financial District are doing well, yet shuttered store fronts (from boutiques to Staples) are ubiquitous along with red and white banners announcing ‘going out of business.’ Restaurants are significantly empty at dinner, reservations easy to come by, with enticements to bring your own wine with no charge for corkage. (The Wall Street Journal just reported that liquor and candy sales are soaring.) And in this early spring, the homeless population is also soaring. Less obvious is an insidious sense of rage and despair – heard in angry cell phone conversations as people walk the streets or stand in lines at ATMs where they take the receipt, hang their heads, and walk away cash-less. And then there is my friend who went to the unemployment office for the first time this morning and was heartened by the compassion she received although she’d dreaded the encounter.

“We were all shapes, sizes, ages, races, religions, qualified, over-qualified,” she said. “It’s no longer a source of shame anymore. Desperation, yes. But not shame.”

The playing field has been leveled among us all. We, from all walks of life, are running on overwhelm – and many on desperation and empty as well.

On the plane home, Mark and I watched The Seven Ages of Rock – a documentary replete with clips from Woodstock and Monterey. I looked at the crowd: tie-dyed, body-painted, wearing love beads, carrying peace signs…and I wondered how our generation got to the point where financial corruption and greed usurped what were our “anti-establishment” ideals to make the world a greener, better, and far more peaceful planet.

“What did my generation do?” I asked my 26-year-old son David this morning. “I see all this anger and sorrow just in the neighborhood. I can’t help but stare.”

“There were the others,” he said. “Not everyone was at Woodstock, you know.”

Out of the mouths of babes. He’s been reading the late David Foster Wallace. “Wallace says that writers of fiction are voyeurs,” David said. “Like you.”

Indeed, we are, and must be, keen observers of the “human condition.” Perhaps we often take what we see that one step further. But these days, I trust my observations as fact not fiction. This story is all too real.

I guess my world back in the 60’s and 70’s was pretty narrow despite growing up in New York City and attending N.Y.U. – a world unto itself where my crowd consisted of the old beatniks, the peaceniks, those of us who wanted to work for Legal Aid, the ACLU, and join the Peace Corps. When Real Life set in with kids and mortgages, did those of us who once derided the establishment climb on board Reaganomics and off of the “Peace Train?” But did we ever dream it would come to this?

Last night, I dragged myself to yoga, and although instructed to breathe, place my clasped hands over my heart, and clear my head, it was nearly impossible: I thought about my husband who is working harder now than he did at 30 (and the fact that too many physicians like him don’t have regular check-ups), and about myself who was once tireless. The instructor came over and pressed down my shoulders: “You carry the stress here,” he said.

The stress I pretend not to have?

Lately, for comfort, I’ve been listening to old songs…like Dylan’s “Like A Rolling Stone” and Joni Mitchell’s “River” and “For Free.” I even picked up my old copy of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. “Trust in dreams,’ he said, “for in them is the hidden gate to eternity.”

Ah, to rewind…

Sitting at the dentist’s office last week, my husband and I waited while our eldest had a tooth extracted. I put my head back and tried to relax – and then I heard my husband moan.

I opened one eye and glanced at him sideways. I wasn’t really in the mood for conversation. He kept sighing and tsking while leafing through one of those glossy men’s magazines with a pumped young guy on the cover. The guy looked like he had just jumped out of a pool, body oiled, glistening in the sun, tight abs, over-developed pecs…you get the picture.

“OK. What’s the matter?”

“Look at this guy,” Mark said. “This magazine is ridiculous. I don’t know anyone who looks like this. Do you?”

“Yeah. All the guys I work with at the newspaper.”

“Who?”

I reassured him that I was joking, and couldn’t help but feel relieved that the Sports Illustrated bathing suit issue wasn’t in the waiting room.

My husband was blue. “These magazines are not for the regular guy like me with the wife and kids. There’s nothing in here that pertains to my life.”

He gave examples: Why was there an article on how to choose the right kind of socks to go with the $1000 suit rather than a piece on how to take off your socks when your back hurts so much you can barely bend over? And who are these young guys wearing $1000 suits? Wall Street? And how come none of the models had chest hair?

“I bet they get waxed. And they probably moisturize. And how the hell do you know when to use fruit acid and when to use glycolic acid? And how come when I moisturize my face breaks out?”

Frankly. I was far more concerned with David’s extraction, but I humored him. “I think it’s just supposed to be light reading.”

He ignored me. “And look at this! I don’t take vacations like this in Vail. I don’t need pocket-sized binoculars and a bike rack. I don’t even have a bike.” He was getting gloomy now. “Maybe they should run a piece about the best inflatable back pillow to take on long distance roads trips with three kids in a mini van. Or the best insoles that prevent sciatica. And all these ads for Mercedes.”

“You have insoles,” I said tentatively.

“And who has two hours a day to make a ‘hearty stew?’ And that’s after you spend three hours a day pumping iron. Three hours? If I ate a hearty stew after that kind of workout my abs would rip out from acid indigestion. And two minutes of teeth brushing with a whitening powder while you’re blasting Stairway to Heaven? Eating kale? What’s kale? And learning to play guitar like Eddie Van Halen? Who ARE these men? If I brushed my teeth any more vigorously, my gums would bleed.”

Suddenly, he was sitting very rigidly. I thought maybe he was working on his posture.

“What’s the matter now?” I asked.

“If you must know, I can’t turn my neck. I have pain now that’s radiating down my shoulder. Do you know how nerdy I look when a pretty woman walks by and I have to turn my entire body with little foot movements just to take a peek?”

“I didn’t know you looked at other women,” I teased.

“Well, I don’t. Because I can’t turn my neck.”

I took the magazine from him. There was a write-in section from men in quest of the erogenous zone, questions about free range chicken, and how to determine if a peach is ripe. I laughed out loud as Mark read over my shoulder.

“Look, guys like me don’t care about peaches and chickens,” my husband said as if I’d accused him of something. “We don’t have time for that. And by the way, I have a confession – those pants you bought me for Christmas are too small.”

“I bought you the large. I guess you need extra large.”

“No, I just need them a little, you know, bigger.”

“Well, that would be extra large,” I said gently. “But they’re probably just the wrong style. Not manly enough for a man like you.” It was all I could do not to laugh. “I’ll just return them. And on the way home, let’s buy a free range chicken and some peaches.”

And with that, he creakily turned his neck and kissed me.

I refrained from handing him Reader’s Digest.

Once my kids were settled in school, I returned to work full-time at a Connecticut newspaper. It was truly starting over. Besides picking up everyone’s slack as an editorial assistant/cub reporter, I was called “Blondie” by the macho sports writer and a twenty-something reporter who fancied herself a lot like Lois Lane although she didn’t get the reference when I called her “Lois.” I had to prove myself: a wife and mother was a bad risk, they said bluntly. Maybe I wasn’t up to the task. Before a promotion came along, one of my weekly assignments was “Street Beat” where I stood in front of the town library, courthouse, or elementary school, and posed philosophical questions wrapped around current events to harried passers-by. A “for example” is “What should Hillary Clinton do in light of her husband’s scandalous affair?” Naturally, this elicited many opinions from tossing Bill’s furniture out on The White House Lawn to standing by her man a la Tammy Wynette. And with that, and other Street Beat questions, everyone always had a rapid and gut response.

So, last week I thought it might be fun to “street beat” a question that has gnawed away at my brain since 1981 when Mark and I married. Ready? “What is truth in marriage?” How timely…Ruth Madoff, Silda Spitzer, Dina McGreevy – to name just a few wives who have had to deal with truths about their husbands in the last year. Yesterday, I wrote three drafts – all deleted one by one until finally, at the end of the day, I thought, what kind of truth am I talking about here? Truth that hinges on “Do these pants make me look fat?’ or confessions about Ponzi schemes, cavorting with prostitutes, and being a gay American? It was all too unwieldy. I decided to take the question Street Beat style and ask others.

I called my friend Jeff, wondering how a man might answer.

“Let me put it this way,” Jeff said. “If I was walking down the street with my wife and saw ten beautiful women, I wouldn’t say, ‘hey, look at those ten beautiful women.’”

“That’s it?” I was disappointed.

“Well, not exactly. I mean, if she asked if I noticed, I’d answer honestly. But I wouldn’t make a big deal about how beautiful they were. And if I had an evening out with the guys when I had some heavy flirtation with some woman, I wouldn’t come home and tell my wife. Bottom line: if you need to tell your spouse something to alleviate your own guilt, then it’s just hurtful. If something doesn’t impact the marriage, why be hurtful because you have to unload?”

Hmmm…seemed reasonable but made me a little, well, edgy, begging the question “is omission a form of a lying?”

Then I called my friend Nancy who has been divorced for 16 years. Nancy laughed out loud. “You’re joking, right? Truth in marriage? Steph, I gotta go. And find another topic.”

At the end of the day when my head was splitting, my friend Ellen called. I asked her the question.

“How about ‘IS there truth in marriage?’” she replied. “Forget the ‘what is truth’ part. Look, marriage is like peeling an onion, not Gump’s box of chocolates. It’s not black and white. It’s filled with filters. Truth in marriage is debatable. It’s what we can live with. All the margins and measures. Who thought up that question?”

“I did.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

I admitted that I was at my wit’s end.

“I’ve never had a problem writing anything before. This blog is making me crazy,” I moaned.

“Look up truth in the dictionary,” Ellen suggested. “I’ll hold on.”

And there it was – undefined and redundant: being true; sincerity, honesty, accuracy, actual existence of; established fact. So, in the great words of Oscar Wilde, indeed “truth is rarely pure and never simple.” And in my words and new perception, truth is not only subjective, but subject to change. I have always contended that everyone has their own versions of truths: even the eyewitness who saw the perpetrator running off in a blue coat when in fact he was wearing a red jacket is not a liar. It’s simply how we see things.

“Why don’t you ask Mark when he comes home tonight?” Ellen suggested. “See what he has to say.”

Now that was pretty scary: Did I want this answer from my husband? As a physician, Mark deals in unequivocal truths: Cholesterol, hemoglobin, blood pressure – high, low, normal. And Mark is not an emotional thinker – which isn’t to say he’s unemotional, but he deals scientifically. He’d make a lousy psychiatrist.

I took my notebook to dinner last night, and after wine, and as we ordered dessert, I asked him both Ellen’s question and mine. “OK, what is truth in marriage or is there truth marriage? You can answer one or the other.”

He took my notebook, pen poised. “Go powder your nose or something.”

Upon my return, I read, “If the answer to the second part is ‘no,’ then the first part is moot. To answer either is the ‘third rail’ of marriage. There is truth, but it reveals itself in unexpected ways. There is no truth…period. One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.”

“What?” I asked, feeling the blood drain from my face. “Third rail? That’s when you get electrocuted, right?”

“Great Cotes de Rhone, isn’t it?” he asked, diving into a profiterole.

“Don’t change the subject. Are you saying there is no truth in our marriage? ”

He faked some choking, pushed his hair back from his forehead, and strummed his fingers on the table.

“Look,” he said. “Knowing what you know after 27 years, would you marry me?”

“No,” I said. “Absolutely not.”

“But you do love me.”

“Yes.”

“So there’s your truth,” he said. “And mine.”

Stone steps lead down to our basement. They are worn and slippery, pitched so steeply that if you’re not surefooted, you could tumble down and fall hard. We affectionately call our basement “the dungeon.” The floor is partially sand and partially concrete. The ceilings are low and laden with over 200 years of pipes and wires: some new, some old, many simply remnants and no longer serving a purpose. A wooden door inside the basement leads to what was once a tunnel, presumably left over from Civil War days when slaves were spirited out to the railroad. The basement reeks of not only dampness but of history. At this point, it also holds a chronicle of our family.

My husband and I did not have a basement when we first married. It didn’t matter, however,since there was nothing yet to store away. Everything we owned was new and had an immediate purpose. When the first baby came, we bought a crib and changing table. When the second and third children came along, we bought youth beds and dressers with diminutive drawers protected with plastic child locks. History was only in the making. Nothing was tired, out of date, or past its use.

It wasn’t until we moved to a house in the suburbs that we got our basement. It was then that my mother-in-law mothers cleared out her closets and attic, and returned the many things my husband had left behind. Our basement holds his bulletin board from teenage years and cartons filled with old term papers, even coloring books, and letters exchanged with who are now old friends. Our history together is stored in the basement as well – the crib, the stroller, the cheap lamps we bought when we first married. I saved sentimental things like the kids’ tricycles, our daughter’s white wicker bassinet trimmed in eyelet, and our first stereo with turntable. There are boxes marked with bold magic marker for each child’s specific school year – boxes bursting with finger paintings, report cards, even moth-eaten sweaters and favorite toys. My “saving” is clearly a response to the fact that my mother did not save any of my childhood memories: Barbies, Nancy Drew, The Bobbsey Twins all went to charities. The little saved from my youth takes up little space.

The basement is said to be the soul of a home. It is filled to the brim with a tangible counting of every day of our lives. We have rarely acknowledged the storage. We have glossed over the boxes, waiting for a day when we have the courage and energy to sit down and sift through – let the pieces tell our story.

Mark and I have now been together for over 17 years. In many ways, it feels like a lifetime, and in other ways it seems like a blip on the radar screen. We’ve been busy all those years – paying bills, having babies, working at our jobs….trying to find time.

It has always been a running joke among our friends and family that Mark and I are as different as night and day. How delightful, they say, that opposites attract. How did they manage all these years? They nearly marvel. Clearly, we have mastered the art of looking the other way: Where Mark drives a car with dexterity and patience, I honk my horn relentlessly, arriving at the red light no sooner than anyone else. Mark falls asleep within 60 seconds of his head hitting the pillow. I toss and turn and end up with the television boring me to sleep. At dinner parties, I am guilty of political sparring while Mark listens to my diatribe. He sits on the edge of his seat, hoping I won’t get too fired up and say something that might be embarrassing. He thinks I am too unconventional; I think he’s too conventional. On one hand, he finds me amusing, on the other he prefers if I would simply not speak. He thinks I talk too much; I think he talks too little.

Marriage can end up in basements. We put many things in storage, hermetically sealed and saved for a later date, or perhaps no date scheduled at all.

This past weekend, Mark and I drank wine and talked until the wee hours of the morning, sitting at the kitchen counter in much the way we did when we were not married to each other but when the name for what we shared was “The Relationship.” That was the time in our lives when it seemed so vital to have a complete knowledge of one another. As we both approach our birthdays this month, taking us into that over-40 plateau and that precarious mid-life time in a marriage, we dig into the “basement.” There are lots of cobwebs. Metaphorical boxes covered with layers of dust whose labels are barely decipherable. There are expectations that haven’t yet been met and dreams that haven’t yet been realized.

It’s more complex than friends simply remarking that Mark blasts The Beatles and I blast La Boheme.

We’ve been dusting off the boxes. We can smell the stale dampness in the air. We found the kids’ rusty Radio Flyer leaning against our boxes of love letters. We toyed with the idea of cleaning out the basement. But we couldn’t agree upon or decide what to keep and what to throw away and as we sift through, we’ve decided it’s probably best to save it all.

Although my parents wanted to give me jewelry when I graduated high school, I asked for a 12-string Martin guitar. From that point on, the guitar never left me. If I went on vacation with friends, the guitar came along – those were the days when sending through luggage on airlines was more reliable – or perhaps the days when I didn’t think about things like theft or lost baggage. I spent hours in the stairwell of my college dorm – playing the Martin where the steely acoustics were just what I needed for sound quality, and the solitude for writing songs and singing at the top of my lungs was perfect. I wrote well over 50 songs – yet all but three are left on a small cassette in a strong box. The others vanished from my possession in 1977 when I left my life and first marriage in Florida. It never occurred to me when I left that the songs would ever leave my memory.

When I met my husband, the one whom I have been with now for more than half my life, I stopped singing and playing. He wooed me with his guitar, playing covers of Jackson Browne, The Eagles, and The Beatles. Our styles were different, and my lack of confidence in my folksy finger-picking and original melodies and lyrics, and the notion that he and I were afficionados of different kinds of music left me unable to bare my soul.

We married a year after we met, and babies came one, two, three within the ensuing four years and the guitar was retired. Leisure time when the babies napped was consumed with necessities – laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, cooking – and straining our dinners for the kids in a coffee bean grinder.

When we moved last month, on February 28^th to be exact, I took the guitar and placed her in my office – the sanctuary I have longed for since we left the suburbs in 2006. Our younger son, Ben, plays both guitar and piano. His room is a veritable music studio filled with his instruments and those of my husband’s. My husband plays occasionally with our son, and one night several months ago, I picked up a guitar and played (poorly) with our son – only to find my fingertips bleeding and sore the next day. After a week of healing, I didn’t pick up the guitar again – fearful that I wouldn’t retrieve the skills from long ago. But last week, when the move was over and done, I had a manicure – with nails cut down to guitar-playing length. I look at the guitar in her case, and wonder when I will have the courage to tackle her again. First, I have to take her to a repair shop: her bridge is damaged and her neck is slightly warped. And she’s the one I want to play – not one of the many others. I vaguely remember the ease with which my fingers once flew up and down the frets, the reach I had, the swiftness with which I plucked her 12 strings. And I don’t think either my husband or children believe me when I say that I once played.

One upon a time, my dream was to be on Broadway – singing and dancing (I took dance classes every night from the time I was 17 and singing lessons until I was 17). I continued dance classes after I was married, pregnant, and even dragged the babies to the studio’s babysitting room. As a matter of fact, I went into labor with my first when I was dancing. My parents wouldn’t support the early Broadway dream: My mother felt that being an “entertainer” was not a “proper” life.

“Write prose,” she commanded. ” Be a journalist. That’s self-expression for you.”

I suppose I should be grateful on some level, but I always wonder “what if.” This is the reason I want my children to chase their dreams, never squash their possibilities or give them fodder for what if’s. I must confess, it is mostly Ben, and remains Ben, who is the one with the artistic bent – the one whose grandparents feel “The Arts” is “not in his best interest.” He speaks of law school now, and although I believe his imagination and artistic temperament will make him gloriously interpretive should he choose law, a part of me hopes that he never stops singing, playing, and writing…even if he gets the law degree.Don’t be like me, I want to tell him. Never stop what speaks to your heart and soul.

I need to play the guitar again, although writing more than satisfies me. I am at a greater loss these days without my laptop than I am without my guitar. But lately, I feel compelled to recapture in general. The generation who is one step ahead of me is becoming frail and old – and there is no way to escape that grim reality. And I am in my middle years where time feels of the essence.

Last night I dreamed that I was in love with a very young man. He was cooking dinner for me, and we were planning to spend the night together until someone told me that the relationship was doomed because I was far too old for him. And in the dream, I felt the injustice of chronological age despite the fact that in my dream, and in my heart, I remain a “girl” despite the responsibilities and duties I have as a wife and mother to twenty-something’s, and all the literal trappings that come with middle age including the care of aging parents. My dreams are all too telling and vivid. My subconscious is hardly “sub.”

And so, I am hoping that in the next few months I can pick up the 12-string once again, and that perhaps some of the original and cover songs buried in my brain will re-emerge. And if they don’t, then perhaps there will be new songs learned, and I hope that my fingers fly as they once did. And if they don’t fly with immediacy (and they won’t), I am promising myself to stay at it until, at the very least, I hear a melody.

.

Steep concrete steps take you up to the train tracks in what has been my hometown now for 13 years. The red brick station house, if not for signs advertising the local radio station and where to place recyclables, looks like it could be standing in the 1800s in Anytown, USA. If look hard enough, I picture what it was like once when the steam engines rumbled in…weary travelers tumbling from this “new” mode of transportation.

There is something still romantic about train travel, perhaps more for me since I am not a daily commuter. Perhaps I recall old movies where the dark handsome stranger sits beside the thinly-veiled woman and pierces her with his eyes. Perhaps it’s that something so heavy and powerful can race through the night. Or maybe it’s my penchant for scrutinizing the travelers,  guessing as to what they do, where they’re coming from or going to. My daughter often pulls my arm and tells me that I am staring at people. I call it observation.

When I board the train for the hour’s ride to Manhattan, it is nearly an adventure. I carry a small bag with a book and water bottle, a pair of gloves, and a small pack of tissues. I am like an old woman, wrapped in my winter coat, preferring a seat where I can sit alone, wanting to avoid those with colds and coughs, suddenly a germaphobe am I. I wonder if anyone is watching me…wishing I were that veiled woman of mystery…or am I all too transparent in my suburban persona?

Last night, I took the train for an evening in “the city,” I found the lone seat without someone speaking on the cell phone, and opened my book, Mrs. Bridge by Evan S. Connell It’s a strange novel about a lonely married woman with three children whose main problem is a plethora of leisure time and a dearth of romance. Set in the Midwest in the World War II era, the book amazes me because the rebellion of the Bridges’ children and the feminine condition of Mrs. Bridge balancing individuality with motherhood and marriage remains relevant despite the notion that we often assume that the past among the middle class was “simpler.” Mrs. Bridge’s condition is what we find now…what Betty Friedan identified in the 1960s. It’s just as complex.

The conductor asked what I was reading as he punched my ticket. “Ah, a classic,” he remarked as I showed him the cover. “I just bought an Emily Bronte for my wife.”

“Wuthering Heights?” I asked.

He smiled. “That’s the one.”

I think to myself how nice that he bought his wife a book, and one by Bronte no less…but I don’t say that. And then my mind races, and I picture his wife reading the book by a dimly-lit lamp in an apartment, waiting for him to come home late at night from the railroad, a sheer curtain blowing gently in her window, the train whistle sounding deep and hollow in the background.

And then I snap back from my trance, noting the conductor has moved on to the next passenger, making conversation. I wonder: does he know about the brooding mystery of the moors? The tragedy in Bronte’s books? I hear him say to the next passenger nearly what he said to me, “That’ll be ten dollars fare just for you. Tell me, what’s that you’re reading?” And I feel almost foolish that for a moment I thought I was special.

I now know which way to turn when I get off at Grand Central Terminal. In the beginning, when I started riding the train, I always turned the wrong way. Despite the recent renovations, the essence of the station remains unaltered by time, at least the time I recall from my teen years. A distinct aroma penetrates the air: diesel, hot pretzels, stale coffee. The crowds seem to spin in circles. Backs rigid, heads facing forward, visages determined. They have the rigidity of Egyptian cave drawings…a still-life of humanity in motion.

A sense of anonymity envelops me as I wend my way through the hordes. It is unlike the visibility I feel in my suburban community. Here, no one knows who I am or where I am going. Perhaps I am meeting a lover in a smoky bar, or I am an undercover agent,  the bag with tissues, book, and bottle all just a ruse.

I get in the taxi queue on Vanderbilt Avenue when I arrive in Manhattan. I am dropped off in the queue when I return to Grand Central. And then I realize that probably no one is wondering who I might be, and I probably just look like a woman who is meeting a friend for dinner and has to make the 9:09 back home. And indeed, that is who I am. It is, as Mrs. Bridge says, “…sometimes tiring to be a planet instead of a star.”

I really hope that moving is not like childbirth, and when it’s over we forget about the pain. Although I was 28 hours in labor with my first, David, I went on to have Ellie a mere 18 months later. Ellie was born within two hours of the first contraction to the point where there wasn’t even time for an aspirin, and then, Ben, just two and a half years after Ellie.

As we are now settled into this apartment (we moved on Saturday and my anal compulsive nature has us totally unpacked with every painting on the wall and photograph in place), I need to remember what a nightmare it’s been for the last five days. I must remember the five men who dumped about 200 boxes haphazardly throughout the apartment despite my meticulous labeling as to living room, master bedroom, bathroom, etc. If not for our two muscle-bound sons, we’d have been sunk.

I must remember what I said to Mark on Sunday night, “You’re going to have to carry me out of here feet first if you want to move because I am never ever ever moving again!”

On Sunday, I got up before dawn with the proverbial sleeves rolled up. I put on comfy clothes prepared for a day of sweat and toil,  a pair of old blue velvet pants with an elastic waistband (I think I wore them during one of my pregnancies) and a baggy gray T-shirt. As my husband and sons set up the stereo system (why do men always tackle stereo systems first?), I dug into closets, dressers, kitchen, cupboards, and bathrooms. By 6 p.m., I had paper cuts, broken nails, bruises, an aching back, and swollen elbows My husband, also aching, walked over to me with a gait reminiscent of Grandpappy Amos and said, “You know, those pants really don’t flatter you.”

Had my elbow not hurt so much I might have socked him. “Next time, I’ll wear a cocktail dress,” I said.

Is the man insane?

On Monday, although I’d really thought the worst was over, the tough part began. And this is the part that I hope to remember: I can deal with physical labor, but waiting drives me nuts. It was time for phone and cable installations. Now, one would think that Verizon pretty much has one thing to do: Phones. And one would also think that Time Warner Cable has two things to do: Cable and Internet. One would think…Thinking is clearly a dangerous thing.

Verizon showed up Monday – on time. But Verizon couldn’t hook up the phones. They could only “drop” the lines in the basement of the building. After that, we were on our own since for some reason another “carrier” has a monopoly on the building’s wiring. OK, so in the meantime, I would have the calls forwarded to our cell phones and deal with that later. Time Warner came on Tuesday and the technician was in and out of here in a flash after hooking up a faulty splitter and non-functional cable boxes.

Today is Thursday: Verizon has yet to complete the “job order” for call forwarding. Yesterday, Time Warner was supposed to come within the “window” of 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. That’s not a window. That’s a canyon. I used the day to hang paintings. By 6:45, things were looking fairly dim. Today is yet another “all day window appointment.” I’ve called Verizon and Time Warner at least 24 times between today and yesterday and if I hear Fur Elise one more time I’ll make Beethoven roll over. And each time I call either carrier, I am given many “options” as I try to find the right person to correct my problems. I receive many apologies, and I am thanked for being a “valued customer” and then, in a really upbeat voice I am encouraged to “have a wonderful day.” If I’m so valued, then how come no one is showing up? And how the hell am I supposed to have a “wonderful day” when I am a prisoner in my apartment at the mercy of these technological “giants?” And how come they’re so sorry, but do nothing to help me?

I have not been out of this apartment since we moved in on Saturday except for Walter’s daily walk which has taken place in front of the building in case the Verizon or Time Warner techs show. Walter has been accommodating insofar as doing his business on command and rapidly.

Mark has been lucky enough to escape to his office each morning. My office is here in the apartment, a good thing, I guess, since this allows me to wait for the invisible technicians and make phone calls on my cell to those who offer empty and lame explanations as to why nothing’s working properly and no one has showed up. Last night, as my call ended with the representative from Time Warner saying how sorry he was that I waited all day and no one appeared, I refrained from saying “not as sorry as I am.” He asked if there was anything else he could do for me.

“Come here and fix my stuff,” I said, half-joking.

He took me seriously and said he would if not for the fact that he was in Costa Rica.

Aha! Maybe he was there with the tech who never showed yesterday. Maybe they were both pool side with cell phones and head sets, drinking Mai Tai’s, and watching some wrestling match you can only get on cable which we don’t have.

And so, today’s another day…waiting and waiting – only to be told just now by a Verizon supervisor that this appointment is NOT for someone to come out but to call me and let me know when they might come out to put in jacks, splitters, and boxes.

Hey – doorbell just rang. It’s Time Warner. ‘Scuse me while I kiss this guy.

I have spent the last several days on hold.

I’ve pressed “1″ to get more options, “2″ to hear a menu of about 10 options that I don’t need,”3″ to hear yet another useless menu, and “0″ to get assistance when I run out of options. At that point, however, I am told that all the customer care representatives are busy with other customers, but that my call is very important, and the waiting time is a mere 30 minutes. I am subjected to Muzak consisting of elevator versions of The Who, Donna Summer, The Beatles, Jay- Z, and Mozart with interval interruptions telling me how important my call is, and every time I’m interrupted, I think someone is “real” and not recorded, and I say hello. Finally, I’m sent to the “right” department since my customer care representative, although caring, is unable to help me with “my specific problem.” It seems I require a “specialist.”

For example, my husband and I decided to pare down to merely two credit cards: the ubiquitous Visa, and the not-always-accepted-but- has- good- rewards American Express (even though you can only redeem them for places like Berlin in January or Miami in hurricane season). Have you ever tried canceling a credit card? I practically got psychotherapy over the phone. The original customer care person was unable to help me. They sent me to the too peppy and sugary customer care person who sadly, and gently, asked why I was canceling: Could they do something to ease the pain of canceling like consolidating my debt? Was I disappointed with the quality of service since I’d had the card for over 20 years? I reassure the rep: no debt, no pain, no disappointment. I repeat myself robotically: I just want to cancel the card. This session takes a good 25 minutes, at which point this caring individual instructs me to cut up the card  as though I am now being punished for what I wanted to do in the beginning. No more Ms. Sweetness. Then I am routed to the Disputes Department because there are several charges for some bartending program that we didn’t incur. Am I certain? the woman asks. I am adamant in my certainty, but she asks me to try to remember. I tell her that I would know if one of us was enrolled in bartending school, and even though it’s only noon, I sure could use a margarita about now. She doesn’t find that funny.

Then there was Ikea. You can go online and “Ask Anna,” but unfortunately the cartoon drawing of Anna and the text space for your question is met with “I don’t understand your question.” There’s no room for editorializing with Anna. It’s yes or no. Anna, a drawing of a woman wearing a telephone headset, is useless. So, I call the 800 number, and listen to propaganda for about 10 minutes. A human being finally picks up, and then puts me on hold for 30 minutes (seriously – 30 minutes – I was writing this column as I waited) because the shipment scheduled to arrive tomorrow (a notice that came to me via recorded message) was indeed, sent in error. Apparently, there was a miscommunication in an email sent to the warehouse. I feign shock. My guess is that Anna had something to do with it.

And let’s not forget America Online. We have a third account that’s been dormant for about a decade. We have two other very active accounts. I need to cancel the third account. After the many options, I am connected to a man in India (honest – he told me so – he was in India). He asks my mother’s maiden name, my social security number, and my favorite restaurant. I can’t remember the third one. I try to explain (after naming about a half dozen restaurants) that I can’t remember my favorite restaurant from 10 years ago – and don’t my mother’s maiden name and my social number rule over some burger joint? He sticks to his guns. There are three security questions, and I have failed to answer the third. Failed, I tell you. I am connected to his supervisor (also in India) who lets me slide on the restaurant, and then after another 30-minute holding pattern says that the account is free anyway because it’s a third account. I’m having a hard time mustering up a lot of enthusiasm and gratitude.

And then there’s the email I got from our very corporate gym that said we were past due in our account, and our membership was in danger of being canceled. Panicked at the notion of not being able to release endorphins after being on hold so much lately, I call corporate office. It’s busy, busy, busy. Finally, they answer – just as my finger is numb from hitting “redial.”

“I was told we’re being canceled,” I say. “Our account is NOT past due.”

” Ignore the email,” the man says.

” Do you even know who this is?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter. That email was sent in error to thousands of people in the New York City area. I’ve been fielding calls all day.” He’s exasperated. Aha! The tables have turned!

“Well, I guess there’s one customer care person who doesn’t have a job now,” I say.

He hangs up on me.

Last but not least, there’s the University where I am applying for a graduate degree. A

center for higher learning. Perhaps here the bureaucracy will be easier to navigate. Ah, wrong again. They’ve cashed the check accompanying the application, so why haven’t I heard? It seems that my application is incomplete.

“And you don’t tell me this?” I ask, trying to control myself.

“We don’t tell you when it’s incomplete. We rely on the undergraduate program to send the information.”

“But I graduated over 30 years ago.”

Doesn’t matter. They want references from my college professors. Gently, I explain that they are all deceased, so this really isn’t possible.

“Are you sure?” the young woman asks.

“Pretty, pretty sure,” I say. “Dead is dead.” I am incredulous.

“OK, so how about your transcript?” she asks.

No problem – except my Alma Mater wants the request faxed with a signature, not just the email I send with all my vital statistics. I shlep to Kinko’s because I don’t have a fax. It goes through, and then I’m told by the twenty-something that I need 12 credits of undergraduate psychology. I try to explain to the twenty-something on the phone that at my age I would no more remember the content of those courses than I would what I had for breakfast (or my favorite restaurant from a decade ago). She refers to me as an “older student,” and sticks to her guns about the credits. I make an appointment with the department chair, call the next day to confirm, and there’s no record of my appointment. Now I’m ready to go toe to toe with the entire department about abnormal psychology because I am about to go ballistic.

And so, I brace myself for another day in digital hell. Imagine if I ran my household and personal life this way: Press 1 for breakfast, press 2 for lunch, press 3 for dinner. Press 4 for laundry. Press 5 for conversation. Press 1 for English. Press star 9 if the above options didn’t satisfy your every need, or if you want to hear these options again. Please hold, although your needs are very important to me, your waiting time is approximately 30 minutes.