Hypocrite's Almanac

A BIT OF A DEPARTURE

June 7, 2016 By Melanie Hoopes Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac Tagged With: advice, dementia, schadenfreude, self help

When I started this column 10 years ago, I was really bossy. I insisted you do things like recycle and shop local and volunteer. After six years, it occurred to me most of you do recycle and shop local and volunteer and those who don’t, well, a column in a free magazine wasn’t going to change that.

Then I went the advice column route, which I might return to, wherein I attempted to solve the problems of hardworking Park Slopers in hopes of providing you perspective or at the very least, a healthy dose of schadenfreude. But now, that’s feeling a bit stale. So I’m taking a break from that, too. This issue I’m going to tell you something that happened to me and then I’ll attempt to make sense of it. If you’re bored by introspection, check back next issue when, most likely, I’ll be back giving advice to a compulsive liars and adulterers.

Twenty years ago, I taught improv to wannabe child stars in LA. One night I was waiting for parents to pick up their kids when I noticed an older woman, alone, clutching her purse on the corner of the busy street and our parking lot. Odd. In LA people are outside for two reasons: They are walking to their car from a nearby building or they are walking to a nearby building from their car. This woman was small but sturdy with a mop of wiry gray hair and wearing pants that they used to sell in the back of TV Guide in ten colors. She was making a great effort to not look confused but she it was obvious she was. She was walking in a figure eight pattern in blue terrycloth slippers. After the last parent pulled away, I went over and asked if she was okay.

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They say we differ from animals because of our thumbs. Another difference is that we are the only species to tell stories to one another to make sense of our lives.

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She was lost. She walked out of her house for a breath of fresh air and got turned around. Her daughter would be worried. Could I help her? Of course, I’d escort her back. She told me her name was Mary Murdoch and then she gave me her address. I went to my car to get my Thomas Guide, the pre GPS, indispensible street atlas/bible, and looked it up.

The address she gave me was about 25 blocks from the acting school across several busy streets. Was it possible she’d been walking for an hour? She didn’t look exhausted and certainly someone else would’ve stopped her and offered help. I asked for her phone number to let her daughter know she was safe. She couldn’t recall it. The heat, she offered, she couldn’t think straight. She repeated the address and asked me to drive her there.

When you decide to help a stranger there’s a moment when you regret it. This happened after I helped her into my car and shut the door. What was I risking in helping her? Could she be having a stroke? A heart attack? What if she died in my car? I decided if her behavior changed I’d drive her to the emergency room. I attempted small talk as we drove across West LA in my Mercury Tracer. At a stoplight I glanced over at her. She was looking out her window smiling, beaming even.

We pulled up to the address. It was a small neat craftsman with a front porch that ran the length of the front of the house. I helped her out of the car and up the path, but she stopped short of the front steps. I walked up and knocked on the door. A woman in her late forties answered but kept the screen door closed.

“Hi,” I said, “I think I have your mom?” I said gesturing over the shoulder to Mary who had turned a quarter of the way in the path to face a hibiscus shrub.

“My mom died 10 years ago,” said the woman at the door.

Mary walked up behind me. “This is my house,” Mary said softly studying a rattan bench on the porch, “but it’s different.”

“What’s your name?” the woman asked Mary.

“Mary. Mary Murdoch.” Mary looked down at her slippers like a schoolgirl caught late in the halls.

The woman made a short gasp and turned to me.

“We bought this house from The Murdochs twenty five years ago. Her parents?” She addressed Mary again whose eyes were still on her slippers. “Was your mom Lucille?”

Mary’s head shot up. “Yes, that’s my mother. Do you know her?”

The woman opened the screen door and gestured for us both to come inside.

The woman, Karen, and I introduced ourselves to one another and strategized. We asked Mary for her purse and checked the contents. The only thing inside was a green plastic checkbook cover with a single deposit slip from an account belonging to Joanne McMaster. No address below the name but there was, miraculously, a phone number.

“Hi, I’m with your mother,” I said to the woman who answered.

“What? No, you’re not,” she sounded annoyed. “Ma?“ A pause. And then to someone in the room with her “Shit, Mom’s got out again.”

I told her the address and it was her turn to gasp. “That was my grandparents house! We’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, Joanne, her husband Al, her kids—a boy around 8, and a girl maybe 10—and Lisa, a friend, were in Karen’s front hall. Mary sat on a chair facing into the living room with her back to her family.

“She’s been doing this now for a few weeks,” Joanne said. “She has an ID bracelet but she takes it off before she leaves the house. We put a card in her purse—she tears it up and throws it in the wastebasket. It’s as if she wants to be lost. I can’t watch her every minute and we don’t want to lock her in.” She looked to us for answers or maybe forgiveness. Karen and I smiled sadly back at her.

Conversation turned to memories of the house so Karen gave the family a tour. I stayed with Mary where we could hear Joanne saying “I like what you did with the kitchen,” “…there used to be a wall here” and “…we used to play marbles on the floor there.” Back in the front hall, the family offered their thanks for helping Mary and we said our goodbyes. I got back in my car and watched Joanne pull her mini van away from the curb. Mary was in the back seat with the kids, looking very small and—was I imagining it?—embarrassed.

Over the course of the next twenty years I would find myself returning again and again to that night as a moment when something shifted for me. Soon after that night, I got fired from that horrible teaching job, gave up my bungalow by the beach and made plans to leave Los Angeles for grad school in NYC. What about that night struck such a deep chord in me? Over the past couple days I’ve been turning it over in my mind and just recently, like ten minutes ago, I hit on something. My experience with Mary that night had a dream-like quality so I decided to try to interpret it in that context. Jung believed that dream characters can represent an unacknowledged aspect of the dreamer. So if Mary was me, what was she trying to tell me? Or rather, what message did she tell my subconscious that got me to pack my bags and leave LA two decades ago?

This is what I’ve come up with: Mary had dementia. Because of that, when she strayed from home, she’d gotten turned around. When she attempted to go back to the home she remembered, it wasn’t as she left it. Someone else was living there and they had knocked the walls down and put an island in.

At that time, I, too, was walking the streets of LA in my metaphorical slippers where nothing looked familiar. I had wandered from home and was, like Mary, in need of a stranger to guide me back. Los Angeles was like Mars to me. I think it’s like that for everyone who moves there at first. You either adjust or you don’t. If you do, you can make a home there. If you don’t, it’s hard to breathe and there’s nothing to nourish you. For the seven years I lived there, I waited for my own version of a Mercury Tracer to take me to safety. While waiting, I lost my bearings, my confidence and I believe, my sense of self. Seeing Mary lose her way set me into motion. I had to leave. To Joanne and her family, the night we met was just another time that Mary got out. For me, our meeting was an awakening.

They say we differ from animals because of our thumbs. Another difference is that we are the only species to tell stories to one another to make sense of our lives. This was one of mine. I’m sure you have hundreds of your own. I wish I could hear them.

See you next time.

You Can Do This!

February 23, 2016 By Melanie Hoopes Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac Tagged With: advice, Alzheimer’s, counseling, family

Dear Hypocrite,

I know you’re not a therapist—you’ve been saying that for years—but I’m struggling with some real issues and looking for help or insight everywhere I can think of. You might just be the one to tell me something useful or perhaps make me feel not so alone. Besides, you’re free.

My mom has Alzheimer’s. It was obvious after several events (her walking out in traffic and setting her kitchen on fire) that she was no longer able to live at home by herself. I hired a part-time aide for a while, but she needed even more care, so last June I moved her into my apartment. I got a friend of mine to watch her during the day until I came home from work. When my mom stopped sleeping at night, life became unlivable. She’s now in a memory unit at a nursing home in Forest Hills. It’s a pretty dismal place. The people are kind but she pretty much wanders the halls all day looking for her “parents.” I visit her on the weekend. I don’t know what else I can do.

To add to this, I have many unresolved feelings towards her. She wasn’t the greatest mom. She was a drinker and distant and blamed me and my brother for getting in the way of the life she was meant to live. Obviously, there’s no point in talking to her now about my issues. She’s not sure who I am most of the time. On a good day, she calls me by her sister’s name.

This is the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through. I know you’re going to tell me to see a therapist or find a support group. Is there anything else I can do?

Signed,

Not So Dutiful Daughter

Dear Daughter,

I am so sorry for your loss. I know she’s still there for you to touch, see, and talk to, but a big part of what made her your mom is not there anymore and that is very hard to experience every time you see her. Add to that your unresolved feelings and you have a very complicated concoction of sadness and anger.

Even if you feel alone, you are not. I venture to say that many of the people you pass on the street are going through some version of your experience. What puts you in a special category is that you are the primary caregiver, which brings with it some serious stress and the feeling that you can never do enough for your mom. But here’s your new mantra: I can only do what I can. In other words, don’t try to do what you think you should or what someone else did. Do what you can do. You can only visit her on the weekends. So do that. Get to know her nurses, take her on a walk outside, bring her flowers…then go home and take a shower, see a movie, or have dinner with a friend. You need to extract the guilt from that cocktail of sadness and anger that’s already lodged in your chest. I do have some thoughts on sadness, however.

Yesterday I went for a walk around the track of a nearby school. It had just rained and there were big, beautiful earthworms crossing the track to get back to the soil. The only problem was the majority of them were headed toward the artificial turf that was in the center of the track. I couldn’t simply walk over them knowing they were going to a place that had nothing for them, that couldn’t sustain them.

My father has had Parkinson’s for fifteen years and I have a fourteen-year-old dog that is blind and deaf and can’t hold his urine. Seeing these worms cross the road to a place that would do nothing to keep them alive was more sadness than I could bear. It took me five minutes but I whipped every one of those worms back to the side with the real soil. A woman in full Lululemon passed by and asked what I was doing. When I told her she gave me a sad little look, not a judgmental one, but a look that said, “You poor woman. You feel too much.” At this point in my life, I do. Saving worms seemed the only option at that moment. I’m sure to Lulu I’ll be forever known as ‘The Worm Girl,’ but as nicknames go, it’s not a bad one. I’ve had worse.

We like to think we are in control of our lives. We keep our houses clean to the best of our abilities; we fill our days with errands and appointments to keep surprises to a minimum; we complain when teachers, food, or service fall below our standards. But all the while, as Carlos Castaneda said, death stalks us. There is suffering for those doing the dying and for those who bear witness to it. The witnesses have the job of easing the suffering of those fading. It’s normal to feel like you can’t do enough. But we do what you can. For my dog, I can change his food, give him cuddles, and take him to his favorite park. For my dad, I can visit, comb his hair, give him a massage, and buy him a pillow for his wheelchair. For the worms, I can fling them onto the grass.

To ease our own suffering, we need to get sleep, eat healthy foods, and exercise while knowing that the pain of sadness is something that we have to go through. But my dear daughter, you shouldn’t go through it alone. Here’s what you were expecting: find a therapist and get a support group. You need help. Get out there and meet people who are going through the same thing.

Again, I am so sorry you’re going through this. I know how it feels. My dad is not getting better. He’ll die this year or if not, the year after. And it will be unbearably sad. Somehow I will get through it. But until then, I will do as much as I can for him and ask for support from friends, family, and my therapist who is worth every penny of her astronomical fee.

Before I go, I have a question. Where is your brother? It sounds like the majority of the weight of caring for your mother is falling on your shoulders. Can you enlist him in more help? Can you let him know you’re feeling overwhelmed? Can you send him this column?

Daughter, I’ll be thinking of you. See you next time.

A Small Step

January 29, 2016 By Melanie Hoopes Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac Tagged With: counseling, life coach, Park Slope, self help, Therapy

Dear Hypocrite.
I love your column and I think you help more people than you imagine. Now it’s my turn to ask for advice. This letter is not of your usual landlord/parking/parenting troubles variety. It’s bleak and more desperate than anything I’ve read here before. Wish it wasn’t the case. I wish I were writing about how frustrated I am with my loud upstairs neighbor.
I’m in a bad place. A series of unfortunate events has left me with some serious problems. I lost my job in May and haven’t been able to find another one. I’m in debt. I’m estranged from my family. I think my girlfriend is about to break up with me. I’ve gained twenty pounds in the past three months. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I have bedbugs.
I’ve been sitting on the couch watching TV for months, fully aware that it’s not helping my situation. I woke up this morning and thought today, “I have to do one thing, just one, that will make my life better.” So, you are my one thing. I know there’s not a lot you can do from wherever you are. Maybe you can give me the “everything’s going to be alright” speech to comfort me for a little bit. I completely understand if you don’t want to answer this letter thinking it’s out of your jurisdiction. I know I need a therapist but can you try to help? Please? Whether you answer it or not, thanks for your column. It’s a bright spot in my life. Wish it were weekly. Maybe you could find another place to write it?
Signed,
Sad Sack

Dear Sad Sack.
I’m so sorry to hear you’re going through an epically hard time. Just one of those things you’re going through is a lot and you’ve got yourself quite a list. How sweet of you to compliment me while you’re so down in the dumps. I don’t get a lot of fan mail (I got one email a few years ago from a woman who confused me with her husband’s distant cousin who lives in Utah. Still, she said some nice things.), And to your comment of finding a place to have a more regular column—I’m very happy with the infrequency of this gig. It allows me to live a rich life on which to draw my advice. If that sounds like bullshit, it is. I don’t have time to write more than four times a year. I need to hustle in order to keep my kids in ridiculously overpriced athletic footwear.
Sad Sack, I must say my column doesn’t really support letters like yours. You’re right; you need a therapist, not a free of charge hypocritical life coach. To me, the excessive TV watching is a clear sign that you’re depressed and I don’t traffic in depression, that’s for the people with training. I can give you the “everything’s going to be alright” speech but if you don’t do something concrete, things will most definitely not get better. In your letter you use the word “wish” a lot. Although I believe in fairies and trolls, I don’t believe you can wish your problems away. You need to take action and that action is usually outside of your comfort zone. It’s hard to step outside what’s natural when you’re feeling shitty about yourself. But you have to. You must. It might be hard to believe, but things could actually get much, much worse.
The skills to turn things around are two: You need to ask for help and accept it when it comes to you. This is not as easy as it sounds.
My husband has a friend who is forever experiencing the hardest of times. He’s always in danger losing his job, he’s in debt, his landlord is in the mafia, his dog needs an operation. The numerous times we’ve tried to help him, we’ve been bitten. The apartment I suggested was above a burger joint (who could live with the smell of grease?) The car my husband’s aunt was selling was beige (He could never drive a beige car!). Something always stops him from receiving help and he keeps on complaining. I won’t go out with him anymore and my husband comes back from a night at the bar with him drained and frustrated. Look, shit happens to everyone but this is different. I’m not abandoning him in this time of need. I’m abandoning him because I think he gets off on how crappy his life is and I don’t have time for that.
Not you, though. You know how to ask for help and receive it (right?). Ask around for a therapist, pronto. Then find a headhunter or ask your friends for leads on work. Get recommendations for exterminators. So you need to find low cost options? That’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Ask about sliding scales, bartering and payment plans. Make a list of what you need and who can help you (in the corporate world they call this a strategic map). Take a nap and a bath. Exercise. Be upfront with your girlfriend. Tell her you’ve got to get yourself together before you can be a good partner. “Just you wait,” tell her, “you won’t even recognize me.”
Listen to me, Sad Sack. Do these things and you’ll be on your way to a better, happier you. We all need help from time to time. Tell us how we can help you and then let us. You’ve made a step asking me today, so ask someone else for help tomorrow. You need to get your life back (and banish the bedbugs) to experience life in The Slope to the fullest. The leaves are going to change color soon and you’ll want to be outside on a blanket staring up at them in wonder, not despair.
I know I’ve ignored the fact that you’re estranged from your family. I’m sure that is very painful for everyone involved. Your therapist will help you with that. Know that we can create our own families, Sad Sack. You can consider me your wise Auntie. Auntie Hypocrite. I like that the sound of that.

See you next time.

About Lucy

July 28, 2015 By Melanie Hoopes Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac Tagged With: advice, humor, hypocrite, parenting

Dear Hypocrite,

I love your column. Often when I’m facing a problem that I’m not sure how to handle, I’ll think about what you’d say and I follow your imagined advice. This time, however, I can write in and wait for your real response! My husband and I are struggling with this one. We’re hoping you can help us out.

My husband has a group of good friends from college. Over the years, I’ve gotten to know them and their wives and consider them my pals, too. We’ve gone on many trips together as couples, and now that our kids have finally made it to a good traveling age, we’ve started to take family vacations together. Last year we rented a house in Mexico and it was a success for the most part. The only issue is with “Lucy,” one of “Ann and Tom’s” children. My husband and I are not sure what’s wrong with Lucy. She talks constantly and is forever trying to enlist the entire group in playing a game. Ann and Tom encourage the behavior by playing her games which involve making animal sounds and answering senseless riddles. She’s forever hijacking conversations and telling stories that have no point. Her parents make no effort to curb her. She sabotages whatever is going on. Lucy is eight and already the last person I’d want to sit next to at a dinner party.

At the end of the Summer, all the families are meeting at a house in Michigan for ten days. The house is not as big as we wanted. Some of the couples have to sleep in twin beds, some are on a sleeping porch. There isn’t a lot of privacy. My husband and I are dreading being cooped up with Lucy. My husband wants to tell Ann and Tom that we’re reconsidering the trip because we’re not sure if we can tolerate Lucy’s behavior. I agree something needs to be said, but that seems too strong. How do we ask them to rein her in so we can catch up like old days?

Signed
What To Do About Problem Child

Dear What To Do,

First of all, there are no more old days. Kids change absolutely every dynamic they touch. Trying to get back to the energy of the old days is as fruitless as flossing your teeth with one hand. You won’t be able to do it. Let go of that fantasy now.

I hear you when you say you want to catch up, though. Being able to share your lives with people who’ve known you in your wilder days is the absolute best. The thing you need to figure out now is how not to fuck that up. And you, What To Do, are at the precipice of ruining everything. There are a couple of reasons why I’m going to tell you to do absolutely nothing in your struggle with Problem Child.

When I was twelve I was pretty sure I was done with the human species. I’d been betrayed by my friends and wasn’t feeling so great about my family. But there was one thing I had a lot of faith in. Squirrels. My backyard was filled with them. Every afternoon after school, I would sit on the steps going down to the yard and watch them gather chestnuts for hours. Every couple minutes or so, I would sneak a few inches closer to them, determined to be their Jane Goodall. I’d heard of some people who had squirrels at pets. I wanted squirrels as friends.

I wasn’t successful at forging the species divide. I was never able to hand them a chunk of Lender’s bagel like I wanted. After about three months, I turned my back on the squirrels and got on my bike. Within a few weeks I ended up getting a new pack of human friends who let me get close to them. The squirrel thing was a phase—one of a hundred or so I have gone through. Kids go through phases constantly. You last saw Lucy a year ago. I bet you $23 that the kid has moved on to another more or less annoying phase. You need to see where she is before you say anything to the parents about curbing her behavior.

There’s another even more important reason you shouldn’t say anything before the trip.

When kids are young, they are their parent’s possessions. Parents are hard at work guiding and shaping them. They do their best to create their child’s afterschool and summer schedules and encourage friendships for them that are morally sound and emotionally supportive. This is why parents can’t help but feel personally attacked when someone talks shit about their kid. Saying something bad about Lucy is the same as telling Ann and Tom that they are shitty parents. You say, “Lucy is hard to take,” they hear, “You have created a monster.”

You have two choices: You can sit this trip out or you can go. If you go, I think you will discover a different Lucy. But if Lucy is how you last left her, you’re allowed to drop a well-constructed, well-timed comment to her parents that may help the situation. Here are my suggestions.

“It’s so good to see you. Sometimes it’s so hard with all the kids around to get a word in edgewise. Want to sneak in a walk and talk?”

“What do you guys think of using a local sitter for the night? Catching up is hard at dinner with all the kids. I want to know how you guys are doing.”
“Lucy has so much energy!”

All of these statements can start conversations. The last one will work only if said without judgment. Say it like you’d say “Seven times seven equals forty-nine” or “Cows give milk you can drink.”

Good luck with this. I feel for you. But I also feel for Lucy. I wasn’t a fan of grownups when I was young because they were always telling me to be quiet so they could talk. Sitting there and watching them talk was excruciating. How could they be so boring? Would it really hurt them to play a game during dinner once in while?
See you next time!

Shallow in the Slope

May 19, 2015 By admin Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac

Dear Hypocrite,

I read your column without fail every issue. Now, finally, I’ve got a problem worthy of your attention. I’m a single male in my late thirties and I’m looking for a committed relationship. I’m searching in all the usual places (Match, Chemistry, OKCupid, PlentyofFish) but I haven’t had any luck. I really thought I’d be with someone by now. I had a crazy time in my twenties and then I started a business in my early thirties. Because I had to pour all of my energy into it, dating was impossible. I didn’t have a lot of money or time, I didn’t sleep a lot, I didn’t take care of myself and looked like Hell as a result. But I’ve gotten my act together since and I couldn’t be more ready to meet “the one.”

The problem: I am picky as Hell when it comes to women. Looks are very, very important to me. I like a woman who wears makeup, paints her nails, tweezes her eyebrows, has straight white teeth, big breasts and a big booty. She should wear high heels and have a nice hairstyle with no gray hair. And she should take care of herself. Down there. If she doesn’t do all of these things, I won’t ask her out for a second date.

And me? I’m not “hot.” I’m 5’6”, I have a large nose (although I’ve been told by some it’s my best quality), I’m losing my hair and have gained weight in the past few years. To top it all off, I don’t really know how to dress. But here’s what I do have to offer: I’ve got a great sense of humor, I’m financially stable, and I can make a mean salami omelet. That’s not so bad, right?

I don’t blame my friends who say they won’t set me up anymore because I am unrealistic and have outrageous expectations. It’s true. I know the gap between what I expect and what I can get is massive. But that’s what I’m attracted to and there’s a part of me that believes I’ll get it while the other part of me is getting lonelier and lonelier and wants to lower my standards. I just don’t know if my body will follow, if you get my drift.

Please don’t be too tough. I can’t help being this way.

Pig on Prospect Place

Dear Pig,

What I find most disturbing here (beside the salami omelet, yeech!) is that you write of no other qualities that you’re looking for in a partner. No mention of spirituality, politics, sense of humor, disposition. Nada. Weird, don’t you think? You gotta know that looks are the only thing that don’t last. I was a looker in my thirties but now, nearing fifty, my face has begun its descent down my skull. You have/had a mother and a grandmother. They were once on the market and someone was kind enough to overlook their physical imperfections and have sex with them to make you. You need to get over this. Now. It’s standing in the way of your happiness.

Pig, even if you were a George Clooney look alike, I’m not sure the woman you’re waiting for exists. She might for a couple dates but then I expect you’d find her ass a little flat or her skin a little rough. You’ve been watching way too much porn. Go online and see what Cindy and Beyoncé look like without airbrushing. Women don’t look like the images you have in your head. You have an illness, and frankly, I don’t have a lot of empathy for you. Men like you who internalize all the crap out there that makes women feel really shitty about themselves. But, I also hear that you understand how crazy you are and that you want to change so that makes you a smidgen likable. So…here’s a story for you.

When I was in high school I dated a boarding student at the prep school up the street from my house. Spenser was handsome, rich, drove a Beamer, and was known to date beneath him. That’s where I came in. I was “a townie” which to him meant I knew the back roads and where to buy beer after the first six places carded. On weekends Spenser and I would make out in his common room and later I would watch him play lacrosse. One night someone had some pot, and we were in the woods sitting on logs around a small fire. Spenser and I were making out as usual and suddenly I had the sensation that I was macking a giant golden retriever. He wasn’t the best kisser to begin with, but he was profoundly horrendous after a little weed. After that night, and I’m not proud of this, I couldn’t bring myself to see him anymore. I made excuses the following three weekends which was enough time for him to find someone else to slobber on. “The Spenser Effect” trailed me for half a dozen years after that night. It would happen without warning (with or without pot) and ruin whatever fledgling relationship I was embarking on. All of sudden his butt looked like an eggplant or his laugh sounded fake or his ugly shoes made fart sounds. I would find one thing to distort and obsess on which would dash the tenderest of potential love upon the rocks.

I finally shook “The Spenser Effect” in my mid twenties and settled down all cozy with a complete psychopath for a few years, just when “The Spenser Effect” actually would’ve done me some good. Today, I’ve been with the same guy for over fifteen years and he’s got a toe that looks like a smashed jellybean and it doesn’t bother me at all!

So that story is one to let you know, I kind of hear you. I never needed my man to be ripped or wax his chest but I did need him not to kiss like a dog. How did I get over it? I wanted love in my life. I learned to acknowledge the effect and move through it toward the light—the light within the person. Yes, his nose breath smells like vinegar but so do Easter eggs. I like Easter eggs and I like the way he listens to me even when I have no idea what I’m saying. It’s not “settling.” It’s stepping out of the fantasy world where all girls bleach their anuses and into the world where a deep connection with someone is possible.

Here’s the practical advice.

Find someone you like. Silently acknowledge your pig voice when it tells you about her crooked teeth with a “thank you for noticing, inner pig.” Then, if your date is kind and interesting and somewhat appealing to you, go out with her a second time. And then a third. Delay the physical contact for as long as you can. When you think you can wait no longer, wait one more date. Then, go to bed. Now, by this time you’ll be so comfortable with each other, she might just let you tweeze her eyebrows as foreplay. This might not be love, but it will be a step toward something real.

I hope you soon learn that girls who don’t paint their nails can be goddamn sexy. Just as I hope they learn that short balding guys with big noses can be sizzling hot. I have moderately-sized hopes for you, Pig. Keep in touch.

See you next time.

The First Rule of Book Club

January 16, 2015 By admin Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac

Dear Hypocrite,

I have been in a book club for eight years. Together, we’ve weathered two divorces, three births, two bouts with cancer, and the death of a member’s husband in an automobile accident four years ago. Although we rarely see each other outside of book club, we enjoy one another’s company. There is one exception, however. “Laura” drives us all crazy. Laura is about six-feet tall with long dyed blond hair. She has so many regular facial treatments that her face is incapable of expression. Her contributions to the discussion of the books are inane. Last month we read a novel that took place in China. “Why would anyone chose to read about China?” she said. When we read The Goldfinch she found the book “dumb” because it was “barely even about the painting.” She loves to gossip and make fun of people who’ve been in book club over the years but for some reason or other didn’t last. “Remember that girl who lived in Prospect Heights? She didn’t have a single glass that matched. I had to drink out of a JAR!” I’ve shared my feelings regarding her with the others and when she’s not there, we’ll often laugh over the ridiculous things she’s said. When she is there, we’ll sneak eye-rolls during her comments. Because she was a founding member, (six out of eleven of us are) we haven’t thought was right to kick her out. She’s our problem child.

Last Sunday, Marci, the de facto chairwoman of book club, sent an email around to the group (minus Laura) asking about the possibility of having our next meeting at Laura’s new house in the Hamptons. Laura recently married a man (her fourth husband) with a massive fortune. He was going to be out of the country on Laura’s birthday weekend so she invited us all to join her there to talk about Brideshead Revisited. The setting couldn’t be more perfect with its indoor pool and SEVEN bedrooms. The group was thrilled at the idea. Menu ideas and drink themes for the weekend were debated, even period dress was floated for the book discussion itself. Someone proposed taking a cake up for Laura’s birthday. I responded with “But with that face, how will we know if she is really surprised?”

You guessed it, at some point Laura had been added to the chain. The way my phone displays emails I sometimes miss one if they come fast and furiously. This is no excuse for my carelessness, it’s just to let you know I’m not a total idiot. If there were any more emails about the weekend, I didn’t get them. I felt awful. While I don’t consider Laura a friend, I would never intentionally hurt her. I quickly wrote her a private apology begging for forgiveness.

The next morning I received an email from Laura telling me I was no longer welcome at book club. The group was CCed. She felt betrayed that I had used a public forum to make fun of her and that she would feel uncomfortable remaining in the group if I was still present. I immediately wrote a group email apologizing for my remarks calling them rude and callous. I was deeply sorry for the hurt I’d caused her and the damage I’d done to the group’s sense of trust. I asked to be forgiven and to be allowed to stay in book club. “Book club means the world to me,” I wrote, “I can’t imagine my life without it.” This time Laura wrote a single sentence back to me alone. “You should of thought of that before you shot your mouth off.”

I’m really upset. I know what I did was completely wrong and hurtful but I don’t think I deserve to be kicked out. The other members say their hands are tied. They’ve spoken to Laura on my behalf but she is not budging. She wants me out. I know this is going to sound ridiculous but I have a MFA in creative writing. I suspect Laura doesn’t even read the books. This expulsion seems totally unfair. What can I do?

Wrongly Banished from Book Club

—

Dear Banished,

Whoa. You did a really stupid thing. I would’ve thought everyone had learned by now that email is not the place for gossip, insulting people, or sarcasm. The only humor that completely translates is of the “knock, knock” variety. And you slammed someone in a ‘reply all?’ Girl, were you born yesterday?

We all gossip and talk shit about each other. We can only hope that our friends and family talk about our own shortcomings with love. Your slip up is not uncommon and neither is your reaction. We don’t want to hurt people’s feelings and we certainly don’t want to deal with any consequences. Laura served you a heaping plate of repercussions that you are now refusing to accept. She holds all the power in this situation as she’s the only one that can let you back in the group. Isn’t it nice when things are so clear?

When I was in my twenties, I walked into the kitchen where my roommates were talking about me. They were discussing how little I drank or smoked or lost control around them. In short, they said (in not the nicest language) that I was uptight and a drag and needed to relax. To give you a little context, one of my roommates had spent some time living in a car with her family growing up and had a steady stream of irate answering machine messages from people whom she had stood up on dates or meetings. Her common excuse was “I wasn’t in the mood.” The other roommate had disowned her parents (I sensed it was mutual although she never admitted this) and regularly spoke in tongues. I was the goody-goody of the group but was losing my sense of self and reality quickly. It took me overhearing them cruelly talk about me to realize that they were not my people, not my tribe. We had completely different values. I’m not saying we all can’t get along. We can. But when there is disdain between tribes, it’s best to limit contact. There’s no doubt Laura is aware that you don’t respect her. All this time you’ve been bothered by her comments and attitude, she’s felt your disdain. Granted, she doesn’t sound undeserving of your criticism (I do so enjoy a good book about China) but you can’t blame her if she’s relieved to be rid of you. Here’s the sad news for you: There’s absolutely no incentive for her to let you back in.

As I see it, you have two choices. You can start another book club. I’m sure you can put together a new crew of readers who are more capable of meeting your desired level of engagement with the material. Starting a group means you can hand pick members from different areas of your life and have a say over how meetings are organized. To me, I see this as a great opportunity. Imagine the fun of picking of people based on their diversity and intellect. I’m getting excited just thinking about it. If I didn’t have such horrible experiences with book clubs in the past I might think of asking to join yours. There’s no denying you’ll miss the history and the connections of your old book group. You can still stay in touch with the people you enjoyed the most. Maybe you can even find out what they’re reading and read it in your new group.

If the idea of starting a new group leaves you exhausted or sad, your only other option is to continue to grovel at the feet of the six-foot tall blonde. Construct a very heartfelt and personal apology detailing how wrong you were and why you think you did what you did. Tell her you’re available to talk and would like to do it over a fancy lunch on your dime. It’s her prerogative to say no and hold onto this slight forever. She could surprise you and forgive but I don’t have high hopes. You insulted her appearance. Publicly. From the sound of it, her looks are very, very important to her. You went right for her jugular. Big time.

Banished, cut your losses. That’s my advice. Start your own group and create new history with them. I’ll be oh-so-happily surprised if you write to tell me Laura’s let you back in and you’re all reading Snow Flower and The Secret Fan. I don’t think it’ll happen though. You learned a lesson. No talk bad about people in email. If Confucius were alive today, he’d tell you the same thing.

See you next time. ◆

Fasten Your Seat Belts

October 13, 2014 By admin Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac

Dear Hypocrite,

Hi, it’s Kristy and Gary. Thanks so much for coming to our wedding this past summer. Don’t worry that you haven’t gotten us a gift yet. Like we said in the email, we don’t need anything. We do want something from you, though. We thought you might give us some good old-fashioned marriage advice. Although we’ve been together for a long time before we got married we thought it would be fitting to mark this new chapter with a few thoughts on what makes a good legal partnership from the hypocrite herself. How about it? You’ve been married for at least a decade. How do you keep the love alive?

Love, K & G

Kristy and Gary,

Let me start off by saying it was a privilege to attend your wedding. The food was incredible. Good Fork! Korean fusion is my all-time favorite food group. I was hoping the cake was kimchi-flavored but then when it wasn’t I was thankful. That frosting! Was it made of angel fat? It was the best frosting I’ve ever had. And Kristy, you were a vision. Who knew you could wear a wedding dress inside out? The hat, the gloves…you looked like yourself but magical, which is exactly how I believe a bride should look. The music? The lead singer was the miracle love child of Billie Holiday and Edith Piaf. I didn’t dance more because I couldn’t shift from witnessing the sheer brilliance of the sounds coming from the stage. It was hard to turn the awe off and get my groove on, you know?

And then you sang together. Good Lord above! Watching two people who love each other make music together is a mystical experience. Remember when Bruce and Julianne broke up and we saw him sing “Cover Me” with Patti for the first time? Despite the shocking news from Mike Tyson and Robin Givens the week before, seeing Bruce and Patti proved that love really was alive and well in the late ‘80s.

Promise me baby you won’t let them find us
Hold me in your arms, let’s let our love blind us
Cover me, shut the door and cover me.

You guys sang John Prine’s “In Spite of Ourselves” —your version of “Cover Me”.

In spite of ourselves
We’ll end up a’sittin’ on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, we’re the big door prize
We’re gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There won’t be nothin’ but big old hearts
Dancin’ in our eyes.

It was awesome to behold.

The only low point of the evening was that I wore stupid shoes and drove from the suburbs so I couldn’t drink a drop. I’m a terrible driver even when sober so I didn’t dare sample those alcoholic ice pops the woman was handing out by the entrance. I do think my daughter had one by accident—or someone got her high in the bathroom. She keeps asking me when you’re getting married again.

On to your request. I can’t imagine any advice will be news to you. You guys could just as easily school me on how to keep a relationship strong. Yet, I will honor your request in this very public forum on the occasion of your nuptials (weirdest word ever). Know that the hard part is over. You did it. You managed to find each other. As you probably are aware, the big secret to a successful marriage is marrying the right person. You need to marry someone that you can be stuck at the airport with for thirty-nine hours. Everything else is negotiable. For example: I love to camp. My husband doesn’t like being outside. He loves gadgets. I long for my old flip phone. We don’t have much in common but there is no one I’d rather get trapped in an elevator with.
Okay. The official advice giving section starts now!

Go to bed mad. That old saying about never going to bed mad is hooey. Haven’t you noticed that shit becomes crazy at night? When the sun goes down our thinking distorts which is the reason nightmares only happen at night. If you have a bad dream during that day, you wake up and you’re like, “Whoa, I can’t believe I actually dreamt about vampires.” At night you wake up from a dream and you are 1000% certain that there is a brood of vampires downstairs in your kitchen sharpening the knives!! Go to bed mad and then see how you feel in the morning. If whatever it was still bothers you, make a time to talk to your beloved.

The time for selfishness is officially over. You can’t fuel a marriage on ‘me first.’ It just won’t work. Don’t eat the last piece of pie. Take out the trash when your partner is tired. Give those backrubs. Treat your partner like you want to be treated. If you’re competitive, see if you can be the best person in the relationship.

Take a breath when you get excited. Reacting quickly and from the gut is overrated in our age. It was great when there was a tiger is loose in the village but it’s not needed when your partner comes home with the fifth parking ticket in a month. Take care in how you communicate. Wait if you’re irate. (That is a ridiculous sentence but I’m leaving it.) While we’re on the subject of communication, remember that we all communicate in our own way. Some people tell a story to get across the nuances of the situation. Others lead with the main point. When it’s important information, it’s best to communicate to your partner in the way he can most easily process. Learn how your mate relates and honor that, don’t try to change him or her.

Space. Give your partner space. Let her follow her dreams, big or small. Last week I had a dream I rode a horse. When I woke up the next morning I got in the car with my daughter and we went on a trail ride. My husband did not come. It wasn’t his dream and he had foot surgery the day before. Boy, that sure was a literal example of let-your-partner-follow-her-dream…but you get what I’m saying though, right?

Apologize when you know you’ve been a jerk even if you don’t think your partner needs to hear it. Get in the habit of saying sorry. And make sure you give him a pure apology—no clause attached. It’s a simple “I was an idiot.” You can try to explain what led you to your bad behavior but make sure you’re not hunting for a return apology from your partner. It’s a one-way operation.

Have sex. I know, I bet that you’re like WHAT!?! Why in the world would she say that!?! I say it because when you get on in marriage years you get tired and sex seems like one more thing on the to-do list when all you want to do is watch your Netflix show or read your book club book. Make time for it. You might not be in the mood but show up. Take a shower and get in bed or in the car or book a room at a seedy motel. Just do it. That’s all I’m going to say. I don’t want to make you (or my kids, if they’re reading this) uncomfortable. That would be the worst wedding present ever.

Kristy and Gary, on behalf of married people everywhere, welcome to the club! You are a stellar couple and we’re so happy that you’ve found one another. Our club has no secret handshake, no T-shirt, no official flag or dance. The only thing we married people have in common (besides our tax filing status) is that we all stood in front of a handful of people or more and said we pick THIS person to share our lives with. I was truly honored that I got to see that moment in your lives. May you continue to make beautiful music as you grow old together. And if you have an anniversary party or if you renew your vows, my daughter would really like to be there.

That’s all for now. See you next time.

A Big Burning Secret

April 18, 2014 By admin Leave a Comment Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac

Dear Hypocrite,

I live in South Slope and I have a big burning secret. It’s not really my own secret; it’s the secret of two friends of mine whom I’ve gotten close with over the years because our kids go to the same school. These two friends are married to other people who are also my friends. Can you guess where this is going?

Last week I was on the Upper East Side to get my second of three goddamn root canals and there they were, let’s call them Bob and Marcy, coming out of a hotel holding hands. I tried to pretend I didn’t see them, I tried to put my head down and head toward the street, but it was too late. “What a coincidence!” “All three of us, so far from home!” “This is crazy!” We all took turns telling the story of what we were doing at the corner of Eighty-seventh and Lex. It was pathetic how terrible their lies were. Bob had an uncle in town staying at the hotel and Marcy was scouting locations for her cousin’s wedding. We stood there in silence for a moment looking at our feet. I know they expected me to go along with their game pretending that everything was normal. I couldn’t. I took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and left them on the sidewalk. My dentist appointment was unusually difficult. We had to take breaks every few minutes because my jaw kept cramping. I know it was because I was so disgusted by what had just happened.

So here I am in the middle of a Woody Allen movie. I see Bob and Marcy and their families frequently at school events, parties, and soccer, and I don’t even try to hide my distain. I can’t help but shake my head or roll my eyes when they feebly try to engage me in chitchat. I find myself excessively complimenting their spouses in some lame effort to boost their confidence, to nudge them into thinking they deserve better than Bob or Marcy. I know it’s futile, but I’m so furious I’m in this position I can’t stop this behavior.

I’ve chosen not to say a thing to anyone about the affair. But because my social life revolves around a group of which Bob and Marcy are part, it’s been pretty much ruined. Whenever they’re near I’m on edge and I can’t stop fantasizing about calling them out as lying, cheating jerks. I don’t know how long I can take this. I understand that it’s none of my business and I should leave it alone, but then I think if my husband were cheating I’d sure as hell want to know. Advice?

Signed,
Social Life Ruined by Lying Cheating Jerks

Dear Social Life,

Root canals are terrible. I spent a good part of December in Midtown looking up at the bright, white light while my dentist worked hard to save what little I had left of my bottom, right molar. Three root canals? That’s tough. I’m assuming you’re straddling middle age. Those are the days when your teeth and many of your friends’ marriages fall apart. Right now, I know four couples getting divorced. Two of them involved some sneaking around. The other two might have. (We’ll see. It takes a while for all the facts to come out, sometimes years.) You feel for good friends who are in pain. You get angry and protective. A few years ago, my best friend’s husband walked out on her and her two kids. She was confused and heartbroken. I was livid.
There is one very troubling detail that I keep coming back to in your letter. I love giving people the benefit of the doubt—maybe it was all a crazy coincidence, maybe they weren’t lying and there’s perfectly logical explanation on why they were leaving a hotel together … but they were HOLDING HANDS. Hand-holding is reserved for those who really care about each other. Hand-holding does not say “let’s just get this out of our systems and never speak of it again.” Hand-holding is an intimate gesture, more intimate than doin’ it. You don’t hold hands with a sex worker—unless he or she needs help crossing the street.

No doubt your very presence on the corner of Eighty-seventh and Lex has pushed the hand-holding couple to consider their actions. I’m not sure how long ago “the coincidence” occurred, but I’d expect Bob and Marcy have had many conversations about ending it or coming clean since. Actually, they could be waiting for you to make a move. One of them might soon approach to ask what you intend to do with your information. You have a lot of power in this situation, of which they are very aware. It’s power that won’t get you much of anything; but to them, you possess the ability to unravel their worlds.

Are you doing the right thing by clamming up? There’s no easy answer. I hear what you’re saying about wanting to know if it was your husband messing around, but here’s a statistic. I Googled “percentage of couples who stay together after affairs” and got 50, 65, and 98 percent from the websites of three different well-respected couples’ therapists. Bullshit numbers aside, the majority of committed couples do survive infidelities. I suspect when the cheating partner is the one to reveal the affair (and not the neighbor, well-meaning friend, or anonymous letter on the windshield) the chances of reconciliation are even greater. This is a good thing. Anyone who’s been through a divorce will tell you that breaking up a family is messy, painful business for everyone involved.

Give Bob and Marcy time to do the right thing. Affairs show great lapses in judgment, but Bob and Marcy aren’t evil. Most likely they are weak or lonely or hurt and have justified their behavior in some extraordinarily creative way. Or … they could be in love. Either way, give them an opportunity to clean up after themselves. Eventually, all affairs make big messes. They explode or implode. And Bob and Marcy will have to pick up the pieces one by one. Should you ever tell? I think you should consider it if next time you’re at a party someone mentions casually to the group that Bob and Marcy are sleeping together. Bob and Marcy’s spouses do not need to suffer the indignity of gossip when they haven’t done anything wrong. But maybe you’re not the right person to expose the affair. Maybe you talk to a closer friend of the unhappy couples and argue that it’s time for the truth to come out. When it does, it will be very rocky for a while. But hopefully before long, people will get back on track and once again find hope and meaning in their days.

Social Life, before I go, I don’t think you should take their affair too personally. I know that this has affected your quality of life but ultimately, it is not about you. Let go of your disappointment in the hand holders and try to lower your expectations of the people around you. Then you won’t find yourself so out of sorts when they fall short. If you can do this, you’ll find yourself with more friends and perhaps fewer root canals (not based on any scientific studies whatsoever, just a hunch).
That’s it. See you next time.

Kids and the Harsher Realities of Life

January 17, 2014 By admin Leave a Comment Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac

Dear Hypocrite,

The other day I’m walking down Seventh Avenue with my three-year-old son and I notice there’s a panhandler in front of the Citibank. My son stops to talk to everyone so, although it’s completely out of our way, I cross the street to avoid the woman sitting on the sidewalk holding a cardboard sign. I don’t want to get in a discussion with him about how some people don’t have places to live or enough food to eat. I know we’ll have to go there eventually, but I want to put it off for as long as possible.

My question is this: When and what do you tell your kid about the harsher realities of life? Our bird Lucky died last week. I told my son that Lucky went to visit her sister in Brazil. I’m thinking you’re going to tell me it’s wrong to lie but, I thought he’d really lose it if I told him the truth.

Tracey in Gowanus

Dear Tracey,

I’m sorry to hear about your bird. It’s hard to lose a pet, but you’re right, I’m a big fan of talking about death with kids at an early age, so in my opinion you blew an opportunity. You think your son might have “lost it”, but he might not have. He might have pondered Lucky’s death for a few seconds and then asked to play Fruit Ninja. There will be countless other opportunities to let him in on life’s little inevitability, of course. Why not go out and buy a goldfish this afternoon? In a matter of months you’ll have another chance to have that conversation you just dodged.

I don’t know if you read the last issue of Park Slope Reader, but I moved out of the city. One of the things I miss most about living in Brooklyn is being around all different types of people behaving in all different ways. Walking home from the store, my kids and I would see someone or something that would initiate a discussion about why people do the things they do or live the way they live. Here in the suburbs, we still have occasional conversations around social issues, but they are spawned from news heard on the radio or seen on TV. While I don’t miss stepping over the dog/human shit on my block, I do miss the intensity and diversity of life that a dense population brings. And yes, I miss the takeout, too.

So to answer your questions: When do you tell your kid about the dark side? My answer is when they ask. And what do you tell them? It depends. I completely get that for a three-year-old the idea of someone being hungry or homeless is very scary. But kids are capable of understanding that bad things happen: Sometimes it rains the whole weekend, sometimes you don’t get the donut you want, sometimes your toy breaks the day you got it. The key to addressing the heavy issues is to keep it simple. With my kids, I give a short introduction (topics recently covered: Why people do drugs, sexual abuse, the difference between a Catholic and a Protestant) and then let them ask questions. My son will ask questions rapid fire until he’s satisfied. My daughter will ask a few and then, in a day or two, a few more. When all are answered, ask a few of your own. In the case of the woman with the sign, ask your son how he thinks she ended up on the street. Help him create the story. It doesn’t have to be realistic—there can be dinosaurs and aliens involved. Then ask him how you both could help the person. You certainly could write a check to New York City Food Bank. Your son can put on the stamp and draw a picture and sign his name. It’s really important to teach our kids empathy and compassion. Get started on this as early as you can. I’m telling you, go buy that fish.

When he gets older, you can bring up the real factors that cause someone to have to ask for money on the street. You can discuss the lack of affordable housing, mental illness, unemployment, or healthcare costs. What fun! And then if your kid is so inclined, enable him to act. The two of you can volunteer at a shelter, serve food at CHiPs, or collect coats when the weather turns. These activities are the antidote to self-absorption for both kids and adults.

I have a friend named Ben who has a kid and lives in Park Slope. He told me this story recently and I asked him to write it up so I could share it with you.

I was on the F train with my kid. She’s eight, and we were on our way to Bryant Park to go iceskating. My kid looked adorable. She was wearing a matching glove and hat set with stripes, and she had the skates she got for Christmas slung over her shoulder. It was early in the morning and she was snuggled up against me. All was good.

And then: “Excuse me Ladies and Gentlemen, pardon for the interruption. I am homeless—” Now, I work in the city so I hear this every day and my kid is a city kid and she’s no doubt heard it dozens of times herself. When she was little I’d dig for a couple quarters and let her put them in the cup. Since she’s older and we’ve had some discussions about how it’s better to give to organizations than to individuals, this particular day we both gazed downward and waited for the person to pass. But as he passed, we saw that he had no shoes. His feet were in plastic bags with rubber bands to keep them on. My daughter’s eyes went from the bags to me and then back to the bags. She then tugged on my sleeve. “Daddy,” she said, “give him your wallet.”

I did not hand over my wallet. My daughter begged me but I kept my eyes down and told her quietly that after ice skating we would make a donation to New York Cares or somewhere that helps the homeless. But at that moment, it was not enough for my daughter. She insisted that we get off the train and go home. It was unfair that she had three pairs of sneakers, one pair of boots, a pair of dress shoes, and a pair of ice skates while that man had none. We were going home and collecting all the shoes we didn’t need and donating them to a place that would help people like the man on the train.

I am a pretty strict parent. My girls have to practice the piano for a half hour everyday. They have chores and must write thank you notes. But I felt at that moment forcing my daughter to go iceskating was something I just couldn’t stomach. She was upset and knew what she could do to make herself feel better, and I thought that if I manipulated her into going skating she might learn to stifle her impulses. I might sound like I had it all figured out, but believe me, this moment was agonizing. The shoeless man was long gone, but my daughter was still hysterical and I was completely flummoxed. At the next stop, I followed her off the train and we boarded the Brooklyn-bound one that had just pulled up.

At home, we went through every closet and came up with six pairs to donate. Then we went to our neighbors and friends that lived close by. We gathered forty-two pairs of shoes that day and dropped them off at Housing Works. We took the children’s shoes to the Red Hook Community Center.

That was a couple of weeks ago. Since then, we’ve talked about volunteering to help others in different ways. I’m not sure what we’ll do next, but that man on the train definitely moved us act instead of just think. I’m so thankful I didn’t get in my daughter’s way that morning. She taught me a lot.

Tracey in Gowanus, get ready. The great, wild world of parenting an older kid awaits you. Just remember, you’re not the only one that will be doing the teaching. Stay open to what your kid feels strongly about, and like Ben, you’ll be a better parent and person for it.

Wash your hands. Mind your manners. See you next time.

Magic Thinking vs Moving On

October 11, 2013 By admin Leave a Comment Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac

Dear Hypocrite,
I’ve never missed a column since I discovered you six years ago. New to Brooklyn, I ducked into a store (Diana Kane?) on Fifth to escape the rain. When the clouds cleared, I left with a new bathing suit and an issue of this magazine. Since that day, I’ve fallen in love, gotten married and had two kids (twins!). It’s been one of the happiest times of my life. We’ve created a great life in Park Slope. Our kids have great friends, we have great friends, and we live in a sunny apartment close to the park.

Our landlords live in the duplex below us and we’ve always had a good relationship with them. About a month ago, they slipped a letter under our door telling us they have to increase our rent by $1500 a month in order to pay for increasing property taxes and maintenance costs. It was non-negotiable. We didn’t think we were getting a deal to begin with, but when we started looking around to find comparable housing for our family we were shocked at the prices! We don’t think we can afford to live here anymore. We might have to leave Park Slope and maybe Brooklyn. Our hearts are breaking. We can’t imagine living anywhere else.

I’m not sure what I’m asking. Maybe I’m writing for sympathy. How do people do it? How do middle-class people survive here? My husband is thinking about quitting the job he loves to get another one that pays more so we can stay. I keep thinking we’ll find a way to live here somehow. There has to be an affordable apartment somewhere near our school, near the park, right?

Signed, Heartbroken

…

Dear Heartbroken,

Move.

I’m sorry. I feel you. But move. We live in America and are not used to external forces deciding things for us. There’s a lot of magical thinking we Yanks are guilty of, and your thought that you’ll find the perfect, affordable place to relocate to in Park Slope: The Greatest Neighborhood in the World!™ falls into that category. I’m not saying it’s impossible. There might be a huge two bedroom for $2500 on the park just waiting for you … if you could just get the final kinks out of your time machine.

But what do I know? Maybe there’s a way. When I was telling Petal, my friend from Trinidad, that we were only going to have two kids because we couldn’t afford another she said she didn’t see the problem—all the kids can share one bedroom and my husband and I would take the other. That’s what she did growing up and it was fine. Could I share our two-bedroom basement apartment with five, six, seven people and a dog? No. But for Petal, it’d be perfectly cozy. It’s a personal preference issue. Could you downsize in order to keep your friends and your Coop shift? You could find a studio on the park for $2500. I think. Let me check The New York Times site. K. I’m back. It’s not looking good. At 13th and PPW there’s a one bedroom for $2700 but it doesn’t seem to have any windows. Maybe there’s a roof deck they forgot to mention? And if there is, do your kids like to camp?

The option of your husband getting a job that he could potentially hate is not an option. Stress kills. It kills healthy tissue, sex drives, and marriages. Having a job you love is insanely rare—winning-the-lottery rare. Protect this asset, its rewards are incalculable.

Let me introduce you to a new acronym. LAPS. Life After Park Slope. Park Slope: The Greatest Neighborhood in the World!™ is truly great. But it boomed before you even got here. Park Slope hasn’t been affordable for a lot of people for a while now, and at the moment you received the letter from your landlords, it became unaffordable to you. So, what do you do? You can muddle through until things get cheaper/you get richer or, in my opinion, you get out with your shirt on.

The big question is: where do you go? Queens? Deeper into Brooklyn? Westchester, Jersey, Connecticut? Plan some weekend trips with the kids. Find hotels with a pool in commutable areas and try out restaurants, go for nature walks, visit the public library. Check out schools, parks, coffee shops—everything that’s important to you now. And if you start to feel pulled in one direction, make sure you and your husband do the commute by train once or twice. If you both hate it, look closer. Yonkers, baby! If you’re a Yankees fan, the convenience is unbeatable.

As far as outer boroughs vs. suburbs, you’ve got to ask yourself: Am I looking for peace and quiet or a vibrant cultural scene? I’ll tell you, moving to the suburbs can be quite a shock to the system as far as integration goes. In the suburbs, colors tend to stick with their own, and for someone who’s coming from Brooklyn, this can feel pretty awful. If you know that’s not the way you want to live, that you value diversity above most things, then Queens is your new home. You and your kids will have friends and neighbors every hue under the sun. Plus, because there’s such a racial mix, there’s tasty food from every country at your back door. A huge complaint of those who move to the suburbs is that there’s no good take-out. What’d you think? Your favorite Cambodian sandwich place was going to follow you to Larchmont? Sorry. At least you’ll have a kick-ass birdfeeder.

I’ve written up a short letter to give your friends when you move. It’s a contract of sorts. It’s a little suburbs-centric, but with some creative thinking it can be altered to to suit any location (Queens/Ditmas/SI).

Dear Friend,

I’m moving out of Park Slope: The Greatest Neighborhood in the World!™ and I want us to stay friends. The change in our lifestyles and the physical distance between us will undoubtedly test what we experienced in PS as a natural, easy relationship. Below, I list some simple rules that I will follow in order to ease the transition so that we might find ourselves on solid friendship ground in no time.

What you can expect from me:

I will commiserate with you when your bike gets stolen, when you get a ticket for not alternate side parking and when your kids get lice.

I will make a valiant attempt (but ultimately fail) to come to your kid’s school auction to increase the bid on the house in the Catskills for a week in February.

I will occasionally let you keep your car in my driveway when you go on trips so you don’t have to pay for long-term at the airport. (Advance notice required.)

When in the city for cultural events (I have yet to see Wicked!), I will call you and ask you to meet me in Times Square for 6 p.m. drinks. You can say no every time without me thinking you don’t like me anymore.

When we go to Chicago/Denver/Atlanta every year for Passover/Christmas/Thanksgiving, you can stay at our house if you promise to feed the dog and let him sleep in the bed with you.

Here’s what I will not do.

I will not mention how we “got out just in time” or “escaped before it was too late.”
I will not utter the phrase “Queens is the New Brooklyn.”
I will not ask how you can stand living so close to the Barclays Center.
I will not ask how the middle school application process is going.
When visiting, I will not double park in the bike lane.
I will not complain about how shitty your Target is.
I will not ask you to stop at Sahadi’s and pick up some capers and cumin before you come visit.
I will not encourage you to follow me on Instagram where I post way too many pics of my kids petting sheep at the farm where we do a CSA.

Heartbroken, I’m not pulling punches with you. Your days in Brooklyn might very well be numbered. Mine were. What’s that? Oh. I moved two months ago. To the suburbs. And it’s been pretty great.

But I miss my friends and seeing the people from my neighborhood. Terribly.

I considered leaving this column but what sort of hypocrite would I be if I stopped giving Park Slopers advice just because I now live in a quiet house near the woods where my biggest problem is the deer eating my hostas? That would make me one lousy hypocrite. And I’m not. Nothing’s going to change. You write in your letters about life in Park Slope: The Greatest Neighborhood in the World!™ and I’ll do my best to answer them.

And Heartbroken, like Mary Magdalene sang to Jesus before he was nailed to the cross: “Everything’s Going to be Alright.” Believe me. For once, I know. See you next time. ◆