Unemployment Diary: I Am The Man?

No, I Am Not The Boss, An Attorney Or A Stockbroker. Just Another Job Hunter

One of the great ironies of the modern job hunt is that while most work places have long since gone "business casual" those seeking employment still must dress for their interviews as if they are going to attend either a very fancy wedding or funeral as soon as the interview is done. So, you often have a situation where someone dressed well, and neatly, but in normal biz caz attire, is interviewing someone who looks like he just got out of a Brooks Brothers tag sale.

They say always dress for the job you want, not the job you have. I guess when you're unemployed dressing for the job you have is not an option. But am I dressing for the job I want? Because I've come to notice that while I might, or might not, look dynamite in my cleaned and pressed pin-striped suit (made for me in Thailand for the princely sum of $150 ten years ago), I still don't want to be a banker, politician, attorney or, I guess, hit man. And that's just about a complete list of the only people in 2009 who still wear neat, cashmere (they claimed in Thailand) pin striped suits.

And I'm happy to do it. I am serious about getting a new job. Deadly serious. I am waiting to make my interviewees an offer they can't refuse and ... hey maybe these pin stripes are getting to my head!

But, in reality, I do need a new job, and I want one very much. But I just think it's so strange to go into a modern, non-hierarchical workplace and feel like I look over-eager, perhaps, because I'm pretty much the only one there wearing a tie. In today's business world the status has flown the other way. When a guy like Steve Jobs leads one of the world's great companies without ever, ever seeming to take off a black turtleneck a suit and tie is no real sign of power. Rather it is a sign that you are the one who wants something.

The other irony, of course, is that this hardly matters to the people you see on the subway and on the street as you either go to or leave your interview. All they see is ... SUIT! And that's not a good thing. In an age where our financial system was pretty much destroyed by an army of guys from Wall Street wearing nice, neat suits wearing one raises more than a few eyebrows. In fact I kind of feel like wearing a sandwich board around my chest and shoulders that reads: "I'm NOT The Man." Needless to say I would take it off in advance of my actual interview, because I need them to in turn believe I AM The Man. Or at least the man they need.

The other thing about wearing a suit is that it makes it a lot harder, at least superficially, to not give money to homeless folks. Because I don't know about you but when I'm dressed to the nines they go right for me. In fact after one interview this week I had a guy seek me out and tell me a terrible story about how he just got out of Rikers and needs $23 to get home, and he only has $12, and ... I cut him off.

"Here you go, sir, I can give you $1," I said. "I was just laid off two weeks ago, and have a wife and child to support."

His eyes got wide ... the tables, to my shock, had been turned.

"I'm so sorry to hear about that brother, I'm so sorry," he said. "We've got to help each other out!"

"I know, I know," I said, as he took the dollar just the same. "Thank you. You take care."

He patted me on the back telling me how sorry he was for my own sorry state. I walked away feeling like even if I looked like $1 million, maybe, I sure didn't feel like it. But even so I probably felt better than he did that night in my own warm bed.

None of this is to say that I'm not going to continue wearing my suits and trying to wow those who interview me. I am for real. I mean, well, business. And I will keep wearing them until someone, somewhere hires me. And at that point I will take them off and put them in my closet, until, god willing, our next wedding.

Diary Of An Unemployed Baby Daddy

Just another cute photo of the Brooklyn Baby, I mean Brooklyn Toddler!

The storytime was just getting started today at the Windsor Terrace branch of the Brooklyn library. The room was filled with children, of course, but also moms, nannies and at least a few dads.

It was my first time here, at least solo. Since I was laid off two weeks ago I have more time for this stuff now.

The leader of the singalong, I believe her name was Miss Cindy, started the program off by having everyone say their name. We were sitting right in the middle, so it took her a little while to get to us.

"And who's that?" she asked.

"This is Stella," I said, "and I'm David."

"Oh, Stella!" she said. "I know Stella! It's just that I'm so used to seeing her with her mom."

That was interesting. The sight of my daughter in public with just her dad is so unusual people didn't recognize her. It's amazing what a little context can do.

One thing I noticed after the naming ritual was completed is that none of the kids had what I would consider "normal" names. It seems names like John, Robert, Jennifer, Mary, even David are all real, real over. At least in this part of Brooklyn. No, all the kids had names that either sounded like they belonged on a library at Harvard (Bennet, for example), or were just kind of inexplicable. You might hear a kid named Bram, or Eliza, or Elvira, but not Jane. Which means, of course, that all those humdrum, uncool names will be "hip" again when little Quentin has his own kids.

(Some names, btw, never come back. Mildred, for example is deader than disco and always will be. But don't take my word for it, just use this handy-dandy name tracker.)

I took a good look at the other dads, there were three of them. I had an immediate and visceral dislike for them all. Probably because we were all clones of one another. The other guys also had beards, glasses, "hip" sneakers and hoodie sweatshirts, just like I did. Christ, we all so damn predictable. One day you put something on that looks just a hair more contemporary, in my case a hoodie, only to see that you are joining the crowd too late.

Another thought: maybe this is just the de-facto "unemployment" uniform for us guys? Because I had to wonder: where any of us likely to be at this singalong three months ago? The answer: probably not so much.

I've wondered about this kind of thing a lot, actually, ever since getting my walking papers. Because I've had a lot more time to take Stella to the playground, the various singalongs, to daycare, to pick her up from daycare, to hang with her during the day when she's either not eating or napping (which she does now, thank god!).

I go to the playground, and there's always three to five dads there, whereas I imagine they used to come mostly on weekends. I go to singalongs and I see a couple of dads, along with some moms, and a few nannies. I could be hypersensitive to this, but I always suspect that when a dad's spending time with a young child during the day it's because he's got nowhere else to go these days. Not because he's "freelancing," "working from home" or "rich."

Don't get me wrong, it's been fun. I haven't gotten to spend this much time with Stella since our last vacation, and I love being with her. But it's still a bit disconcerting. All these people told me I'd finally have some time to myself, to think things over. Nope. Instead Stella's need for attention and love kind of has the properties of a liquid: it expands to fit the size of her container. And now both mom and dad are around, so her needs have expanded to fit into all the free time both of us have. Seriously. Meaning that if one of us leaves to run an errand she cries. Or if one of us is working in the apartment, or in my case looking for work in the apartment, that's the one she'll gravitate too. (The cats do this too, btw!) If Randi is all set up and ready to play with her, or barring that, watch a "Sesame Street" DVD with her, and I'm editing my resume: bingo! She goes right to Dada, and wants to steal all my pens and paper, get into the trash can at my feet, grab a few loose wires, turn on my amp, make this kind of whining unhappy sound while doing it all, and if that fails spill some water or whole milk either on herself or me.

So then I'll pick her up, put her on my lap, maybe play her a video on Youtube, in order to pacify her. Not a good plan. Because then she'll want another one, and another one, and another one. Seriously, Randi once played the "All The Single Ladies" video for this kid four times in a row, and then clicked on all the videos derived from that one, including one of a three year old girl dancing to the video. So they were watching a video of a kid watching a video. Stella, of course, loved it.

Meaning that being laid off isn't quite the relaxing, reflective time I had imagined it could be. One where I take several moments, breathe deep and accurately and smartly plot the course of the rest of my life. A time where I can calmly and sagely apply my hard fought wisdom to the key question of what I should do when I grow up some more.

No, instead it's kind of like any weekend day with Stella, except it's every day. Fun, a riot, filled with love, I wouldn't miss it, and kind of draining. It's work, even as I should be looking for work. And I'm not certain this approach is working.

Ladies And Gentlemen ... Ms. Stella Rae Serchuk!

We shot this about a week ago, and I think it's just hilarious -- BBD

The Problem With Naked Playtime

Prelude To A Possible Disaster: Fall, 2009

Thank god toddler piss doesn't stain no-wax floors.

We've evolved this little ritual called naked playtime, which would be a lot more fun if it just involved two consenting adults. But, no, it's for the Brooklyn Baby Baby so she doesn't get diaper rash. Every night for about 30 to 45 minutes she runs around sans diaper, starkers, going hither and yon, having a great time. More or less.

But recently, however, it's turned into a bit of a minefield, for reasons that are probably all too obvious. Today, for example, I got home from work, and greeted Randi, and saw the little girl, naked, as it was naked playtime. She smiled at me and then ran away, which is about how things seem to work around here. Never, under any circumstances will she snuggle. But a smile and some laughter works for me, so I wasn't disappointed.

Randi was getting ready to participate in The Moth storytelling show, or to try and participate, so I took over kid watching patrol. I followed her to the guitar, on its stand, and saw her hit it over and over again. Getting the hint I was glad to oblige my number one fan, and started to play something fun, I'd hoped, yes, I remember now. It was "Deal" by the Grateful Dead, a jumpy upbeat tune, if you can believe a band named the Grateful Dead have any jumpy upbeat tunes. Stella kind of danced around for two seconds and then went between our coffee table and couch and began to make crying sounds. After a while I put the guitar down and looked to see what was going on.

I found -- much to my irritation, but not to my surprise -- that she had just let loose a big stream of pee, and was sitting in it on the floor.

"Oh god!" I sighed/shouted, and picked her up. Randi was still doing her thing so I grabbed a mop and cleaned it up. The acidic powers of urine made the floors sparkly clean, although I worry that it will strip off the polyurethane finish eventually.

Then I returned the mop, and Stella made a beeline for where she had just so gracefully voided her bladder. The floor was still a little damp so she took this opportunity to slip in it, going ass over tea kettle, and bonking her little head. If I didn't before now I surely felt like Dad Of The Year: my daughter hits her head, because she stepped barefoot into her own pee, and it got away from her.

"That's it!" I said, irritated, "no more naked playtime." I just didn't see how it could be worth it.

Randi then took off for the show, I was upset by recent events so my wife got a distracted "break a leg" from me. (I called later to wish it with more oomph.) Then I picked up the guitar once she was out, to entertain the now wailing Stella. I started to play "April, Come She Will" by Simon and Garfunkle and she got a big smile across her face and started to dance, although the song is so slow that the only dance you could do to it would be the waltz. And not a fast waltz.

Then, still smiling, she walked over to the TV and stood before it. Then she squatted and squeezed out two perfect little turds right on the floor.

"Oh my god, not again," I said, scooping her up and placing her on her potty, which was only TWO FEET from where she had just so gracefully pooped. Putting her on her potty proved very upsetting to the girl, and she screamed and wailed while I held her by her armpit, hoping that she would keep pooping in the receptacle designed for just such occasions. No such luck, instead she just complained a lot. Okay, you win this time, Golden Child.

The rest of the night proceeded with further incident, but I do have to admit this naked playtime thing is simply starting to make less and less sense to yours truly.

Yesterday we were having naked playtime and disaster struck in a different way. I had taken off my pants in order to put some Ben-Gay on my knee. (I had been at the Tot Lot with the child when I pulled a slightly athletic maneuver and felt something rip inside the knee. It still hurts, by the way.) So, in my underwear I was once again trying to soothe the savage toddler with music. This might sound vain to you guys, but I swear to you I only play this much because she likes it!

This time she showed her appreciation by walking over to me, sitting on my lap and then peeing all over my leg. Although I'm leaving out a crucial detail: first she smiled.

Horrified I got up, and ran to the bathroom to clean off. Randi was inside putting on makeup. "Ugh," I said, "she just, she just peed all over me!" Randi looked at me, and then kept on doing what she was doing, although a few minutes later she said was really sorry that Stella had just gone to the bathroom on my leg.

Except she doesn't actually GO to the bathroom, she goes to dad. I am a Port-a-daddy, a receptacle. It's getting kind of old. I know she likes running around naked, and I know that diaper rash is a terrible thing, and I am concerned about her tender tushie skin, but something has simply got to give. I am running out of clean pants.

That's Showbiz

Thursday night in Stately Brooklyn Baby Daddy Mansions. The crew is asleep, the apartment has heat, thank god. I just did a bunch of dishes and watched a little TV. I watched "Weekend Update," "Parks & Recreation" and "The Office."

Now, this might sound like a passive night on the couch, but TV will never be exactly the same for me as it was 10 years ago, before I did improv. Because it can be guaranteed that in almost every hip, edgy comedy show, and in many of the commercial breaks for such shows, I will see someone featured that I either knew, met or saw perform live many times in New York. All this is because from 2000 to 2003 or so I was fairly immersed in New York's improv comedy scene, specifically through the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, The PIT and, later, The Magnet Theater.

The UCBT was first. I went to it in late 1999, having been a fan of the TV show. I called the theater and they told me there was something called "Harold Night" going on, which I learned, over the phone was a form of improv. I had no idea what that meant, as my only experience with improv was in college, and that was from watching it.

But I had nothing doing, it was a Thursday, and the show as cheap, maybe $7. I showed up to a shoebox theater that was at most half full. Then a bunch of teams got on stage and blew my mind. I can't remember all the performers I saw that night, but I do remember one named Rob, though I didn't know his name then, because he was so much larger and more commanding than the other people on stage. But I thought all of it was amazingly funny and, like magic, I just couldn't understand how these people could pull off these amazing connections. They seemed impossible.

After the show they announced that you could take classes for this stuff. Sign me up!

I went to Level 1 in early 2000 and right away felt I was terrible at this thing. The people in the class were nice enough, but the talent gap was wide. I enjoyed it, and thought our graduation show went really well, and I performed well, but I didn't go right into Level II, I just didn't feel any urgency about it.

But go into Level II I did. This level almost made me swear off improv altogether. Our instructor was a caustic man named Pat who scared the crap out of me, and the class was filled with talents. We even had an actual stage and film actor in our class, named Fred. He had credits I had heard of, and he seemed very confident on stage.

Others were confident on stage too, while I felt rusty. One was named Ed and even though he had no more experience than I had he immediately took charge, seemingly on sheer confidence. I remember the first scene I saw him do was as a hillbilly gay rapist, and he killed it. Even Pat loved it, and this was a guy, Pat, who once threw an empty coffee cup at me after a particularly craptacular scene. Ed, it should be said, was fairly soft-spoken and approachable off stage.

This might sound like revisionist history, but what made Ed stand out to me, even then, was that he had some kind of aura, an intensity. I knew he was in this, this comedy, all the way. He was in it for the career. At that point he had no career, but I could see that he was going to go for it hard, with all he had.

This was driven home to me one day when I asked what he did outside of class. He did some standup at the Boston Comedy Club, but his main paying gig was as a voiceover guy. In fact he did voiceovers for Burger King. I asked him to do the Burger King voice, and he did. It was instantly recognizable, warm, confident, The Whopper.

I asked him how the whole voice over thing worked, vaguely interested in it, as I was all things related to comedy. He said that if Burger King, for example, hired you for a gig they might call at any time to ask you to come back. There really was no set schedule. So you had to be around, in case they called. If you couldn't make it they gave the gig to someone else, pop, like that. This sunk in: this meant Ed never left the city?

He answered that, yeah, that was pretty much it, he never went anywhere, because he had to be there when the phone rang.

What about leaving town? Trips? Vacations? He looked at me, no, the work was more important. I was stunned. This was Burger King after all, not Shakespeare. But right then I knew that he and I saw this comedy thing very differently. He wasn't just having fun. He wasn't "trying things out" to see if he "liked it." He knew.

There were also other strong and noteworthy improvisers in the class like Dave Lombard and Kevin Hines, both of whom have my admiration to this day.

By contrast I felt at sea for the first half of the class, and wasn't sure, yet again, if I was "cut out" for this whole thing. But again the graduation show was good, and so I went onto Level III. This time something clicked. I loved my class, and felt I was finally starting to get what some of this was all about.

Gradually the UCBT became my life. When I wasn't taking classes, or practicing with my practice group, which became a team, I was seeing shows. And here's where things would impact my television life down the road.

Eight years ago if you went to the UCBT four nights a week, as I sometimes did, you would be almost guaranteed to see, for example, Paul Scheer on stage two to three of those nights. Then I would see that big burly guy as much. Rob Riggle, I learned was his name. There was a sketch team called Naked Babies, who were all astonishing, and always in other stuff. One guy on the team was named Rob Cordry, although they were all amazing. (My favorite was and is Brian Huskey.)

And then on the weekends there was ASSSSSSSCAT, the all-star show featuring the team the Upright Citizens Brigade itself: Amy Poehler, Matt Besser, Matt Walsh and Ian Roberts. Sitting in with them might be Tina Fey, or Rachel Dratch. Or others who wrote for SNL, Conan or what have you. These guys were like The Beatles to me.

This might seem hard to believe but just eight or nine years ago none of these people were really known yet. Tina Fey was almost unrecognizable without her glasses and in a gray sweatshirt. Amy Poehler wasn't yet on SNL. You could catch any of them for less than the cost of a movie, and I sure did.

And while the UCB itself was on its own level, at least to me, there was so much talent at that theater. If you wanted to play spot the future star there were a good 20 names you could have chosen that would have had as much of a chance of becoming showbiz stars as the ones that already have. (Of course many of the people from that era still will.)

I had brushes with many who now are making it. I had a show called "Storytime" and one of the people who signed my mailing list later ended up on "The Office" as their new secretary, replacing Pam. At another show at The Pit I volunteered from the audience and got to do a goofy little scene with Kristen Schaal, later of "Flight Of The Concords." Here there and everywhere I got to either meet, or see perform so many people that later became either stars or at least TV and movie presences. It's made watching the idiot box a bit more personal and a lot more surreal.

Believe me, I am not bragging, it wasn't about me. I just happened to be there, like one of those lucky stiffs who hung around CBGB's back in 1978. Maybe my band never really quite made it but I still am glad I made the scene. It was just that time.

The thing was, I could feel something was happening, I knew things were going to come from this scene. I would try to guess who would go on to do what, but I was mostly wrong. It's like a farmer trying to pick which seed will sprout, it's impossible. (Although I will say the first time I saw Jack McBreyer perform with the team Optimists International I knew, knew, knew he was headed for bigger things. He was just that amazing to watch, that fun, and made it seem so effortless.)

Now all this time later I see Ed, on my TV, every week. He's also on "The Office," and starred in the summer's breakout comedy hit "The Hangover." His last name's Helms of course, and he deserves every bit of his success.

Me? I did a lot of improv but decided that while I may have been more cut out for comedy than I originally thought -- I did end up getting better at it with practice, which is how these things work -- I knew I WASN'T cut out for a life in showbiz. It was too stressful, and I started to become bitter about all the breaks I wasn't getting. This, of course, was ludicrous, because improv owed me nothing. The only way to succeed is to simply become very, very good at it. And to do that you have to be at the theater every night, performing, getting better, having fun. Not because you are worried about the career you don't have, but because you simply love to perform that much. I loved it much less than that, although love it I did.

But from another perspective even if I didn't become an improv, or showbiz, star it gave me everything.

I met Randi through improv in late 2001, and the rest is history, my history. When we got married maybe we should have said "yes and" instead of "I do" on the bima.

Reflections Upon A 2/3 Full Moon

It's 10:34 at stately Brooklyn Baby Daddy Mansions. The little cat, Talisker, is in my lap after an evening of him trying to get into my lap. The other cat, Cromwell, is sitting on our gliding rocker. Randi, the Brooklyn Baby Mama, is up in our bed on the top floor of our Duplex. I have taken to calling that floor The Crow's Nest. Stella, The Brooklyn Baby Baby, is asleep, in her crib.

A quick word about the crib. It was a hand-me-down from my sis. She has two girls, and the younger one is now five years old. So they've been out of the crib a number of years by now. They generously passed it along to us. The only problem is that to get it in and out of our various apartments I've had to assemble and disassemble it now three times. And it's big, wide and doesn't fit through most Brooklyn doorways as is. So I know that no matter what happens I will have to take it apart once more. After that, who knows? We talk about having another kid, someday, the way other people talk of going to Hawaii, someday. We'll get there, probably, but we're in no great rush. Being a high needs baby, like Stella, must convey some serious advantages to first children, because we are so not ready for another bundle of joy right now. We might never be ready. Which means Stella gets all the toys!

Apparently, by the way, this is really what gets kids steamed when a younger sibling comes on the scene. Not sharing parental love, they aren't too upset about that. But sharing stuff. Older siblings absolutely hate having to share their stuff with their younger brattish siblings. Hate it with a passion. Years, even decades later, you can still hear people complaining, bitterly, about how the younger kid came along and took everything. Or you can hear the reverse too, from younger kids, how by the time they came along everything was all used up.

You might think this is impossible, but it's not. In fact the journalist Po Bronson dedicated a whole chapter of his book "Nurtureshock" to how kids find it so hard to share. It can scar people through life and leave a very nasty mark on sibling relations.

So, maybe we won't have another kid so fast. I love Stella, she's the light of my life, etc., but I don't think I could take another kid that doesn't sleep and cries for about five months in a row. This might sound harsh, or cliche, more likely, but the first year and a half of her life was really the best and worst time of my life. The best because ... my daughter was born! The worst because I felt like the lack of sleep mixed with the depression it caused in Randi (which she has bravely addressed here), which was then mixed with the resultant escalating tension in our marriage, which was then mixed with our asshole upstairs neighbor, mixed with the fact that we had peeling lead paint in our old apartment, mixed with living in a place that was like the Union formerly known as the Soviet, mixed with the stress of my job ... it was all a bit like being sucked down the rabbit hole for far too long. And on the other end it wasn't Wonderland. It was barely even Kensington, Brooklyn.

I come out of that experience, and I do feel, thank god, that I am finally coming out of it, a changed man. A better man in some ways, maybe not in others, but definitely a changed man. I am more aware of my frailty, I am more aware of the stress my wife lived through, I am grayer, possibly heavier, maybe even less hearty than I was two years ago. My back hurts a lot, sometimes it's hard for me to get out of a chair, or to bend over. This is from holding the BBB for hours on end as she cried. But it had to be done, and I would do it again. I'm changed in that way too. I would do it all over again, knowing what I know. I guess this means I am more loving, though love doesn't convey what a parent feels when their child needs them, and they're exhausted, but they give it all up for the child, over and over and over again. Love sounds so trite, compared to what that is. It's the life-force, and it's real.

Simply calling it love doesn't convey what a spouse feels when the other spouse is on the brink of collapse and they both decide to work it through, even as the child cries again. And even though you're exhausted you let them sleep, because you care about them. They do the same for you whenever possible. They are now not just your spouse, they are your blood. When they are in pain you surrender and try to make them better, even if it hurts you to do so, even if you can't. You have no choice, your heart won't allow them to suffer so.

But what I have only started to finally realize is that even though I didn't give birth, and I wasn't born on April 14, 2008 my life went through a complete, emotional top to bottom change. Like all true change it was exhilarating, extremely painful and I didn't really understand the extent to which it was taking place. I was forced through some kind of crazy, unknown tube over the course of almost a half a year. I came out the other end a different man. The pressure I endured from all the things above -- which I have only hinted about, I haven't told you all the details and I have my doubts that I ever will -- is only starting to become apparent now. I am only starting to decompress, a little, now. Things are only starting to stabilize, god willing, now. Things are only starting to feel a little bit better, more healthy, more happy, now. And a lot of it is that I am writing again, for you guys, and for myself. So, thank you BBD Nation!

Which isn't to say that having Stella wasn't the best thing that happened to me, it was. But combine a hard child with a home situation fraught with tension, mixed with outside forces making life even harder, as our neighbors did, and you have the makings of something that will change your life.

Honestly? I didn't realize any of this in quite this crystalline a form until I started writing tonight. I thought I was going to write about all the things I do as a dad that are fun and weird. That would have been a fun journal entry, but I will have to save it for another time. I can be fun and weird tomorrow, because I am starting to get back to normal. And I am only starting to get back to normal because I have started to realize what I have gone through. And I have only started to realize what I've gone through because I've written about it. So, thanks again. And sweet dreams. Especially you, Stella.

God Is A Verb

Monday night at stately Brooklyn Baby Daddy Mansions. The Brooklyn Baby Mama is asleep, the Brooklyn Baby Baby is also asleep. The cats are both asleep, with Cromwell on our bed. I tried to sleep, to make the picture complete, but insomnia is a patient and persistent mistress.

Today was Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of Atonement. I don't know how much actual atoning I accomplished, but this was the general idea. We had a very Brooklyn Day of Atonement, it seems. Woke up this morning at 6:30 a.m., earlier than I like, because the baby was crying, bawling really. I tried to rock her back to sleep, but it was no good. So I took her down for some breakfast and watched her eat. After a little while Randi woke up and we got ready for temple. On Yom Kippur there are a lot of things you're not supposed to do: not wear leather, not bathe, not brush your teeth and not eat or drink. The idea is to be a little uncomfortable. I did them all this year.

As we drove to the temple Stella fell asleep, and here's the Brooklyn part, we couldn't find any parking anywhere. Then we realized that if we woke her up to bring her into temple she would probably just cry a lot and run around. So we drove home, and fed her some lunch. Then we went to the playground and she ran around. It was about noon now, and both Randi and I were very cranky. There was some kid running around in a sweatshirt that had a hero sandwich on it, I was like, dammit kid, stay out of my line of sight.

We tried to get Stella in for a nap, but she wasn't having it. Then the idea was to make the 1:30 family service. As we got back to the Duplex Randi passed out stone cold on the couch and Stella was never further from passing out in any way. I decided to try and make the service with just the kid, and see how it goes.

I drove back to Park Slope -- which is five minutes away -- and this time found some parking. We then parked our MacLaren stroller outside the temple (which was really a church borrowed for the occasion by our Jewish group) with all the other MacLarens. We made it inside and Stella even sat in my lap for a minute before getting up to run around. I tried to keep her on a short tether, but it wasn't going to work. I gave up and we went outside. I called my friend Dan to see if he was around and he was. So I walked the two blocks, more or less, to his apartment and we spent a few hours there with him, his wife Becky and their son Abe, who seven and a half months old.

After driving back home we finally broke the fast at 6:30 and it was delicious. We got bagels from this place called The Bagel Hole, which might be a stupid name but they have the best bagels anywhere. We also had lox, cream cheese, of course, and some Kedem grape juice. A very Jewish meal. I wasn't even all that hungry by fast-breaking time, which is how it seems to go with me. I get very hungry around lunch, but if I can make it past there I can fast, it seems, for another day. One day I would like to try that, see how it goes. Maybe even lose some weight the old fashioned way.

So, not necessarily a whole lot of atonement going on this year, but still, Yom Kippur does make me think about a lot of things that are important. One is this idea of trying to ask forgiveness, literally from everyone you know. Even people whom you might not have knowingly offended just to be sure. This is a good idea, a good thing. So, readers, I'm sorry!

Another is that in Judaism the most pious people and the most wicked all repent together, and say the same prayers, and ask for the same forgiveness from god. Showing that we truly are in this all together. Through effort and work you can repair your bond with god, but no praying can repair your bond with other people. That can only happen through effort. I have thought a lot about people I know, and whether I've given them my best. Friends, family members. I am bad at returning calls, I have gotten more closed off, and have not made the efforts I used to in order to connect with people. A lot of that is, of course, having a kid, but this is life and as much as these people might need me, I know I need them more. I don't feel like a whole person when my relationships are put on the back burner too much. Without this contact life is much harder.

I also think about community work and charity work. Every year I think it would be swell to take part in a canned goods drive, or do more to help the environment -- thus literally working on the commandment to heal the world. I can do more.

I also realize that there is one person whom I never forgive, no matter how much I think about it. And that's myself. When I look in the mirror I mostly see my failings, the things I haven't done, the work I haven't completed, the ways I've fallen short. I beat myself up a lot, in ways I never would were it another person. With other people I am very forgiving, I understand, I know that they deserve to be given a break. I almost never do that with myself. Instead I measure myself in ways that are so arbitrary. I see people who look happy, who look like they're doing the types of things I would like to be doing, and I imagine that if only I were more hard working, more honest, more gutsy, more, more, more I could be happy like them. But I'm only me, indolent, afraid of so many things, with a shortage of foresight. That's the way I see myself on many days. I don't know how I started to see the world like this, but it's not healthy and I need for it to stop. For one thing it's self indulgent. For another thing it's not constructive. Action feels good, worrying, not so much. Also this fretting violates the commandment to be joyful, which is truly why we were put on this earth. And I think it's unfair that I've made so many of my friends into my therapists. The truth is I like hearing other people's problems more than admitting my own. I think I'm better at it, sympathetic, but over the past year, at least, the tables have turned too far in the other direction.

Also I am worshiping false idols, in this case what I imagine other people have that I need. This is not rational. Because we are all human. We are all weak. We all fail in important ways. We all let ourselves down, and others. There is not a one among us reading this blog, or writing it, or anywhere, who are only happy. Or only unhappy. I am guilty of reducing complex human interactions, which are so rich because they are so varied, into a four color comic strip. I worship an idea that has no basis in reality, and the idea is always something I can't have. So, in a sense, to feel like a failure based on my imagined insights into other people's lives is to be guilty of covetousness and, as mentioned, worshiping false idols. It also is extremely passive. God is not passive. God is a verb.

All this is to say that in 5770 I need to atone for many things, and for my actions against others. But I also need to atone through action. Participate more, act as if I am part of a community that matters, and be more insightful and understanding with myself. Be my own friend, which I've never really been. Can you be your own frenemy? Well I have been. And that is not what we are here for.