Identity Crisis

My husband's attorney is going to have to cancel a few botox appointments so she can come up with a new sales strategy. Apparently, the official diagnostic manual relied upon by real doctors and pop psychiatrists alike will be eliminating "narcissistic personality disorder" from its pages.

I didn't read the article all that closely (it wasn't about me -- not specifically, anyway -- so why bother?) but it seems the committee in charge of what stays in and what goes out of the manual has been moving toward a more "dimensional" diagnostic approach. In lay potato terms, I think that means there will be more wiggle room in the diagnosis. "Narcissistic personality disorder," for example, might become a fuzzier "personality disorder with narcissistic and manipulative traits." So they may be getting rid of the label, but it seems to me many more borderline cases will fall within the scope of the new definition, which will in turn put more money in psychiatrists' and drug companies' pockets. That's just the way I see it. I could be wrong. LOL!!!

But I think pop psychiatrists like my husband's attorney will definitely suffer, because she's going to have to find a new book with a more accurate -- and far less catchy -- title to hand out to her drooling prospective clients. And "here's a book on wives who have 'personality disorders with narcissistic and manipulative traits'" does not roll off the calorie-starved tongue as easily as "here's a book on narcissism." Some of the sharper guys might even catch the "manipulative" piece and maybe recognize their new hot attorney. Or themselves. Oh, god. Again, LOL.

Well, while Dr. Dolittle Other Than Churn Out Useless Pieces of Paper might scuff her stilettos as she runs off to find a new author in need of eager readers, narcissists everywhere risk being ignored, and that is a scary thought. What might happen to the "all about me" crowd when "me" no longer exists? Not even the most self-important over inflated ego can withstand that kind of punishment. Being comfortable in the knowledge of your own superiority is one thing; not being able to convince everyone else is one giant buzz kill. There is nothing worse for a narcissist (pardon the old-fashioned expression) than non-recognition; with no official diagnosis, you might as well slap a scarlet "O" on their deflated chests. "Ordinary." Not a significant disorder. Just plain old fucked up.

If I were the narcissist Dr. Dolittle claims I must be, I'd feel slighted. Okay, if I were really a narcissist, I'd feel slighted that nobody mentioned me in the article, but that's another issue. I mean, I'd like to see them try to defrock a schizophrenic, or somebody with bipolar disorder. (Well aren't they so cool, with their labels and official diagnostic code numbers and all.) Why single out the narcissists -- the fairest of them all?

Good thing I don't know any true narcissists. Well, at least not any who have been diagnosed by a real medical doctor. But what could be more depressing than being around someone who's been kicked off his own pedestal. If you see one, just ignore him.

Mending Fences

I have got to fix that damn fence. If I don't pay attention, my dogs routinely manage to wriggle their way out of the back yard. Actually, it doesn't require much wriggling (luckily for Manny the obese puggle, who can barely fit his ass through an average door these days); one gate sticks and is almost impossible to close, the other is missing the latch and a slat of wood. Sometimes I just forget to make sure my interim measures have not been compromised.

I've become so accustomed to the breaches in my backyard fencing it rarely occurs to me to pay somebody to fix it. That is until I look out my front window and see Leo the lab taunting me as he prowls around on the grass parkway, inches from suburbia's idea of heavy traffic, looking to leave his mark. Or when I open the front door to see Manny, unable to reach the doorbell and a bit too chubby to jump, waiting patiently for me to figure out he's come to call. Why does it never occur to them to go back into the yard and show themselves where I'd actually look for them. Oh, I forgot. They're dogs.

Even though I might have to dip into my down payment for my post-divorce double wide trailer, it's worth it to me to mend that fence. There's always the risk that Leo will cross the street looking for greener parkways, or that Manny will assume nobody's home and wander off to search for the lady with the food. I'm not willing to take that chance.

Lately, I've been feeling the need to mend fences of all kinds. Yesterday, I saw an old friend, a friend I had dropped almost a year ago for reasons that no longer seem to make sense or matter. When two people divorce after a long marriage, the split between the two of them is often just the tip of the iceberg. Friends either choose sides or are asked -- often told -- to choose sides; some straddle the fence -- a well-intentioned strategy but fences buckle under the pressure, and sometimes the collateral damage is unavoidable. This particular friend was straddling, and the wood suddenly splintered and there she was, floating on a makeshift raft between me and my husband, and I just couldn't see her landing on both shores at the same time. A mere acquaintance, maybe; a close friend, not so much.

I see the view from the other side of the fence these days (talk about beating an already dead metaphor to death). I know what it feels like to be collateral damage, to be unceremoniously dumped because somebody can't straddle and is forced to choose. A piece of me gets it -- a big piece -- and another big piece (there's plenty of post-Thanksgiving Potato Head to go around) feels betrayed, furious, abandoned. Who needs that shit?

Maybe time has healed me -- who knows? -- but I no longer feel the need to yell "pick me!" Sure, I respect certain boundaries, and will stay away from friends who were "his," no matter how strong the urge to call them and beg them to knock some sense into him on my behalf. And he has afforded the same wide berth to friends who are "mine." But the ones in the middle -- the ones who loved each of us individually and both of us together -- they shouldn't have to choose. After all, it's not about them. (It's about me -- like everything else!)

Yesterday, I offered my old friend a hug and an apology, and it felt really good. Soon, I'm going to call the fence guy, and it's going to feel really good knowing Leo and Manny are safely tucked away in my backyard. Some folks I'm just not willing to risk losing.

Close Encounters of the Bird Kind

If I didn't know better, I'd think I was starring in my own Hitchcock movie, a benevolent remake of "The Birds." Eagle that I am -- or claim to be -- it stands to reason, I suppose, that I would be hanging with my own kind, but the other night things got a little bizarre.

Outside my bathroom window, I could swear I heard the throaty "hoooo, hoooo" of our neighborhood owl, the lone white tailed hooter who would serenade us every few nights last winter from its perch in a tree two blocks from my house. My daughter confirmed it; my eyes may have deteriorated, but my ears still work. We decided not to race out to see our old friend, knowing it would probably abandon its precarious seat at the top of the bare, unusually tall tree down the street the moment it detected our intrusion. We listened quietly from my bathroom instead to the eerie sound. A fish out of water, this owl in suburbia, yet it keeps coming back.

Indeed the "hoooo's" had stopped resonating through the chill suburban air by the time I drove by hoping for a glimpse. Somebody had obviously gotten there first to spook the displaced bird into spreading its massive wings and soaring off to the safety of a more natural habitat. But this night was destined to be, well, for the birds, and within minutes, I was being introduced to an umbrella cockatoo named Mickey. Move over, Mr. Fireman Potato Head; Mickey the cockatoo is by far the most beautiful and exotic creature upon which I have ever laid eyes. This eagle is smitten.

With feathers whiter than fresh snow, whiter than a load of laundry drenched in Clorox, Mickey sat on his faux branch, his little head held high as he greeted me with repeated squawks of "Hello Mickey, hello Mickey." (I did say little head.) I didn't want him to feel stupid (men hate that) so I returned the greeting with repeated squawks of my own: "Hello Jill, hello Jill." I was captivated by Mickey, and when he willingly left his perch to climb up my arm with his big feet (and you know what they say about big feet), I literally swooned. Gorgeous, gentle, friendly, gazing at me as if I was the exotic creature. Everything I'm looking for in a fellow; who cares if he's a little mixed up on the salutation thing. Maybe he was just nervous.

Now I'm not forgetting my mom's advice -- that I never want to get involved with a guy who's going to fight me for the mirror. Mickey may be gorgeous, but he's different. I can tell. And anyway, there was no sign of a mirror anywhere near the guy, and why punish him for being born with good genes? Here's the best part; Mickey's wings have been clipped. He may be a pretty boy, but I'll be able to keep him on a short leash.

I hope my magnificent owl friend returns soon so I can tell him about Mickey. Flightless Mickey isn't going anywhere, and it would be nice to have a few more strange birds in the neighborhood. You know -- birds of a feather, and all that crap.

Thanksgiving Lite

My cousin reassured us last night, as we all sat moaning and holding our bellies, that this had been a low-fat, downright healthful Thanksgiving. Not only had we cut back on the horsd'oeuvres and added a brand new vegetable (deep fried pickles), but she had only used ten sticks of butter for the feast. It's bad enough that the older generation has all but died out; now the rest of us are going to waste away.

But oh those pickles, which had the illusory heart healthy benefit of contributing a splash of vitamin packed color to our otherwise white and yellow plates (as long as you squeezed the pickle out so you could just eat the pure cylinder of fried flour first). Forget about the deep fried turkey -- which was even more delicious than usual; you haven't lived until you've had a deep fried pickle. Or three. It must have been invented by southern Jews; a kosher dill encased in flavor disguising crispy fat. Not butter, remember; we cut back on that this year. Not lard, heaven forbid -- that's for the goyim. Turkey fat. Turkey is lean, so turkey fat must be really good for you. We Jews are very health conscious (it's why so many of us become doctors).

I look forward to the annual Thanksgiving gorge. My cousin is a fabulous cook -- although let's face it, what could possibly taste bad when ten sticks of butter is viewed as a major cut-back. By my calculation, that's more than half a stick per person, and that adds up to delicious, no matter how you slice it (or mash it, or melt it). But even though we all practically have our heads in the oven waiting to devour every course as it readies itself for the buffet, it's not just about the food. Really. It's not. (But I did tell you about the pickles, right?)

Thanksgiving is the one day of the year when all the living members of my family are together. At least all the ones I know. And even though some of us see each other occasionally during the year, the annual gathering is how we track each other's journeys and unravel our family history. Our weights yo-yo, some of us gain wrinkles, many of us lose a few brain cells, and each of us has experienced some life changing event over the past twelve months. It can be as simple as the youngest among us entering high school, or as earth shaking as a midlife career change. We converge from five states, and we are a veritable cross section of life. Ranging in age from fourteen to almost eighty, we represent almost every decade in between. We are young and elderly, single and long married, separated, widowed, forever single, recently married, soon to be married (maybe). We are all, in our own ways, always embarking upon new chapters.

Every year, we take a group picture and reminisce over the one from the last gathering. My kids and I viewed last year's picture together, silently, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Their dad was there last year. This year he wasn't. We all had a different take on it, I'm sure, but the gap in this year's picture made me hurt, mostly for my children. Even when you choose to let go it's hard.

People come and go, sticks of butter stay in the fridge, and new artery hardening delicacies appear, masquerading as vegetables. There are losses and gains -- of pounds and other baggage. This year, we were even in a different place; my cousins had the audacity to move. So I give thanks to my cousins for keeping the tradition alive, to my family for being there for me, even when we're all in different states, and to the ever versatile deep fryer, that returns every year to bring us new delights.

The Mother Load

I still think of it as my room, but there's very little of me left in it. The room I grew up in, with its pale pink walls and bright red, pink, and orange bedspread and matching curtains, the worn red carpet, and my piles of stuffed animals, my books, and my state of the art push-button princess phone, is a mere shadow of its former self.

The dimensions are the same -- give or take a half inch from the paint touch ups every few years; the custom made chandelier with the painted globe that, when not lit, gives off a curved reflection of the room's perimeter, is the sole survivor of all the changes in decor. The twin bed is gone, long ago replaced by a convertible sofa that leaves me with severe back pain for a week every time I visit, and the multi-layered painted walls are peeling from the insurmountable pressure of water retention and just plain old age. I know just how they feel.

Techno-granny's computer is set up on my old desk, and her collection of hardcover bestsellers lines my bookshelves. My dresser drawers and my closets have been filled with my mother's overflow wardrobe, and any worldly possessions I left behind were long ago disposed of in a cleaning frenzy. I couldn't even find a spare hanger in the closet for my coat. My displacement is most apparent, though, in the crowded array of framed pictures occupying every inch of spare dresser, nightstand, and desk space. Each photo is of one or more of my children; I make an occasional appearance, but I am clearly no longer the star of my own room. The torch has been passed, and I am merely the behind the scenes producer, essential, maybe, but not the one with the name on the marquee.

I'm okay with it all, though; it's not like she's festooned my old furniture with pictures of somebody else's kids. And let's face it, they're way more photogenic than I am, and who wouldn't rather gaze at images of fresh young faces than wrinkly old potatoes. And the truth is I know my mother still views me the way I view my own children: as a piece of herself, a piece she wants to hold onto for dear life.

How do I know this? Well, first of all, she's a mother. But not just any mother. To clarify things for me, she burst into tears this morning, claiming the biggest tragedy in her life is that she can't talk to me -- her daughter. And this was not a reference to her inability to converse because of her hearing problem, and (I know it sounds cynical, but trust me on this one) it certainly wasn't intended as a warm and fuzzy gesture of love. She was referring to the fact that I don't routinely share with her the intimate details of my fucked up life, depriving her of myriad opportunities to offer up I told you sos and you should haves to her heart's content. And mind you, the crying fit came after I thought I had guaranteed myself a spot in heaven by conversing with her over coffee for a good hour, sharing enough little tidbits so she could feel comfortably in the know and satisfyingly smug. Rarely does a good deed go unpunished.

But she's my mother, and she tends to show love in odd ways sometimes; as usual, the butter knife twisting in my heart filled me both with rage and resolve to do better. I have promised myself to keep her in the loop (via email), and give her just enough information so she can feel as if she's an honorary soldier in my army of white knights. I am well aware that in spite of her need to lecture and remind me how stupid I've been, she is, first and foremost, my mother, and she worries. It's what we do -- even the craziest ones, who shall remain nameless. We'll just call them "mom."

Happy Bird Day

If you have to be a bird on Thanksgiving, it's far better to be an eagle than a turkey. And frankly, I'd prefer not to be one of those talking birds. Oh, how I'd love to be mute and just perch silently on a little branch and watch and listen, take it all in.

My mother dreads big gatherings of any kind, simply because she so desperately wants to be a part of the conversations and cannot, because she is deaf. I think I've probably mentioned that her deafness does not deter her -- certainly not from talking, and, most infuriatingly, not from pretending to hear. But her deafness makes her self-conscious; it makes her feel stupid. There are worse things, I want to tell her. After all, she could be the turkey.

As far as this bird is concerned, I would relish the opportunity to have an excuse to not participate. To not have to respond to the inevitable questions about what I'm doing or how this or that is going. "Fine" never seems to satisfy; people, well intentioned though they may be, always want details. The details of my own life bore the living shit out of me (when they're not just pissing me off), and after I find out whatever interesting news there is to be discovered about everybody else, I'd much prefer the role of spectator. Watching the festivities without the benefit of sound actually seems appealing. I suppose it's easy to feel that way when you're not sentenced to a life of silence.

There is a definite benefit to my mother's deafness this year, at least for the rest of us. With the family all in one room, we will be able to plan her surprise eightieth birthday party right there in front of her, while she smiles knowingly. It's ingenious; because we'll be discussing her, all eyes and smiles will be directed at her for a good part of the dinner conversation, and she will feel very much a part of things, though she won't have a clue why. And it will give us all something to talk about -- a mission, if you will -- and I, for one, will be happy to not be fielding questions about my divorce or my job search or my (ugh) dating life. No doubt my kids will be just as happy to not field the usual questions about school and life thereafter. Win, win.

Now I know that just because I'm going to be planning a surprise party for my mother I shouldn't expect not to be kicked in the stomach about whatever deficiencies I've exhibited as a daughter. It's ironic, but the more attentive I become, the more she feels the need to remind me of how inattentive I usually am. Sometimes it's just more rewarding to be a cold bitch.

I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner with my extended family. And I am thankful, as always, that I am not a turkey.

Early Bird Special

I was a little concerned this morning that my beatific smile and the practically radioactive glow emanating from my cheeks would sound off orange alert bells all over the airport, and earn me a pat down I'd never forget. Okay, well not so much concerned as wild with anticipation, but we'll just let that be our little secret.

No guys, I did not spend the night before getting laid. Nope, but I did pop out of bed before the crack of dawn to head to the health club to work out. Not for me the self-indulgence of sleep in the wee hours of the morning, of sweet dreams filled with chocolate croissants and jelly donuts. I am soaring into a new period of spiritual awakening, and with that comes a life of monastic asceticism, which means a morning journey to nowhere on an elliptical exercise machine. Kind of a virtual pilgrimage.

Even on a virtual journey, there are friends to be made, and my seemingly pointless pedaling was no exception. Monks wander around in lonely silence, but they're not really alone; there are plenty of hooded journeymen right there beside them, on the same endless journey. Likewise, as I pedaled away furiously to nowhere, I was joined by my fellow sleep deprived and sugar starved predawn wanderers, and together we searched for enlightenment (while sharing a chuckle or two).

Let's just call my fellow pilgrims from this morning Mutt and Jeff. (I promised them I would protect their identities, though there was nothing they said or did that would warrant protection.) Mutt did tell me I was the woman with the best ass in the gym, which led me to offer him sex right on the spot, although of course I was only kidding. Of course. Anyway, I revoked the offer when I discovered I was the only woman in the gym. Everybody's a comedian.

Who woulda thunk it? A bunch of driven, monkish, practically nocturnal misfits cross my path while I'm slogging away on some machine well before the sun comes up, doing my best imitation of a rat on a wheel, and they manage to put a smile on my face (and some glow in my skin). And as adorable as they were, they didn't need to smear ash on my face and pretend to be firemen and rescue me from my own self-imposed torture. Now that's talent. No, it's downright enlightened, I think.

As counterintuitive as it may seem, the crowd in the gym at five a.m. is a lot less frenzied than the later crowd -- the ones that snooze the puffiness out of their eyes and take the time to select workout clothes that aren't torn. Maybe the early birds are not as entertaining as the spin psychos who can't spin unless they have their one favorite bike in their one favorite spot; maybe they're not as awe-inspiring as the fanatics who press their faces longingly against the glass doors of the spin room a good half hour before the previous class ends, ready to sprint in and trample anyone who stands between them and their beloved virtual vehicle. Maybe it's because we're all too comatose to flaunt the craziness, but the special brand of quiet compulsiveness we early birds share seems to be good for my soul.

Regrettably, I didn't get my airport security pat down. I could have done without the stinky traveler next to me on the plane but hey, nirvana would get pretty humdrum if you experience it all day long. I'm looking forward to getting back home so I can continue on my elliptical path, with Mutt and Jeff and the other pre-dawn lunatics ready to give me a chuckle if I start to lose my way.

The More Things Change

The other night, my older daughter -- home not to see me but to be wined and dined by her new prospective employer -- invited her old friends over for dinner. They are all graduating from college in a few months, all heading in different directions, but all coming back to Chicago to do it.

Plus ca change. In sweats and jeans and Uggs, they looked the same to me as they did in high school. And after almost four years apart, they are as attached and loyal to each other as they ever were. Sure, there's the inevitable gossip (always pity the person not in the room, and just know that there but for the grace of God go you), but after all these years, it's obvious that these girls are going to be each other's white knights for life. A few new pistol-packing Fionas (remember my beloved, tough talking Fi?) have been added on along the way for each of them, and the old friendships have been tested from time to time, but when push comes to shove, these guys will always have each others' backs.

I'm happy for them. That they somehow figured out how to hold on to worthwhile relationships even while their lives changed, and, more importantly, even while they changed. They're older, they're wiser, they're acutely aware that they're on the verge of having to take care of themselves. Take care of themselves, yes, but able to take comfort in the knowledge that the army of white knights always waits in the wings, keeping a watchful eye.

My younger daughter observed them, I think, with a more cynical eye. She had just returned from two nights away on a high school retreat, an experience billed as "transformative" by the planners and the student leaders and the parents of kids who have gone before. My other kids never participated in the program, and they somehow turned out okay, but all the speeches I listened to as we awaited the arrival of the delayed buses led me to believe that these kids would somehow be special. They would never be mean, they would never betray a friend, they would never even drink or do drugs. All because of two days of guided bonding at a high school love fest.

Well, guess what. Within hours, there were phone calls about exclusive parties, hurt feelings, and even stories about the older kids on the love fest -- the role models -- not being all that nice. So when you're tired from two nights without much sleep and stinky from two days without a shower and realizing that some of that warm and fuzzy feeling from the transformative weekend pulled away with the yellow school buses, it's hard to picture yourself and your current fourteen year old friends coming together seven years down the road like women who actually care about each other. I would imagine my daughter found it so unfathomable that the whole love fest in our kitchen -- that didn't involve forced love notes and and prescribed compliments -- probably seemed a bit nauseating.

I'm sure a good night's sleep will put some of her cynicism on the back burner, at least long enough for her to participate wholeheartedly in the love fest that will be her camp reunion later this afternoon. And seven years of good nights and bad nights and everything in between will probably bring her and some of her old friends back to my kitchen one day, where I'll marvel at how grown up they are, even though they still kind of look the same.

But I'm in no rush, even though she is. I'm selfish; I know that despite all the growing pains -- for all of us -- there are a lot of cherished moments to come, and I don't want to miss them.

Real Men Don't...

I got stood up recently. Just as I combed my last strand of wet hair into a neat pony tail and applied my final stroke of lip gloss. Just as I was about to tackle the pile of clothing items I had tried on and rejected in favor of what I had put on in the first place. Let me tell you, for Mrs. Potato Head, I looked like one delectable complex carb.

Some of you who have been keeping up with my life since the embryonic stages of my blog may remember Pete the dermatologist (whose name really isn't Pete and who isn't really a dermatologist but I always try to protect both the innocent and the guilty). Pete stood me up one Saturday night, and, of course, that was the end of Pete. But the thing about Pete was I had mixed feelings about him. Well, actually, I didn't really have mixed feelings about him so much as dating him. I couldn't stand him, but for some reason I preferred Saturday dinners out to staying home alone, and he just happened to be the person volunteering to sit at the table.

The recent stand up was more of a disappointment, and not just because I had neatened my pony tail (a big deal) and put some thought into my outfit -- which naturally had that shabby chic effect of not looking thought out at all (to anyone who couldn't see the three foot high pile of "no's" on my bedroom floor). I was actually looking forward to this one. Oh well, I've been known to exhibit questionable judgment, so it's not as if I had reason to be shocked. At least I looked good for my pity party.

So it's back to the drawing board on the dating front, and I'm thinking more about an eraser than any drawing utensils, because I've just about had it with men. When your most promising relationship arises (so to speak) out of phone sex, you've got problems. As if on cue, just as I was about to call it quits, I received a very insightful email from a friend (and loyal blog follower)about "real men." Here's how it started:

A real man is a woman's best friend. He will never stand her up and never let her down. He will reassure her when she feels insecure and comfort her after a bad day. He will inspire her to do things she never thought she could do; to live without fear and forget regret.

Well, duh, I'm thinking. There's my problem; I haven't been dating real men. Just real assholes. Curious, I read on, hoping the email would give me some insight as to where I might find the real thing. Blah, blah, blah, the list went on about all the wonderful things this mythical man would do, and I'm starting to remember the advice I've given to others in the past, which is "if it looks too good to be true, it is." So before I got too worked up with hope and horniness, I skipped to the end:

No wait...sorry...I'm thinking of wine.... It's wine that does all that. Shit. Never mind.

Like all fantasies, it was good while it lasted. Next time somebody asks me on a date, I'm gonna politely decline, get dressed up, stay home, and crack open a dependable bottle of red. Maybe even invite a girlfriend over to share. Maybe even order a pizza. No tears, no regrets.

Call Security! Please!

I'm flying Tuesday, so I'm getting ready for what I assume will be a high level of pre-holiday security. My three ounce tube of toothpaste, my mini shampoo, my assortment of lip glosses -- they're all in a drawer, ready to be placed in the one gallon plastic bag I will no doubt forget to remove from my carry-on when I'm busy taking off my shoes and my belt and my watch and putting my laptop in its own bin. And I'm considering a bikini wax just in case I get thrown into the full body scanner or selected for the titillating pat down by the lesbian TSA agent. I wouldn't want to offend.

Ah, if only they decided to use volunteer firemen for the airport security detail. I'd even wash my hair and put on a little makeup. Last week, I was being wooed on a cyber dating site by Chicago cop (obviously not the Jewish site). He really got my attention when he told me one of his best buddies is a fireman up in my neck of the woods. Well, I could already smell the wood burning in my head, devising a plan to meet the hunky cop for the sole purpose of getting an introduction to the guy who could be the one to hose me down. (Don't ask -- I have no idea what the heck I meant by that remark.)

Not that the hunky cop was anything to sneeze at. He appeared to be in great shape, and there is something to be said for a guy who would probably not run you over trying to escape an intruder in the house and might even kill the guy with his bare hands for you. Ha, talk about a fantasy. The guy also mentioned all the time he spends with his kids, who are still on the youngish side. Now there's definitely something sexy about a manly man taking care of kids (my husband used to claim the best way to get picked up in a bar was to bring a baby with you; even if it's not yours). Puppies work too. But let's face it, when you're fifty-one years old and you've already got two out of the house and one who will sprint out the door in three and a half years, the last thing you want or need in your life is someone else's little brats, no matter how big the guy's biceps are. Sexy as the whole caretaking thing might be, I gotta say -- send the kids to mom. So what if she's in rehab -- a couple of thirty day stints and she'll be good as new.

Even my dreamboat fireman would have a tough time convincing me to take on extra offspring. My demands on fantasy man would be pretty extensive, and I'm not sure how healthy it would be for the kids' psyches to have to watch their dad set off the smoke detectors every night, spread ashy makeup all over my face, and carry me out of the house to safety, my head thrown back and my hair sweeping the sidewalk as his concerned eyes gaze at me lovingly. Especially when the kids believe he's left them inside to burn. And of course they'd blame me, the evil stepmother. Who needs that crap?

Yep, children should just be seen and not heard, and, preferably, in a bar or someone else's house. If my fireman ends up having kids in his truck, I'm just going to have to fly solo. But there's no reason to stop hoping a dreamy and kidless one will be waiting for me at airport security, and I will be waxed and ready.

Fear of Flying

Flying has indeed become terrifying for many folks, but sometimes more because of the security measures than anything. When I went on line yesterday, I was confronted with a disturbing picture of an airport security officer giving a man in a business suit what appeared to be a hand job. All in the name of an "orange alert." Maybe it was just his game face, but I could swear I detected a bit of a leer in the frisker's expression. I couldn't see the "friskee's" face, but I would imagine his appearance was not one of relaxed pleasure. Especially since the officer seriously appeared to be on the verge of doing a taste test. Very thorough.

I am by no means a white knuckle flyer, but, up until seeing that picture, I have had no problem with the post 9/11 security delays. I must admit I've done my own secret share of racial and ethnic profiling as I've sat in gate areas awaiting my flight. And, I admit I've often been puzzled by the rigor with which airline personnel will question and search folks who just don't fit the bill, when I know for a fact that several swarthy acquaintances of Middle Eastern descent, Americans who would submit willingly to a little additional grilling, routinely breeze through security without so much as a raise of an eyebrow.

Actually, I think my mother is on some kind of watch list, and I swear I did not put her there. How else can I explain the fact that she gets pulled over for some extra special frisking every time she flies? I remember watching helplessly a few years ago as this elderly, thin, stylish woman had every inch of her mink clad frame patted down by an airport security officer in Paris, who then proceeded to open and search every meticulously wrapped Louis Vuitton package she carried. Maybe they had good reason to believe she was a threat to international security, and not just to her own bank account and to her decidedly unfashionable daughter's psyche. Or maybe they had just never seen so many designer shopping bags on one woman's arm. But wait -- this was Paris! Pick on someone your own size, guys.

Well intentioned policies do have a tendency to run amok. Like the code of conduct at a well-known university attended by a boy I know, who was recently dragged through the mud by some girl who filed a sexual harassment claim against him, and thrown to the wolves by an administration so in fear of reprisals by "protected groups" that it has abandoned every shred of common sense. Hell hath no fury like a woman (or a man, for that matter) scorned, but sexual harassment policies were not, as far as I know, created to avenge your basic teenage blow-off. The complaint described a victim of what appeared to be nothing more than hurt pride; it was about as thin as the paper on which it was drafted. This girl, who was shamelessly airing her sour grapes by maligning the boy mercilessly on Facebook on the off chance the university would choose logic over a politically incorrect decision, was needlessly covering all the bases. The mere mention of sexual harassment, however implausible the case may be, gets academics quivering. I can only hope they don't become jaded by the silly cases, and will be appropriately vigilant when a girl comes in with a real complaint against a guy who has done something a bit more coercive and threatening than failing to call after a "hook-up."

I suppose there's good news in all of this. If I want to guarantee myself a hassle free security check at the airport next week, I'll wrap myself in a burqa and wear a suspiciously bulky vest underneath. And if I get pissed off at a man (like that ever happens!) I'll just sue. Tort reform is a long way away, and if I play my cards right, I can probably get enough of an award to pay for my divorce, with a little left over for a down payment on a trailer.

The FixMaster

I am not just an ordinary bird. Not that eagles are at all ordinary, but warrior eagles who have been known to battle harsh accusations of narcissism while battling a few narcissists of their own are certainly a rare breed. Add to that some latent white knight traits, and you've got yourself one rara avis.

My versatility (if you'll indulge me and let me rustle my own feathers for a moment) never ceases to amaze me. I've spoken often of my "Fionas," my beautiful warrior goddess sidekicks who remain poised for battle on my behalf whenever I need reinforcements. Lately, I've had some difficulty being my own white knight, and have recruited the troops more frequently than I care to admit. Well, maybe I haven't so much recruited them; they just seem to appear when I need them. Uncanny.

You can only imagine the performance anxiety that overtook me yesterday when one of my most dependable Fionas needed a Fiona of her own, and I mean a full blown, pistol packing, tough talking, take no prisoners Fiona capable of scaring the living shit out of the demons. Certainly not an impostor such as myself, but when someone you love is struggling you just gotta dig deep, no matter how unqualified you feel.

So I grabbed a bottle of red in my talons, fluffed up my feathers and hopped in the eaglemobile, trying to remember as I soared down the street what exactly it is that my trusted Fionas do when they work their magic. When I arrived, my friend was curled up in a fetal position, but she had as yet held back the tears. What I learned, quickly, is that white knights figure things out by trial and error (at least the good ones do), and as long as you care enough, it's really not that hard. My first task was to steady her with every ounce of my eagle weight (don't let the feathers fool you -- there's some heavy muscle underneath) while her body shook uncontrollably with the repressed sobs. Then I just had to listen. And, of course, I offered up every platitude I've ever stated in these blogs and then some, vomiting them up until she threatened to break every bone in my wings unless I shut the hell up. What are friends for?

For a faux Fiona I think I did a pretty good job, because in short order my friend was up and running, being her own white knight and doing what any self-respecting warrior goddess would do in a crisis: bake cookies. I felt like I was in a James Bond movie. All of a sudden, she had opened a door and pushed a button and one of those gargantuan fancy shmancy mixers rose like a phoenix from the depths of the cabinet up to the level of her kitchen counter. I half expected the thing to morph into a twenty-second century super sonic automobile and start shooting gobs of enemy seeking missiles up through the skylight and into the frigid night. Even better: it started magically blending various and sundry ingredients into mouth watering chocolate chip cookie dough, and no matter how high tech the machine, there's always enough batter left stuck to the bowl for two warrior goddesses wielding spatulas to annihilate. We left no morsel unturned; white knights don't mess around.

For years, I have pressed my nose against the windows of upscale cookware stores, coveting the giant mixers in every color of the rainbow, hoping I would get one for Christmas. That was real hope (even though it was always dashed); to do so this year would be a prime example of false hope, since I will not be celebrating Christmas.

Yep, you guessed it. I'm flapping my wings, flexing my talons, and soaring over to Williams Sonoma to grab my own damn mixer. And if any of my dear, dear Fionas finds herself in trouble, my spatulas will be polished, and I will be armed and ready.

Fools "Ruch" In

Never marry a man who has an extreme aversion to ruching. Actually, stay away from any man who has strong opinions about your attire, particularly when he feels compelled to voice the negative ones. That's the message I want to deliver to my daughters.

After a bit of a hiatus, I watched an episode of Say Yes to the Dress yesterday, and I was horrified. A petite young woman, stylish with a mannequin-esque figure, appeared with her mom to pick out her wedding dress. She was hoping her fiance would make it to the shop to help with (actually -- and frighteningly -- dictate) the decision, but she had not yet heard from him.

What's up with that -- having the guy take part in the dress selection process? The feminist in me -- which is a "one from column A, one from column B" kind -- finds the whole white flowing dress concept a bit antiquated, since the likelihood of a virgin walking down the aisle these days is about as great as the likelihood of my divorce being finalized before I die. Of old age. But the part of me that is able to dismiss the feminist principles when something more important comes up -- like the prospect of looking like a fairy tale princess for one day of your life -- wholeheartedly believes that a groom's first glimpse of his bride in her dress should occur when he sees her walking toward him down the aisle; not a moment before. And, if he doesn't at least pretend to think she is nothing less than a vision, that bride would be well-advised to turn tail and proceed to the nearest fire house to find a worthy hunk with whom to spend what would have been her wedding night.

But back to Kleinfeld's bridal shop. The fiance blows in and as cute and svelte and chic as the bride-to-be is, her betrothed is actually prettier than she. Red flag number one; who needs that? She seems less excited to see him than nervous about what he will think about the three dresses she has fallen in love with in his absence. Frankly, I despised the one that was her favorite, was neutral about another, and thought the third was absolutely divine, but my vote was with whichever one made this bride look in the mirror and beam like nobody's business.

So anyway, the fiance -- we'll just call him, for lack of a better name, shithead -- sits down, looking peeved that his very important day has been interrupted by this nonsense, and awaits the fashion show. His bride appears in dress number one -- her favorite -- and in a half of a nanosecond, shithead pretty much dismisses it as ridiculous. Both the bride and her mom maintain their smiles as they accept his verdict without comment, and off she goes to put on option number two for the one man firing squad.

It was the one with the ruching, the one I thought made her look divine. I think it actually would have been her favorite had she not already been acutely aware of her fiance's extreme aversion to ruching. WTF??? When would that topic have come up? The young woman is literally trembling as she readies herself in the dressing room for what she knows will be a swift kick in the stomach. I am looking at her in that dress, thinking she looks stunning, but, more importantly, I can see the look in her eyes. The look that tells me (and anyone else with minimal powers of observation) that this is her dream dress.

Ready, aim, fire! Shithead clearly sees the look in her eyes as well -- I could tell because he kind of shakes his head in an obligatory apology before taking a full two nanoseconds to deflate his beloved's already shaky spirit. "I'm sorry," he said. "You know I just hate ruching." Is this an issue that goes back to his mother somehow? Maybe there was ruching in her nursing bras and his lips got caught in the elastic.

At this point, I could tell the salesperson wants to take her pointy toed shoe and ram it right up shithead's ass, and I'm screaming at the television screen, trying to scratch his pretty little eyes out. But mom and daughter have the most uncanny ability to keep smiling while the tears are welling up so swiftly behind their eyes their heads are starting to swell and they're looking a bit like encephalitis victims, and the daughter tries her best to conceal the quiver in her voice as she quickly announces it's time to take the dress off. Done.

Now I would hate to overreact to a simple shopping trip and predict that this young woman is doomed to a marriage marked by emotional abuse, but I'm going to anyway. This young woman is doomed to a marriage marked by emotional abuse. Run for your life is what I want to tell her. And I feel like slapping mom around a little, just for good measure.

It's going to be a Jewish wedding, and I'm hoping one of the salespeople will do the proper thing, which would be to show up and before shithead gets a chance to stomp on the glass for the final "mazel tov!" and take the damn glass (or lightbulb, which will work even better) and break it right over his sanctimonious, evil little head. And of course the beautiful dress with the ruching will be in the salesperson's car, and the bride can slip into it and run off to the fire station where there are real men who have never heard of ruching and who will be so stirred by the arrival of this young maiden that they will have to turn their hoses on themselves.

Say yes to the dress, honey. Say no to the shithead.

Morning Sickness

I went to an old fashioned bakery this morning before I hit Starbucks. I had forgotten how intoxicating real baked goods could smell, how air could virtually whisper "good morning." Different from the bold "wake up" message that wafts into your nostrils when the fresh aroma of Starbucks beans greets you. Not better. Just different.

Back in the day, there were no Starbucks, and we had to make do with simple pleasures. Like waiting for commercial breaks to get a snack because you couldn't just press a button and back up to see what you missed. And being blissfully unaware that someone was trying to reach you unless you happened to be home when the phone rang. And not having to report to your ninth grade social studies class that your greatest recent accomplishment had been to send over ten thousand text messages in the previous month. (It would take me ten years to achieve that. My kids make fun of me when I text because I'm so slow. It's like learning to ski; you have to do it when you're young and fearless.)

And old-fashioned bakeries. I used to love going with my mom to the one in our neighborhood, with the cases of brightly iced, perfect looking cookies, racks of freshly baked breads, and mouth watering displays of thickly iced cupcakes and fat layer cakes. I loved the smell, but most of all, I loved watching the bakery workers do their thing. The speed with which they would fold the thin white cardboard boxes would rival the texting agility of any twenty-first century teen. My favorite part was the string. The candy-striped blue and white string that hung from the ceiling, that they would grab and wind three times around the box one way, then three times the other, and tie up with a dexterity and efficiency I only wish the Starbucks barristas could replicate when the line is out the door. And then they would snap the string with their own bare hands, soundless except for the light tapping of their knuckles against the box.

Morning trips to the bakery would somehow bestow a magic upon the rest of the day. The whispered "good morning" would repeat itself in our ears as the aroma of the sinful sweets permeated the air in our kitchen. There was a kind of contentment to it all, never marred, back then, by panicked thoughts about how we might somehow jump start our metabolism and work off the newly forming fat. All we knew was when the sugar buzz wore off, we'd just go grab another bite. Or maybe think about lunch.

My trip to the bakery this morning got me so caught up in reminiscing about tranquil and carefree days I half expected my day in deep dark upper middle class suburbia to pan out like a lazy Saturday in the seventies. Silly bird. After shoveling in some chocolate coffee cake, I did what any self-respecting modern type-A person would do: I went to a spin class. When I arrived, everyone was in crisis mode. The cleaning crew had done a terrible, terrible thing when they scoured the spin studio the night before: they moved the bikes. Not just an inch here and there, but all over the room. I can only imagine the glee they experienced knowing how many lives would be destroyed in the morning.

The scene was surreal. Grown men and women in wildly colored spandex (I think there's something in the dye that makes people extra kooky) scurrying around frantically, peering at the little identification numbers under the handlebars, sticking their faces right in there even if someone was already on the bike (nobody brings their reading glasses to spin). One woman spent ten minutes searching, and when she finally located "her bike" (by then occupied), she practically wept. The person on the bike was uncharacteristically nice (or terrified), and politely dismounted. Everybody was happy. Not.

Apparently, it's not just about the bike. Location, location, location (relative to window ledges and fans and speakers). So the woman proceeded to wheel the three ton bike through the very crowded room of spinners, each one of us compulsive in our own right, but each one of us humbled (and even appalled) by the extent of this woman's lunacy. Even the other folks who had searched the room for their very special bikes now looked a little introspective -- thinking perhaps they should have lived dangerously and risked the demoralizing trauma of a lower RPM read-out.

There are two things people like the bike fanatics don't understand: (1) the calming effect of a trip to an old-fashioned bakery before spin class; and (2) the calming effect of being able to tell yourself, when your power and RPM read-outs are low, that it's not you, it's the bike, stupid.

Maybe I just don't get it. Maybe the eagle in me just doesn't understand the seriousness of the term "stationary bike."

WTF???

I'm seeing the writing on the wall, and it's not pretty. Yes, my friend just gave me a wall calendar full of Sarah Palin's pearls of wisdom, and my daughter and I are flipping through the pages, absolutely awestruck.

The scary thing about Sarah -- gosh, I don't think she'd mind if I call her that -- is that she actually says stuff. Lots of stuff. Usually, when you think about seeing the writing on the wall, it's because of stuff that isn't said; it's that "eureka" feeling you get even though nobody's actually spoken the words or written them down for you. Like "aha, I'm nowhere near the center of his universe" (can't help it; at fifty-one, I still entertain the fantasy) or "aha, I had better get my act together because I'm about to get screwed." Just random examples.

But Sarah's not subtle. There's a whole country full of people out there who see and hear what she has been saying, and I don't know about the rest of the folks out there, but I see some pretty clear (albeit inarticulate) writing on the wall, and it tells me that this self-aggrandizing crackpot whose only foreign policy achievement was keeping an eye on Putin from her perch in Juneau (gives new meaning to the concept of superpower) has a pretty good chance of making it to the Oval Office. I sure hope mama grizzlies don't shed.

Unfortunately, I can't do anything about the rise of Sarah, since most of the people with whom I come into contact are relatively intelligent and would never vote for someone like her anyway. But I do know people who intend to watch her reality show just for kicks; I tremble to think about the other viewers out there, the starstruck morons who will have no trouble casting a vote for a larger than life buffoon who has actually invited them into her living room, just down the road apiece from Russia, for a hot chocolate. Again, I can't help that; it's not my problem.

So I'm going back to focusing on myself. I suppose Sarah and I are more similar than I'd like to admit. Just as she was so focused on her homefront she hadn't been able to focus on the war in Iraq (or Iran, or Ireland, or wherever she thought the "Department of Law" folks in the White House were sending troops), I'm kind of too focused on myself to worry about an idiot becoming president. It's not like we haven't lived to tell that tale before.

I'm focusing on that writing on my wall, that no man in my life has ever made me the center of his universe, and that if I don't take care of myself, I'm about to get screwed. Big time. My newly polished talons had better stop grabbing on to false hope and start dropping all the big dead fish that are weighing me down. I've got better things to carry with me on my journey. Maybe I'll fly to Alaska once things thaw out a bit, get some tips from Sarah on how to believe so wholeheartedly in my own superiority that nothing anybody else says matters. Mama Grizzly, meet Baby Eagle.

If she can spin her illiteracy into literary genius, likening herself to Shakespeare for her uncanny ability to create new words, I can certainly convince myself that I am worth far more than some people would let me believe. I can read the writing on the wall, and, with Sarah's help, I just might be able to "refudiate" it.

You Can't Take Most of it With You

Sometimes strange thoughts pop into my head. Like yesterday, when I got showered in Starbucks with latte foam and it reminded me of bird poop and I realized what I was writing was shitty and things happen for a reason. Anyway, I assume my readers know about the

strange thought issue, since most of those strange thoughts seem to pop right from my head into my blog. I should really get myself a filter.

I suddenly began to worry today that an eagle is too self-contradictory for me to use as a metaphor. For four days now, I've focused on the soaring, the concept of an eagle taking flight rather than digging in her heels and clinging to the past with her strong talons. (By the way, I've always felt lucky to be an American, but if I were an eagle, not so much; what woman wants to be bald?) As it turns out I have nothing to worry about as far as the conflicting messages sent by the eagle's various extremities. Those talons are strong, all right, but the only things they cling to are the tasty treats the eagle has chosen to take along for the ride. Necessary provisions.

No opposing forces -- to cling or not to cling? to soar or not to soar? -- causing inner conflict for this eagle. Yeah right. The urge to cling on to the past is so strong sometimes, I'm lucky my feet aren't so much strong as just plain ugly. Lucky because clinging to the past is pointless, and as appealing as it seems, the past can never be recreated; no matter how much you try to set everything up so nothing will change, things will never be exactly the same. Which can be a good thing if the past sucked, but if your head is filled with good memories, watch out!

I think a lot of folks going through the break up of a marriage tend to get confused by happy memories. You want out, and then all of a sudden you're out and your marriage seems, in the blurred vision of hindsight and loneliness, to be the best darn thing that ever happened to you. Memories of children growing up, family gatherings (which always seem much rosier in retrospect); sometimes it's just memories of being in your thirties rather than your fifties. How can that help but look great? And somehow, we get tricked into thinking if we stay in a dead marriage, our kids will stay young, older generations won't die off, and we will be able to turn our own aging clocks back. Irrational, sure. Tempting, you bet.

The one thing that will remain constant is the relationship between you and the person you've already had second, third, hell tenth thoughts about. The person who no longer makes you happy. The future is full of memories yet to be made, some of them happy, some not, but the prospect of sharing them with someone you don't want to be with should be enough to get those eagle wings flapping and those talons releasing their grip and hanging on only to the essentials. Should be.

I have no problem grabbing on to the good memories and taking them with me as I swoop into my next chapter. As memories only, snapshots of a time gone by -- people and a life that no longer exist in the same form. My big ugly talons may not be as strong as an eagle's but they are freakishly flexible. I'll be able to grab whatever I need to nourish myself as I move forward.

Best of Luck

As I sat in Starbucks this afternoon struggling to write an eagle-worthy post, the guy across from me set his cup down a bit too hard and launched a spray of foam my way. He was mortified, but I assured him it was not a problem, even though a big white creamy blob landed right on my leg, and another on the edge of my laptop. Bird poop, was all I could think. Eagle excrement. My story was downright shitty, and I needed to move on. Things happen for a reason.

Which is exactly what I had told an acquaintance from my yoga class the other day. We were in my car; I was driving her home because she still had not received the go-ahead from her doctor to drive after having suffered a stroke several months earlier. I hadn't seen her in, well, several months, but I had assumed that was due more to my erratic attendance than her having a near death experience.

A few years younger than I -- which means her age starts with a "4," which in my mind now means someone is barely out of diapers, although I guess I shouldn't joke about that when I'm telling you the story of a young woman who suffered a stroke -- she is active, fit, bright, and incredibly nice. Though she hasn't practiced her trade in a while, she is a gynecologist, which is particularly interesting because the stroke she suffered resulted from a device that gynecologists routinely offer up to pre-menopausal women to curtail bleeding. The device carries with it a three per cent risk of stroke. Just as I was surprised, as a kid, to learn that my dentist's kids had lots of cavities, just as I was surprised, in my thirties, when an obstetrician friend miscarried twins in her third trimester, I was a bit taken aback to hear this woman's story.

The more she told me, the more I became convinced that this had happened to her for a reason. And I told her so; even suggested she enter the world of blogging. As it turns out, her brain is still a little too addled for blogging (not that that would ever stop me), but she has been journaling her progress, and has actually come to refer to her affliction as her "stroke of luck." Well put that in your pipe and smoke it, all you pity party throwers out there. Oops, there I go, talking to myself again.

There's no denying that a forty-something mother of three having a stroke sucks; but here's where the glass looks much more than half full. Her husband is a neurologist. He does this stroke stuff for a living. So when symptoms that none of the rest of us mere mortals would have thought twice about started occurring, he insisted on taking her to the emergency room. Within a half hour of their arrival, she started to seize, but by then, her husband the Jewish doctor (maybe I should have listened to my mom) had gathered together all sorts of emergency personnel and she was intubated and ready for surgery. Half full my ass; that glass was overflowing.

At the time this happened, she was also involved in researching non-traditional forms of treatment for stroke and age-related illnesses. Weird. And she had just gotten out from behind the wheel of her car; she and her husband had been driving their daughter to college. Again, weird. And, because she won't be able to drive until December, she has been forced to walk almost everywhere, which has enabled her to notice the magnificence of the world around her in a way she never has before. And, it's been the warmest autumn in recent memory. So weird. So lucky.

She is expected to make a full recovery, and I hope, when she does, she'll share the story of her "stroke of luck." Things do happen for a reason, and when an articulate gynecologist married to a neurologist suffers a stroke related to a gynecological device while she is involved in researching alternative treatments for stroke victims and, happily, not driving, I don't think she's crazy at all for referring to what happened to her as a "stroke of luck." Good luck, that is.

And even though the guy in Starbucks who accidentally spritzed me with faux eagle poop looked at me kind of funny when I told him the mishap clearly happened for a reason because I had been writing a shitty story about birds, I think if I had taken the time to explain to him how it made me think about the "stroke of luck," he might understand. Or maybe not. After all, his cup had runneth over, and he thought it was a bad thing.

Spinning Wheels

The balmy November weather has kept the colorful leaves hanging on the trees a bit longer, and I'm still slipping into flip flops rather than furry clogs for my morning Starbucks run. And the biker guys have not yet retreated indoors; they still swarm in wildly colored spandex and oddly shaped helmets outside my pre-dawn haven, clicking in like an army of alien tap dancers and marching up to the counter like they own the place. Welcome to our planet, fellas, but go find your own Starbucks.

Yipes, how inhospitable of me; they're just men of a certain age (I'm guessing right around mine) searching for the meaning of life. So what if they wear silly outfits? I'm committed to being kinder, particularly after I received so many lovely birthday wishes from people much more thoughtful than I tend to be. There were, of course, the wonderful meals with close friends -- the usual suspects, but there were also countless Facebook well wishers, people from my past and present whom I rarely or never see, taking the time to acknowledge the day. Contrary to popular belief, the social network is not just a forum for underage drinkers and under dressed college girls to flaunt their stuff. It's all about connection, however fleeting, and it might just help keep a reclusive crankosaurus like me from falling off the face of the earth.

There were two pleasantly surprising phone calls from old friends. First, there was the call from my childhood pal, the one with whom I enjoyed breakfast on a recent visit to New York (back when I was still a fledgling blogger trying to figure out whether I really was a narcissist). The other was from from my law school buddy, the one person I still keep in touch with from those days (unless you count my husband). That is if you can call a once a year quick lunch on the day before Thanksgiving, when I blow briefly into New York, keeping in touch. They are both lifelong New Yorkers, and share an accent that makes me nostalgic for my formative years out east. Hearing from them was as comforting as sitting down to a bowl of my grandmother's chicken soup with rock hard matzoh balls, followed by a plate of her spectacular stuffed cabbage.

Both phone calls were relatively brief; we didn't spend too much time catching up on the minutiae of our lives, or our kids' lives. Nevertheless, it was obvious that they, as I am, are still searching for answers that eluded us when we were young. They, as I am, are sensing the new adventure that lies ahead as the kids leave the nest (the eagle's nest, of course), and are beginning to flex their aging wings. Getting ready for take-off. Okay, maybe there will be more limping than soaring at first, but the eagle image is my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Even limping is okay, as long as you move forward. I actually went for a bike ride the other day, determined to enjoy the unseasonable weather and, who knows, maybe search for the meaning of life. Call me vain, but you will never see me in wildly colored spandex of the sort worn by the Starbucks extraterrestrials, and I shun helmets because they always seem to slip off my head and start to strangle me. Asphyxiation strikes me as more of a threat than a spinal injury. And the clip-on bike shoes? After several near death experiences, I reserve those for indoor spinning, and would rather risk having the laces of my running shoes get caught in the gears than ever again experience the panic of going over with my feet still stuck to the bike.

Something appears to have happened to my bike since I last rode it over the summer. I can't possibly be as out of shape as I felt; I could barely pedal the damn thing. I must have been too distracted by my search for the meaning of life to feel the strong winds in my face, or notice the flattened tires, or smell the molasses somebody obviously spooned into the gears. But I limped on, arriving home alive, if just a bit breathless. (Aim low; you don't get disappointed.) And, throughout the ordeal, I always moved forward, never backwards (although I must admit I did make a complete circle).

Today, another balmy one, I thought maybe I'd wash the molasses out of the gears and fill up the tires (they don't seem flat but I'm probably not squeezing hard enough), and go for another spin. But baby birds need their rest, and learning to take flight takes time. I decided to put the bike away until next spring, and went to have a talon-icure instead.

Taking Flight

It's my birthday, and I'll cry if I want to, but I don't really want to. Nevertheless, my mother made me cry twice this morning, although I admit there was no evidence of malice in either provocation.

The first emotional breakdown came when I opened her e-card -- a sparkling "Happy Birthday" message with bright red balloons shooting upward from each letter as soon as I clicked where it told me to. The image itself made me chuckle, but I cried from pride, beaming that my almost eighty year old mother is now possessed of the technical savoir faire to send an e-card. This is a woman who still uses an original "Mr. Coffee" machine. And even before her hearing became impaired, she always believed one must scream into the phone, since the person on the other end is so far away. Her technical wizardry when it comes to email, though, never ceases to amaze me.

My second outburst came because she had actually caused me pain. Physical pain, that is, not the psychic pain one might have expected. The woman is deaf, but that didn't deter her from calling first thing in the morning and belting out a frighteningly dissonant Happy Birthday in my ear. All the wax in the world couldn't save me -- my head was still throbbing a half hour later. She has one of those caption phones, so when she read my response, which was an agonized and sarcastic "oy, that was pleasant," it probably came up as an enthusiastic and grateful "boy, what a wonderful present." Just as well.

What a drag it is, getting old. Somebody told me the other day that getting older is not for the faint of heart. Neither is getting divorced. I suppose I should have a cardiologist on retainer. Watching your children get older is no picnic either. Today, my mother is no doubt pondering not just the fifty-one years that, for her, have passed in what feels like three seconds, but also the challenges I'm facing as my life takes its new twists and turns. And she probably feels as powerless as I do when I talk to my twenty-one year old daughter, whose life has its fair share of unpredictable challenges as well. At least when I reassure her, it's familiar territory; I've been there. My mother doesn't have that luxury; she has no idea what it feels like to be where I am now, and for the first time I can remember, she's pretty much speechless.

A few days ago, I told my daughter to stop worrying about all the uncertainty -- that she is just starting her life, on the threshold of so many new and exciting things. Interesting. Thirty years apart, and we both find ourselves at square one, wondering what's in store. Different thresholds, different doorways, and certainly different mysteries lie ahead for each of us. But it's comforting to know we're not going it alone.

Life beyond the fishbowl -- for her, college, for me the neat confines of suburbia where all houses look happy from the outside -- can be scary. She often looks to me for guidance, which I hand out without hesitation, but I laugh silently to myself as I do so. I hope like hell she follows my sage advice better than I do. Fishbowls can be suffocating, but they are our security blankets. The pull backwards can sometimes be so powerful that it's almost impossible to imagine that moving forward will bring anything but bleakness and loneliness. I'm one hundred per cent certain that won't be the case for her. (At least she has a job waiting! I was officially notified that I did not get hired as a seasonal overpriced yoga clothing sales person. My friend pointed out that my unavailability for work on all the biggest shopping days of the year may have made me undesirable, but I just assume it was because I looked fat in their clothing. Yes, bad habits are tough to break, and eating disorders live on, well beyond your last purge.)

My mother, almost thirty years ahead of me, is, in some ways, just starting out as well, on the brink of a new and unfamiliar journey. There are uncharted waters ahead for her, in a world silent from hearing loss, and silent too as more and more old friends depart. We are, all three of us, babies, just learning to walk. Three generations of babies.

Some babies run before they walk. My mother, my daughter, and I may be made of sugar and spice but we come from some pretty strong stock. We'll probably bypass walking, flex our wings, and fly.