A Chocolate Chip on My Shoulder

Sunday evening, in anticipation of what promised to be a dismal Monday, I snuck off to the grocery store in my pajamas to pick up some provisions. I grabbed my two pints of Ben and Jerry's and a box of dog biscuits and scurried with great efficiency over to the self-checkout, hoping nobody would notice me, particularly since I wasn't even wearing a bra.

"Fancy meeting you here!" I prayed the person talking within inches of my ear was maybe talking to someone else. No such luck. I turned to see a friend -- a skinny friend to boot -- putting a small bag of sliced turkey and a large head of lettuce on the counter next to me. I tried to lift my boobs up with my left arm and cover the two pints with my right but it was pointless. Ugh!

"The dog biscuits are for Manny," I offered. Everything about me screamed "LOSER" at that moment; I needed her to at least know I had not yet sunk to the level of munching on dog food.

Recently, a friend, quoting somebody very famous and wise, encouraged me not to let every small setback let me feel defeated. Good advice, although I've started to wonder how many setbacks I get before I'm allowed to raise the white flag. Okay, as long as I'm breathing, that's probably not going to happen, as tempting as it might occasionally seem.

Lately, though, I tend to prefer a quote from someone even more famous and wise, the greatest philosopher and pop therapist of all time: Cookie Monster. "Today me [sic] will live in the moment unless its [sic] unpleasant in which case me [sic] will eat a cookie." I may be a stickler for grammar and punctuation, but I am certainly not going to let a few minor slip ups undermine the best advice I've received in quite some time.

My two pints of Ben and Jerry's on Sunday were soothing, but a dismal Monday arrived with a vengeance, just as I had anticipated. I tried living in the moment several times, but each moment seemed to suck a little bit more than the one before it. I succumbed to cookie number one after an entire morning's worth of bad moments, and cookie number two helped me through the worst part of the afternoon. I managed to endure a few not-so-horrible moments in the early evening, but cookie number three got me through the last bits of unpleasantness in the waning hours before bed. This morning, the crumbs on my pillow case served to remind me that at least I always have options. Cookie Monster, you are a genius!

Things could have been worse. Whole Foods could have been out of my favorite large chocolate chip cookies, and I could have been stuck with oatmeal raisin or, worse still, something labeled vegan. It's Tuesday now, and thanks to Cookie Monster and chocolate chip cookies and that bit about small setbacks and defeat floating around in the deep recesses of my brain, I have woken up with a bit of perspective and a tiny touch of optimism. Things could be far, far worse, worse even than settling for a vegan cookie.

This is not to say I will become carried away by happiness and the mere thrill of being alive. I am way too far gone right now to be in what might constitute a good mood, and will continue to push my well meaning friends away while I wallow a bit longer in my misery that is not really misery in the grand scheme of things. Just because I feel like it.

Things are definitely looking up though. I am wearing a bra, I had oatmeal for breakfast, and I have yet to start eating dog biscuits. Maybe a little wine with my cookies tonight. The possibilities are endless.

Things That Go Bump

Sure, sure, sure, kudos to Kate for emerging from the hospital so the whole world could see her baby bump. One genius reporter applauded the Duchess's derring-do, suggesting the royal mum is so single-mindedly focused on her new baby she cannot think of anything else. 

Seriously, are people this stupid? Kate, like the rest of us mortal postpartum moms who instinctively fall in love with the thing that's been pulled from between our legs only to be suctioned, without warning, onto our nipples, is mortified. Mortified that after an entire person and what felt like gallons of water and a good portion of her insides just poured out of her body, she still looks pregnant. Like the rest of us, she's a multi-tasker, and she is perfectly capable of adoring her newborn while she obsesses about what the whole sordid affair has done to her body. 

The truth is, if I had looked as skinny everywhere else as Kate does, I would have demanded a public viewing and a photo op as well. Like most mortals though, I did not emerge from labor and delivery with a cute little bump that has nothing to do with excess fat. My rather amorphous and hideous bump was just one of many atrocities I sported after birth. My once small breasts were replaced by mutant looking watermelons protruding at odd angles from my chest, unsightly bloat distorted my face, and some mysterious gravitational force suddenly pulled my butt cheeks down toward the backs of my knees. And I did not emerge from the hospital wearing a "made just for me" robin's egg blue polka dot dress and stylish pumps. Hardly. I wore old sweats and stuffed my waterlogged feet into flip flops. I won't even mention the ice pack that was strapped into my torn granny pants. Or the greasy matted hair that was weeks away from being touched by anyone, much less a royal stylist.

I say all this with not an ounce of disdain for Kate. As tall and thin and free of excess bloat as she is, the only difference between me and Kate (okay, for purposes of this particular conversation) is that she has a staff. Otherwise, she, like me and mortal women everywhere, was no doubt just as focused and obsessed about her appearance as she was about her newborn child. Like the rest of us, she looked at herself in the mirror in horror and wondered what kind of misogynistic God lets an entire person and gallons of water and a good portion of your insides pour out of you (all while you're suffering indescribably intense pain) and then keeps you looking as if none of this has happened. 

Kate's lucky in a lot of ways. It may have been annoying listening to thousands of people she doesn't know mill around outside while she was experiencing what should have been an intensely personal life changing event, but at least nobody will approach her in a restaurant in the coming weeks and ask her when she is due. Sometimes publicity has its perks, and I, for one, would have given just about anything to be spared that particular (and repeated) morale buster. 

Again, kudos to Kate for not hiding the bump. But since when do carefully orchestrated (and coiffed and outfitted) public appearances tell us anything? Duchess love, like garden variety mother love, will reveal itself every day, behind closed palace doors, long after the bump disappears. Or, heaven forbid, even if it doesn't. 

Confucius Say....

If a walk is as good as a hit, then -- at least in my play book -- losing a tennis match by only two points in a third set tie breaker is as good as a win. Or at least as close to a win as I've come in quite some time.

Incapacitating back pain and foot swelling notwithstanding, the high lasted well into the next day, that indescribable high that can only come from losing by just a little. It is not lost on me that some folks might find the whole concept a bit odd. It occurs to me that I have indeed never seen a feel-good movie or read a feel-good book about losing by only a little. Which only tells me that it hasn't all been done before, that there is at least something new under the sun. My screenplay has begun to write itself. Chariots of Smolder. Sort of Breaking Away. The Lukewarm News Bears. Miracle, Practically. 

The other day I visited with my ex husband who was visiting his companion of almost four years at a hospice care facility, and no, unfortunately, it is not because she works there. I use the word "companion" because I believe that, at fifty-two, she is too old to be referred to as a "girlfriend." Too old to be a girlfriend, but far too young to be dying. At first I was offended by the other folks in the family waiting room, by their laughter, by the excruciatingly loud noise of the coffee machine. Shut up! I wanted to shout. My ex husband's girlfriend who is too old to be called his girlfriend but far too young to be dying, the woman who made him happy after I made him miserable, is out there causing him way more misery than I ever could have caused him -- or he ever could have caused me -- even on our most vicious days. How could anyone be laughing, or drinking coffee? Somehow, minutes later, we were both laughing and drinking coffee. Strange.

I asked him if he ever wonders whether there is some great meaning in all of this.  He said "no." Fair enough; it's certainly not surprising that we disagree on something. I just cannot help but think there has to be some meaning, that all things -- good or bad -- happen for a reason. I raised the same issue less than twenty-four hours later at a job interview that had presented itself at what seemed to me to be a perfect time. "I believe in serendipity." We both said it at exactly the same time, this woman I barely knew and I. I might not get the job but, for at least a moment, we were on the same page. Not a total loss. An "almost win." Maybe things would have worked out better if I had been married to her. 

That night, I met an old friend for dinner at an Asian restaurant. He had come armed with essays ripped from newspapers. "You could have written these," he told me. "Don't give up." I stuffed them in my purse, making a mental note to myself to read them later, although I suppose that really wasn't the point. I promised my friend I would continue to send my stuff out, even though I know there's not a chance in hell any of my emails get opened, much less read. We moved on to other, less frustrating topics. Like wondering which of our children would take care of us when we become old and dotty.

I grabbed a fortune cookie, leaving the check for him, proving the old adage that he who hesitates gets stuck paying. I cracked open the cookie and was startled by the partial accuracy of the prediction. You will soon travel a great distance to do business. I leave for Japan in two weeks. And I am hoping to be gainfully employed soon, though I was counting on doing business a bit closer to home. Another "almost win." I could sense the onset of another indescribable high.

I decided to go for broke and open a second cookie (there were four cookies and only one check, so I don't think I was being greedy). You have a charming way with words and should write a book. Again, not a clean win -- nobody has ever described me or any aspect of me as charming -- but not a total loss either. A random cookie encouraging me to write a book? Talk about serendipity.

The hospice facility was as chock full of zen as any place I've ever been. Signs pointed toward a healing garden, which seemed incongruous in a place that exists for those who cannot be healed. My voice echoed loudly against the whispering air in the lobby, and I felt strangely out of place as I waited for the elevator door to glide silently open. Upstairs there was a soundless bustle of nurses criss-crossing the halls as they slipped in and out of rooms to work their magic. And then, the relief of the family waiting room. The laughter. The coffee.

Maybe the healing garden is for the visitors, or maybe it's for the people who work there. Maybe it reminds everyone that all is not lost. Even in the face of unspeakable tragedy, a walk in the healing garden is as good as a hit, or at least, for the moment, as good as it gets.

Seriously. I am not making this up!

The Ruling Crass

Poor Kate.

Let's just say it's a good thing she's not Jewish. She will never be able to say "my son, the doctor," won't even waste time fantasizing about it. On the up side, she will never have to worry about whether he will get into a decent school, or panic when it is Sunday and he's running a fever and the doctor's offices are closed. Being the mother of a future king has its perks.

The royal baby watch went on for what seemed like an eternity -- kudos to Kate and her little prince for holding out so long. I couldn't help but wonder, yesterday, what it felt like to be Kate inside that hospital, sucking on ice cubes and timing contractions and looking at her husband the future king and wanting to kill him for making her fat and sitting around doing nothing while her body felt like it was  being cracked open. I wondered whether she shouted obscenities -- to the extent a Brit can shout obscenities; everything they say sounds so articulate -- and demanded that he get up off his royal arse and tell all those idiots outside to shut up and go away.

Maybe she's a different breed from the rest of us. Maybe she doesn't mind sharing the day her life changed irrevocably with everyone else in the world. Maybe she figures she'll have plenty of down time in the coming weeks, time to count her baby's toes and bury her nose in the folds of her baby's neck and stare at her baby for hours wondering how on earth he came to be. From the beginning, Kate has seemed to take royalty in stride, has never had that "deer in headlights" look that her mother-in-law always seemed to have. And if Diana could manage, as well as she did, to give her babies some semblance of normalcy, my money's on Kate.

I'm thinking this kid will have a much easier time of it than his dad did, or any of his ancestors for that matter. Even if his parents continue to toe the line, there's always wild Uncle Harry and hot Aunt Pippa to keep him grounded. Thanksgiving at the palace is bound to be a hoot with Harry, the boy who would never be king, and P-Middy, Her Royal Hotness, the crass social climber. (Not as good a climber as her big sis, which I would think just makes her unlucky more than crass, but then again I've never understood the Brits.) Long live the bumbling and imperfect younger siblings. I know exactly how they feel. My older brother is a doctor.

But back to Kate. For a brief period, each time I had a baby, I wanted everyone else to go away. Mother Nature -- who knows a lot about being a mother -- wires us that way. The first born invites all sorts of attention, though, even for us regular folk. It takes a while for the novelty to wear off, but it always does. It's why younger siblings do crazy stuff; we just want to be noticed.

I look forward to the birth of number two, for Kate's sake. He -- or she -- will no doubt come into the world with a bit less fanfare than the future king, and Kate might, for the first time, be able to enjoy some of the private moments that will be taken from her this time around. But number two will no doubt make up for the lack of fanfare one day. Baby number two will never wear a crown, but that baby will give Will and Kate their premature wrinkles and gray hair, long before Uncle Harry and Aunt Pippa show any signs of deterioration. I can't even imagine what baby number three will do.

The older sibs may rule, but the younger sibs rock.

I Gotta Crow!

My daughter and I went to a Sheryl Crow concert the other night. Even after doing about a hundred laps around the crowded lawn, not one person stopped me to ask why I wasn't busy tuning my guitars before I went on stage. As far as I could tell, there wasn't even a single double take. It's not that I was surprised, but I was still bummed.

For years, an occasional stranger would ask me if anybody has ever told me I look like Sheryl Crow. Each time it happened I would get a bit of a thrill, enjoy a few moments if imagining myself as a rock star. Those closest to me have generally been baffled by the whole thing, and I myself have for years searched the mirror in vain for any resemblance. Nevertheless it's always nice to consider other folks' point of view, especially when it beats the heck out of your own.

Like I said, I was not surprised that I managed to fly under the radar all those hours, even among people who were there for the sole purpose of seeing my one time doppelganger in the flesh. Before I left for the concert, I mentioned it to a friend who had entered my circle fairly recently, long after the last mention of any resemblance. "Oh I love Sheryl Crow," he said. I waited, thinking the connection would immediately spring into his mind. Nothing.

"She's great, isn't she?" I thought if I kept the conversation going he would come to his senses.

"Yeah. I really love her." Then, nothing. I wanted to hang myself. Or maybe start belting out a tune. All I Wanna Do.... All I wanna do is throttle you. Or at least unfriend you. Damn it.

Sigh. Anyway, the concert was great, and sometimes when the Jumbotron caught Sheryl at a particularly bad moment and at a particularly bad angle with her hair starting to wilt and get plastered to the sides of her sweaty face I could sort of detect a few wrinkles and maybe an ever so slight resemblance to what I see in the mirror on what would be for me a particularly good day. I soon forgot about the thousands who had neglected to ask for my autograph; not even the monsoon blowing horizontal rain drops at the backs of our heads dampened my spirits. After all, my mom would be arriving in the morning to do that. Lovable as she is, she rarely disappoints.

Nor does my ex. He has always been pretty well tuned in to my innermost thoughts, and still knows just what to say to make matters worse. Case in point when I told him we had gone to the concert. "Did anyone tell you you look like Sheryl Crow's mother?" He's good.

I'm better though. "Just call me Sheryl Crowsfeet." He laughed. He may not be waxing nostalgic about my rock star good looks but I bet he really misses my keen sense of humor.

Good things come to those who wait, and I have learned to be patient. I gave my friend -- the one who loves Sheryl Crow -- one more chance before I hit the "unfriend" button. I called, endured the obligatory how are yous and feigned interest in his weekend.

"The concert was awesome, by the way." The cad didn't even bring it up. I finally had to interrupt his story about whatever he thought was so interesting so we could get down to the business of the phone call.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Glad you had fun."

"She puts on a great show." I was not giving up so easily.

"I know. I saw her years ago at blah blah blah...." Seriously. Did he know how close he was to losing a loyal and caring friend. I was about to hang up on him when he seemed to be changing direction. "You know it's the strangest thing. After you told me you were going I took out one of my old Sheryl Crow CD's."

Omigod! I was about to have an orgasm. I knew what was coming.

"Has anyone ever told you how much you look like her?"

YES, YES, YES! There is a god! Hey, if it makes me happy, it can't be that bad.

Foot Loose

An old friend was giving me some pointers to help me prepare for the zillions of job interviews I was about to embark upon thanks to my blog post about job hunting in my underwear.

"Don't dress like a ho, by the way," he suggested, banking on his years of expertise in the world of corporate gamesmanship. And reacting, I suppose, to what he thought was an overly plunging neckline on my sundress. I suggested he not make assumptions about what kind of job I might be seeking, and, anyway, my neckline would pretty much have to plunge into my sandals to reveal anything inappropriate (or, in my case, frightening).

Point well taken though about dressing like a ho, particularly on the off chance the pole dancing position in the local assisted living complex doesn't pan out. I assured him my "interview outfit" is already hanging in the closet. (I didn't want to jinx anything and spring for a second one; I'm guessing I'll get a lot of mileage out of just the one for a while.) I've even done some research on the clothing, which is how I already knew I should probably not dress like a ho, and it's also how I knew -- much to my relief -- that I could wear black pumps with a blue dress. The last thing I need in my closet right now is a brand new pair of excruciatingly uncomfortable shoes.

The conversation turned to more serious matters, like how I might avoid sounding like an idiot. My children think this is a lost cause, but my friends at least pretend there's something to work with. "So if you could do one thing in your life differently, what would it be?"

"Seriously? Somebody might ask me that?" He looked at me with a mix of disdain and pity. I wanted to tell him more about the outfit, how the blue dress with the black pumps would tell my prospective employers everything they need to know. That I am edgy, a renegade, avant garde to the point that I might even wear white after Labor Day. Someone who can't help but think outside the box; I will need an assistant just to sift through all the offers.

"Answer the question!"

Aargh. Seems like it would be a lay up, asking a woman who's been divorced for less than a year what she would do differently. But I was stumped. I've made more mistakes than I care to mention, taken more missteps than I care to acknowledge, but if I had done everything right how would I know all that I know? To paraphrase a woman I know who has followed her own jagged path, all the mistakes, all the bad decisions, brought me here. Here, to where I am now, which may not seem enviable to the naked eye, but is, in many ways, exactly where I want to be. Here can be exhausting at times, a place where anxiety occasionally wreaks havoc with my once athletic pulse, but here is a place of constant growth and learning and reflection. Here is a place where I can put the bumpy journey into perspective, apologize when I need to, laugh about it when I am ready, and turn some of the ridiculousness into wisdom for the benefit of my children and, maybe more importantly, myself.

"I'd wear sensible shoes." He rolled his eyes. Back in the day, a good friend crafted an entire speech at her daughter's bat mitzvah around sensible shoes. I thought it was brilliant at the time, and now, here, all these years later, I still think the shoes are the one thing I would change. I could live without the corns and the bone spurs and the plantar fasciitis; they have brought nothing of value to my table.

There will no doubt be many bumps in the road ahead, on that jagged path from here to there. I'll throw on the stretched out old black pumps when I have to, and go barefoot whenever I can.

Rock of Aces

My first thought was it had to be the fish.

Our friend's father has been dying for a while, so the funeral home and the Jewish catering place were already on speed dial (and not necessarily in that order). Moments after he passed away on Sunday, cell phones all over the neighborhood vibrated with the news. The group texting session in which I was included descended almost instantaneously into a bit of gallows humor. Death tends to bring that out in the best of us, even those who usually have a filter. It's just easier than feeling sad. The banter stopped abruptly when one friend mentioned that only one among us still has a living father. My phone went silent; it was as if everyone had stopped breathing.

For a moment anyway. A friend was bereaved, and arrangements had to be made. Death was bad enough; the uncertainty about when the funeral might be was almost too much to bear. Nobody wanted to have to cancel a tennis game or a round of golf. The death of a friend's parent always gives us pause but, hey, life is for the living. Life is short, and summer is even shorter -- particularly in Chicago.

All the same, though, we prepare ourselves for the worst, brace ourselves to make the ultimate sacrifices for a friend in need. Like everyone else, we Jews have our rituals to get us through, and everybody bands together like little tug boats ushering a wounded and grieving ship into dock. And we do it with enough food to feed a small African nation for at least a month. Shiva (the ritual condolence period) is about comfort, and, for Jews, that means food and lots of it. If you want alcohol, head to the wake one suburb over.

The group text had turned from tee times to the menu. "They want a fish tray." This had to be a joke. Nancy, our bereaved friend, is allergic to fish. Really allergic, to the point where she can't even sit next to someone eating fish. And the shiva will be at her house. Seriously? "Seriously. Her mom wants it." Apparently the Torah commands it: Thou must have a fish tray at a shiva. Or something like that. We launched into a discussion of whether our friend Martha -- the queen of the alphabet poem -- would compose one for the funeral. She was in on the group text, and we all began to weigh in with ideas. "A" is for allergic. "A" is for anaphylactic shock. Yipes. "A" is for appalling. And "A" is for anyway,  there's just no time at a brief Jewish funeral for a 26 stanza poem. (Yes, I know, my friend, you are reading this, and in all fairness, I also know that the only thing longer -- and by far more tedious and less clever -- than one of your alphabet poems is one of my bar mitzvah speeches.)

So fish it would be, and, because everything had been on speed dial, the fish would be arriving in about twenty-four hours, at about the same time our friend's dad was to be lowered into the ground. Which is how I found myself helping out, waiting for the fish tray (and the bagels and the rye bread and the fruit platter and the cookies and the cakes and, thank God, the meat tray -- Torah be damned). And following the instructions about exactly what time the coffee pots should be plugged in and the ice and soda transferred to the cooler and the ice bucket filled. There were lists and post-it notes everywhere. Nothing was left to chance; the entire kitchen was mapped out, and there would be hell to pay if the kugel ended up on top of the bagel post-it.

I get it, sort of. Having a parent die is bad enough. You certainly don't want anything else to go wrong. Which is why my thoughts immediately went to fish and anaphylactic shock when I returned to the shiva house after an hour hiatus to find the street being cleared for fire trucks. Okay, well first my thoughts went to the delicious firemen who were no doubt inside the trucks, but then I thought about the fish. All the post-its and lists in the world could not protect Nancy from having a fatal allergic reaction at her father's shiva. I was torn between horror and amusement.

The good news is it wasn't the fish, and it wasn't Nancy. It was her father-in-law. The excitement and heat of the day had gotten to him, wreaking havoc with his blood pressure. I think he looked okay as they carted him out in a wheelchair, but to be honest, I was too mesmerized by the firemen to notice. So far, this was the best shiva ever.

Within minutes, I pulled myself together and turned my thoughts back to bereavement; I encouraged Nancy to find herself some alcohol and a straw. Thankfully, she's not very religious, and there was some vodka close at hand. As I berated myself silently for having impure thoughts about firemen in a shiva house, a gentleman approached our group and announced he had lost his wedding ring. The ring he had not taken off for more than twenty-five years was gone; he wiggled his fingers in the air to prove it. Crazy. It was about a hundred degrees, and I could tell his fingers were as swollen as everyone else's. I was intrigued.

As it turns out, the man's own father had passed away only two weeks earlier, and he had seized upon the opportunity to visit him at the cemetery after participating in the dirt shoveling ritual for Nancy's dad. His dad, as it turns out, is resting above ground, in a mausoleum.

"It's in the mausoleum," I practically shrieked. "Your dad wants you to come back." I was not in the least bit surprised when the man looked at me as if I were nuts.

"Seriously," I told him. "I'm not a kook. I write a blog." He was still looking at me funny, but he didn't move. "It's a sign."

He suddenly looked as if he had seen a ghost. He told me he and his sister had talked to his dad, weeks before he died, about what kind of signs he might give them just to let him know he was there. A family of poker players, they had settled on a pair of aces. Four aces seemed too untenable, but a pair, that would be a reasonable sign. So, about a week ago, my new friend had been in a casino, playing poker all weekend, and, all weekend, no aces. Until the last hand, the one just before they left to come back home. There were his two aces. Pocket aces, he called them. I don't play poker, so I have no idea what that means. But I know his dad put them there.

"It was cold in the mausoleum, wasn't it?" I was as sure as ever he would find his ring there.

"Yes."

"So how do you put a rock on a grave in a mausoleum?" Jews don't put flowers on their loved ones' graves. They use rocks, selected carefully from the ground near the tombstone. I imagined that maybe there were rocks stuck on the mausoleum walls like little refrigerator magnets.

My new friend was literally jumping out of his skin. "There's a box of rocks!" And yes, he had dug his fingers in, just as I would have done, looking for the perfect rock. The ring had to be in there, in the air conditioned box. He went outside to call the cemetery. I slipped out just in case somebody called the men in the white coats to cart the two of us away.

Our parents are the ones who love us unconditionally. When they leave us here, we feel as if we have been cut off at the knees, rootless, unable to stand. It's been fifteen years since my father left me, but I still get signs from him every now and then, usually just a small, almost imperceptible gesture to let me know he's still looking out for me. And to remind me to say hi every once in a while, even when I get wrapped up in nonsense. Sometimes, when I'm not paying attention, I miss the signs. But I think I get the really important ones.

Dad, you would have loved this shiva. And the fish was to die for.

Watchin' it Jiggle

Last night I had my first jello shot. And my second, third, fourth, and fifth. And possibly my last.

It took me five shots just to get the hang of it. I am a perfectionist, and I would not give up until I succeeded in sucking one down clean. (Everyone thought, since I was the single chick, I'd have good technique; go figure.) Thankfully, I had a designated driver and I metabolize alcohol at a ridiculously fast rate (oh, were it only so with all the chocolate and fried food that for some reason insists on making a lengthy pit stop at my mid-section). I was home and in bed early, and awake at my usual ungodly hour with no more than a moderate pounding headache.

So while most normal people are still sound asleep on what should be a lazy summer Sunday morning I am wide awake and have already put in a good day's work. I have fed and walked the dog, popped in some laundry, emailed my mom, and engaged in my daily (as of five days ago) routine of job hunting in my underwear. I am already fantasizing about lunch, but the cupboard is bare and stores are not yet open. Sigh.

I have discovered that thoughts about putting my house back on the market and keeping it in shape for today's open house and the endless stream of showings that will no doubt ensue are wonderful appetite suppressors. My hunger pangs have turned to nausea as I think about all the tasks I must complete this morning, including replacing the no-brainer flowers in the planters on my front stoop that I managed to kill in about three days. The feedback form from yesterday's showing didn't help my mood. The folks loved the house -- or at least had no problem with it -- but hated the location. Does that mean it's location in deep dark suburbia generally or on a decidedly non-idyllic suburban corner in particular. The sometimes three lane but usually two lane "thoroughfare" bordering the side of my house has never bothered me; I grew up dodging traffic and bullets on the mean streets of Brooklyn. Ambulance and police sirens were my lullabies. Sigh.

The good news, I suppose, is -- except for the dead flowers, which really give off kind of an icky vibe --  I don't really feel the need to tidy up any more than I already have. Let the buyers beware; if they open up my daughter's closet, there will be an avalanche. But it will be an avalanche filled with all the trappings of upper middle class Jewish suburbia -- designer jeans, Tory Burch shoes and purses, and sweatshirts and sweatpants festooned with logos from zillions of bar and bat mitzvahs. Hopefully, the designer muck will take their minds off the cars whizzing by at twenty miles per hour on the veritable freeway outside her window.

Sigh. I just scrolled through the pictures on my phone from last night's party. I look really happy, in a blurry sort of way. Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn't be so hasty about giving up the jello shots.

Thinking Outside the Boxes

It takes more to get me discouraged than having to undo all the packing I did to be ready for a closing date on my house that was way earlier than I either desired or expected. I've wasted lots more time doing lots more useless things over the years; this is child's play.

Really. It's child's play. Or it seemed to be, yesterday, when I discovered the fastest way to get heavy boxes that, as it turns out, are too large to fit through any of my wide variety of closet doors, from the second floor to the basement is to push them from the top step and watch them tumble end over end until they come to a crashing halt at the landing. I watched, wide-eyed, as box number one bounced its way down to the first floor hallway, coming to a dead stop on the wood floor. When I realized it had not only remained in tact but also landed right side up I literally squealed with delight. I am easily amused.

Box number two posed a dilemma. I considered dashing down the stairs to move number one out of the way, but I decided it would be far more entertaining to see whether the impact would cause box number one to slide over or explode. And frankly I was too tired to make another trip down and up, so I held my breath, gave number two a gentle shove, and hoped for the best. It doesn't hurt to dream.

Things could have been much worse. There was not so much an explosion as a caving in, which made box one look a little bit like Quasimodo, but whatever really important items I had stowed away inside remained stowed away inside, ready at a moment's notice, now, to move to a new home and do little more than take up space. Just like they always did. Eventually, the first set of boxes all made it down to the basement, bumped and bruised but no worse for wear.

I was ready for round two at the crack of dawn this morning. Thinking the sound of large boxes crashing down entire flights of stairs might not be well received by my still sleeping daughter and dog, I decided to take a more hands on approach. Which is how my right hand somehow got stuck between a really big box and a really hard and quite inflexible wall and immediately blew up like a purple balloon. Not quite as hideous as the colossal indentation on the big box, but last time I looked, boxes don't feel pain. So I'm bumped and bruised for a change, but, as always, no worse for wear.

Frankly, I'm not sure what I should do with all these boxes now that they are secreted away in the basement. It does seem a little silly to unpack only to end up packing again, although I am a firm believer in Murphy's Law. Bring an umbrella, it won't rain. Leave the umbrella home, there will be a monsoon. Leave the boxes packed, the house will not sell. Unpack them, there will be a bidding war and a ridiculously short closing date. Hmm, I suppose I'm in charge, which would be great if I knew what I really wanted. Maybe if I split the baby, unpack half, I'll sell but get to stay for a bit.

Yes, that's what I'll do. It feels good, having control over my own destiny.

Undressing for Success

Pounding the pavement is so much easier than it was, back in the day.

You can do it in your underwear, without getting arrested. I discovered this yesterday when I spent the better part of the morning sitting on the couch in boxers and an old tee shirt searching for a job. Without squeezing my ass into pants or wasting even one eight by ten sheet of precious natural resource, I fired off about ten resumes, each one with a unique cover letter, each one tailor made to make me sound like the person someone out there might want me to be.

If, by some miracle, I get called for an interview, I'll suggest Skype. That way I can still avoid getting dressed from the waist down (which is where the agony of tight zippers hits hardest), and I can continue to get the utmost enjoyment out of my house. It bothered me, these last couple of months, toiling away to spruce up my long neglected home solely for the enjoyment of somebody else. Now that the sale has fallen apart, I get to cuddle up with my laptop, unencumbered by clutter, free to graze in the pantry without breaking my teeth on expired crackers and dig my toes into carpet that is neither shredded nor pee stained and bask in the glow of blandly painted walls. If I can finally get the cable company to fix all the broken cable boxes and ensure I have hundreds of channels in every room, I won't even need a job. I won't ever have to leave the house.

Job hunting in the new millennium may be convenient, but it's complicated. The terminology can be baffling, and it's tricky trying to convince someone that a certain position is your dream job when you don't even know what it means. Take, for example, one of the openings I applied for yesterday: Knowledge Management Legal Assistant. Wow. Try saying that three times fast. Or once.

I seemed to have the basic educational requirements, so I proceeded to click through the steps of the application process. Things were going well at first; the questions were easy, and I could always look at one of my versions of my resume if I got stumped. (Sometimes I forget my phone number.) When I got to step 9 though, I realized I could no longer avoid the dreaded cover letter, which meant I could no longer pretend I knew what the hell I was applying for. But still, in my underwear, I was able to consult with my best friend Google, which immediately led me to my other best friend, Wikipedia. I would know, within seconds, what knowledge management is, and what kind of astronomical salary I should demand for my expertise in that area.

Or so I thought. Sometimes even best friends can let you down.  The Wikipedia entry for "knowledge management" was unhelpful. It began this way: Not to be confused with Information Management. Okay, there was no danger of that, since I have no idea what information management is either. I read on. Knowledge management (KM) comprises a range of strategies and practices used in an organisation to identify, create, represent, distribute, and enable adoption of insights and experiences. 

Huh? I hate when Wikipedia gets pretentious and speaks in a foreign tongue. (I could tell it was speaking British because of the way "organisation" was spelled.) Seriously, don't those people know how to sound things out? Anyway, I gave up. KM sounded fascinating, mostly because I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was, so if I was going to land this job as a KMLA I needed to be creative.

I crafted a cover letter, and hoped the person reading it had a good sense of adventure, or at least some sense of humor. I'm paraphrasing, but here's what it said, essentially: "I don't know what the heck a Knowledge Management Legal Assistant does, but it sounds like it would be right up my alley. I am just glad this job isn't about Information Management, because that is sooooo not my area of expertise. I look forward to hearing from you."

No, I have not heard back yet, but it has only been a day. And today is another glorious day, too hot to go outside, perfect for sitting on my couch with my laptop, dressed for success in my underwear and a tee shirt, pounding and clicking the virtual pavement while I enjoy my clutter free and blandly painted house and nosh on fresh crackers without digging my toes into shredded and pee stained carpet. Beats workin'.

Let's Not Make a Deal

My realtor sounded giddy when she called yesterday afternoon. The house we had wanted to rent, the one that had been handed over to someone else, had been handed back and was ours if we still wanted it. For a moment I thought about standing on principle, telling them to take the house and shove it. The moment passed quickly. There would be no need to move twice, no need for pricey storage, no need to sell off all the excess furniture in my basement in the next two weeks. I almost forgot about how angry I had been in the morning, how I had decided to fire the attorney who was diligently not working out the final details in the sale of our current home.

There was a spring in my step. I was in such a good mood I didn't even go through the roof when I received a copy of the email the attorney I wanted so badly to fire had sent to the buyers' attorney, the email that, in both tone and content, was pretty much the opposite of what I had instructed him to say. I remained calm, shot off what I thought was a pretty level headed suggestion on how my realtor could intercede to undo whatever damage the lawyer had done, and went back to the business of packing and tossing. I barely noticed the aches and pains that had overtaken every joint and muscle as I reached and sorted and lifted and pushed. Everything was going to work out, just like my mom always told me. 

And then came the email. The matter-of-fact one sentence missive from the attorney I wanted so badly to fire telling us that the deal was cancelled, "as per" the attached letter. "As per." I hate that phrase. Just like that. Poof. Done. Never mind, you don't have to continue to bust your butt packing so you can be out in time for the ridiculously short closing date these folks wanted. Not only would there be no need to move twice, there wouldn't even be a need to move once. And still, no pricey storage, no need to sell the excess furniture in the basement. Why the heck was I so angry? 

Anyway, while everybody was changing their mind, I got a call from the broker whose son owns the rental house that fell through and then was available again when the other one fell through (available, that is, if they got around to evicting the current tenant, which I had offered to do with my bare hands) before the other one that fell through became available again telling me never mind, I couldn't have it because they sold it. She sounded puzzled when I laughed. I'm happy for them, even though I have a sneaking suspicion it's all going to fall apart. It seems to be the way it goes.

While everything else seems to be moving and shaking -- or shaking up, more accurately -- some things remain constant. When I appeared in Starbucks this morning, my grande with room was waiting for me and at least a dozen boxes were stacked behind the counter, awaiting my arrival. I explained that I would not be needing them -- the boxes, not the coffee -- at least not now. But the folks in Starbucks don't give up that easily; they're optimistic (must be all the caffeine). They proceeded to break down the boxes, flatten them out for me so I'd be able to store them for the next packing episode.

Funny, as I sit in my house gazing at the newly emptied bookshelves in my office I feel strangely calm. I'm not going to put all the books back; somehow I'll manage to fill up the shelves and the drawers again, maybe more selectively this time around, without all the junk. It doesn't matter. The cleared spaces don't bother me; I'm just enjoying, this morning, the cozy familiarity, the security of knowing we can stay at home for a while. The truth is I wasn't really ready to go. At some point I'll have to be, but for now, I'm having no trouble slipping back into that sensible old shoe.

Predictably, when I emailed my mom to tell her the deal was off, she told me everything would work out. Probably even better. I believe she is right, as moms usually are.

Dancing Queens

It's weird. I remember teaching each of my children how to walk. Well, not so much teaching them but coaxing them through it, giving them the bits of encouragement they needed to keep going. I loved those first days, the ones when they would surprise themselves just to be standing, then propel themselves into my waiting arms.

All three of them have been standing on their own two feet for quite some time, walking and propelling themselves forward without my help. Some days, my youngest daughter kicks it up a notch, and she dances. Not organized dancing, but the kind that just comes naturally when you're feeling good, the kind that is so contagious the people around you can swear they hear music. Like the other day, when we had sushi for lunch and then went to the ladies room, together, which wouldn't be so odd if the bathroom hadn't been a "onesie." When we pushed the door open and realized this, we looked at each other, then looked both ways to make sure nobody was watching, shrugged and marched in together. I am pretty sure there was music playing, really odd music; at least we both heard it. We burst out laughing, and she started to dance. I followed suit.

After a minute or so, I was laughing so hard I had to pee, which made it all the more sweet that we were in the bathroom and not, say, in the kitchen. I danced (yes, like a white woman) over to the toilet; she danced over to the toilet paper roll, unraveling it and twirling it over her head as if she were a  rhythmic gymnast. We did a half do-si-do to switch places. I did what I have to assume was a graceless sashay over to the sink, and watched in the mirror as she glided up behind me. After tossing our towels into the basket with a dramatic flourish, we pushed the door open a crack, made sure nobody was paying attention, and tried our best to do a dignified strut out of the restaurant. A midday walk of shame, and all we did was dance.

I could swear I heard the music for the rest of the afternoon. We danced our way through a bit of shopping, a cup of gelato, and a leisurely stroll through town. It felt as if the ground beneath us had become a makeshift dance floor where troubles seemed relegated to the sidelines, drowned out by the music. For me, the day could easily have gone the other way. I had accompanied my daughter to the photography studio while she sat for her senior yearbook pictures. One of the first reminders in what promises to be a year full of reminders that she is ready to leave. That the little girl who was as surprised as anybody when she propelled herself into my arms so many years ago is ready to run, ready to dance, and more than ready to fly.

I am the one who is shaky these days, the one who is constantly surprised when I find myself standing, much less propelling myself forward. But forward I go, whether there is someone waiting to catch me or not. My daughter is a reliable sidekick, strong and optimistic, but it is not her job to catch me when I wobble. She does, however, teach me how to keep going sometimes, when the going gets tough. Not so much teach, but coax me and give me little bits of encouragement on those days when even baby steps seem like a challenge. She has a sixth sense about all that, knows when I need that extra little push.

All I have to do in return is continue to be her rock, the one she knows will work things out when life seems a bit uncertain. She worries, for example, that in a few weeks, when we close on our house, we will not have a place to live. Like me, she is independent, and does not view temporarily moving in with friends as a viable option. She knows I still don't really have a firm plan, that there are still too many balls in the air, and that makes her a little nervous. But she knows, deep down, no matter how shaky I may appear some days, that I will not drop the balls, and that I will somehow manage to figure it all out. She's right. I'm pretty sure.

She is an avid runner now, as I once was before my hips and knees and other wobbly parts convinced me to quit. I miss it, that incomparable rush of adrenaline, the clarity and optimism that go hand in hand with hitting your stride. We decided the other day that she would teach me to run again. Well, not so much teach me but coax me and give me those bits of encouragement I need to keep going. We began on the day of the dance, with baby steps; while I snuck some preemptive Advil, she mapped out a manageable mile long loop. "No rush, mom," she told me as I whined my way through the first few paces. "All you need to do is finish." Easy for her to say; two minutes into it, I couldn't even breathe. Which at least distracted me from the slight twinge in my hip. "Halfway there, mom," she announced as we rounded the second corner. Why the heck wasn't the little shit wheezing? All I wanted to do was stop and eat some cheesecake. "Home stretch!" Had I said the cheesecake thing out loud? She measured the remaining distance by the number of houses. As long as she kept talking, she knew I wouldn't stop. She can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.

We have achieved a delicate balance in the last few years, defining and redefining our roles in a household where we are the only two remaining. We teach and coax and encourage each other, as needed. When it comes to running, she is in charge. When it comes to working out all the logistics to keep us safe and not drop any of the balls, that's my department. Seems fair enough.

Somehow, we will dance across the finish line together.

Border Conflicts

They are a wily bunch, those Canadians. Classic underdogs, they love to cut us down, just so they can feel better. And we bask in the glory of our long held superiority, the classic sleeping giant about to be caught off guard.

Our country’s birthday always gets Canadians particularly agitated. My friend from the wilds of Nova Scotia sent me an e-card this week, as she often does, wishing me a happy July 4th. The card seemed heartfelt, as it always does, but this year it included a not-so-subtle dig. The poor-neighbor-resentment has surfaced big time, and all of a sudden it’s my fault that as massive as they are, those Canadians just can’t extract themselves from our shadow. Maybe they need to look inward, start by choosing one language.

But everyone needs a scapegoat, and Canadians love to beat their fists against our powerful chest in an effort to suggest that widely held perceptions of Canadian inferiority (felt most acutely by Canadians themselves because we folks down here are really way too self-involved to give a shit) are unjustified.  I, for one, usually ignore it. But this year’s card gave me pause.

The card, a colorful and animated short cartoon set to the cheerful accompaniment of Yankee Doodle, hinted at a challenge up front: Please do not forget to do the puzzle at the end. Yay. I love puzzles. My Canadian friend knows I fancy myself a great intellectual, and she also knows how important it is to those of us who have reached a certain age to keep the brain cells oxygenated. Experts tell us puzzles are the way to go, no matter what your nationality. Even Canadians do their best to stave off further mental decline with an occasional brain teaser. (So what if they can’t finish; it’s the effort that counts.) I was so excited I have to admit I fast forwarded through the adorable card.

Well, she got me. There, before me on the screen, was an empty outline of the United States, and my task was to pin the various little shapes into the right spots. The shapes weren’t even labeled, no state names to give me the slightest hint. They weren’t even color coded in blue and red to at least give me a heads up as to where the Jews are. I spotted Texas, California, Montana, and Utah. I’m sure I would have recognized Florida, but it was buried somewhere in the stack. Anyway, after mastering the few obvious ones, I was pretty much toast. Touché, Canada, touché.

My other Canadian friend is a bit more belligerent about his inferiority complex. And he's from Toronto, practically a real city. He often sends me articles about gang violence in the United States, particularly in Chicago. And when the reports of guns in every American holster don’t get a rise out of me, he falls back on some favorite United States citizens, like Jesse Jackson. Or Kim Kardashian, whom he believes we who are fortunate enough to live south of the border tend to idolize. Sure, we love her, but that’s because everyone loves to have something or somebody ridiculous to mock. It makes us feel better about ourselves. Would he prefer we mock Canada, an entire nation full of folks who wear black dress socks with gym shoes and can’t figure out whether to speak English or French? Like shooting fish in a barrel, sweetheart. Touché, indeed.

The geography card certainly knocked me off my pedestal, though, gave me a newfound respect for our neighbors to the north, who at least seem to have a good sense of where the provinces are. (Of course I’d like to see how smart they’d be if they had fifty of them.) Frankly, I am reassessing my opinion of the whole lot of them, particularly after hearing that Lululemon, the Vancouver based yoga-inspired clothing company, is searching for a new CEO. Those folks get it. They would not have made me revamp my resume to minimize the importance of my yoga training or pretend my blog doesn’t exist. Word has it they’re not looking for a Harvard MBA or a corporate hot shot who has devoted her entire life and soul to clawing her way up the ladder. Word has it they are simply looking for someone with a bit of business experience who can stand on her head for at least ten minutes.

Hello, Lululemon! I’ve logged thousands of hours doing business on both sides of a cash register. Not that it matters, but I know the product well. I have purchased more than my share of overpriced yoga clothing from you, rationalizing it away with my tiny little instructor discount. And ten minutes in a headstand? Child’s play. My whole world tends to look upside down these days, and last time I checked the earth isn’t doing a headstand so it must be me!

Oh, Canada, I salute you. I will no longer be fooled by the black socks with gym shoes or the linguistic confusion. I am sending you my resume.

Junk (and Trunks) in the Trunk

I have never actually seen elephants piling out of a Volkswagen, but it's all I can think about when I clear out my cabinets. Freed from confinement, everything just gets bigger. A lot bigger.

Come to think of it, I've never seen elephants piling into a Volkswagen either, and frankly I just can't imagine it. Just like I can't imagine how I'm going to take all the crap that has burst forth from my cabinets to turn my entire house into a Land of the Giants storage closet and somehow shove it all back into small enclosed spaces that are even smaller than the ones that hid the crap to begin with. And no matter how much stuff I toss out, the piles in the house just keep growing. Twenty years worth of messes and junk and complete disarray, and still, pesky and useless as all of it is, I have a hard time parting with most of it.

The good news is the whole issue might soon be moot. The attorney handling our real estate sale has gone AWOL. That's okay, though, because my real estate broker cannot figure out how to send our attorney a copy of the contract, and the buyers are getting feisty and impatient. I cannot pull the trigger on a rental until I know the sale of the house is a done deal, but that's okay because waiting for a rental application to be approved is like waiting for college acceptance letters, even worse because the entire process encourages unseemly begging. If things keep going -- or not going -- the way they are, I might just not have to deal with fitting the elephants into smaller cabinets. I might just have to shove them back into the old ones. Sort of like shoving a newborn back into the birth canal. I'm not a doctor, but honestly, how hard can it be?

Well thank goodness there's the job search to lift my spirits. On second thought, that's an elephant in the room I'd prefer not to think about. A friend suggested I send him my resume yesterday, thinking maybe he could pass it on. I tossed one together immediately, and forwarded it to him. His response was gentle, but I could almost hear him snickering. I had thought I could rest on my laurels at least, but apparently those laurels have become a bit stale and won't do much to support me. And no matter how many spirit soaring warrior poses I muscle myself into, my yoga teaching certificate apparently won't get so much as my toe in the door of any self respecting law firm. How totally un-Zen. Nor, apparently, will the  neurotic ramblings of my blog, which I've been warned to keep well hidden. My blog, it seems, is my red Solo cup.

Back to the drawing board. I might have to shove the blog and the elephants and all the other crap that somehow defines who I am back into the cabinets for a while. Or maybe not. Maybe I'll just set it all free, and see where it takes me.

Beating Up the Odds

I have always wondered about the one out of five dentists surveyed who did not recommend sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum. Could he have recommended sugared gum? Or did he go with something completely different, like smoking? After all, he wasn't, as far as we know, an oncologist.

The real stroke of brilliance in the iconic ad, as far as I am concerned, is not that the advertising wizards managed to convince us that a general preference for sugarless gum was a specific endorsement for Trident. Rather, it was the way they presented the statistic. Four out of five sounds compelling, practically unanimous. Eighty per cent, by contrast, betrays considerable uncertainty. The eightieth percentile. It screams mediocrity.

Chew on this for a moment: Eighty per cent of dentists surveyed recommend sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum. That means twenty per cent do not. Suddenly the lone dissenter doesn't seem all that lonely. Not a rarity at all, not a mere blip on the rolls of dentistry. Any one of us could have found ourselves in a renegade's chair, being chewed out for chewing. There was a solid twenty per cent chance.

Somebody I know is dying too young, and word has it she resents being a statistic. She is that one out of seven childhood friends who is being plucked out early, the one out of however many friends that  none of us, in our wildest dreams, expects to be. Especially when you're the one who eats right, exercises regularly, flosses every day. Chews sugarless gum. Doesn't smoke. The odds are against it; six out of seven (and here I am not being scientific, just tossing out a number based on a very small sample) seem poised to make it all the way through to old age, and that's a number that seems rather soothing. A lot more soothing than, say, eighty-five per cent. A "B." Not exactly a ringing endorsement for guaranteed longevity. Would she take comfort in knowing she has not been singled out, that she has plenty of company, a full fifteen per cent? Probably not, and frankly it would make the rest of us a little nervous.

But enough about death. An old friend told me the other day that my blog, lately, makes him cry. He pointed out the thread of loss and despair that seems to run through it, even when I go for days without mentioning coffins or kids leaving the nest or losing tennis matches to people who can barely walk. "It's all in good fun," I told him. "And the coffins were psychedelic, far from morbid." He wasn't buyin' it. Apparently, a solid four out of five posts depress him. Oh well, that's only eighty per cent; that means twenty per cent of my ramblings do not move him to tears. I can live with that.

And, speaking of numbers, Day 1 has arrived. Monday, July 1st, the day on which I need to stop puttering around doing administrative matters and start getting things done. It is barely dawn, and I have already hit the ground running: I have fed and walked the dog, checked emails, almost completed a new post, and pondered the great mystery of the fifth dentist.

Statistically, it is likely that I will disappoint myself on Day 1, not get nearly enough done. Anyone who has started a diet on a Monday knows what I am talking about. I probably have a one in five chance of success. Ugh.

Hey wait a second. That's twenty per cent. Not bad odds at all.