De-Feetist Attitudes

Don't tell anybody, but I have really ugly feet. (There's a reason you've never seen Mrs. Potato Head without her shoes on.) Luckily, I believe in function over form, and my wide, oddly shaped, calloused lower paws are perfect for yoga and squatting in rice paddies to birth big babies (should I ever decide to go to Asia to give birth to what would be my own grandchildren).

But even my hideous feet become things of beauty after a pedicure. There are few views I enjoy more than the one I see when I gaze downward at my newly polished toes -- the pinker the better. Add on the bonus of approximately twenty-four hours during which the scales on my heels disappear and carpet fibers don't cling to my feet as if they're made of Velcro, and I am literally walking on air.

In the months before my father died, I would occasionally rub his feet when I visited. His body was being ravaged by cancer, but his feet remained as soft as, well, a baby's behind, as if he had somehow spent his life being carried everywhere. He did spend a lot of time riding in his Caddy, but he was hardly a pampered prince. He worked hard all his life, up until the day he could no longer hold his head up to do business on the phone. But oh those feet. Like butter. I was rubbing them the day before he died, as his body was shutting down. They say we die from the extremities in, but, as close as he was to the end, he felt the foot massage, and he didn't want me to stop. I wish I hadn't.

Today, my daughters and I will be getting our pre-vacation pedicures, and our toenails will be painted in various shades of pink. My feet will never look as pretty as theirs, but then again neither will the rest of me, and I can deal with that. My feet will still be wide, misshapen, and, by the time we hit the beach, calloused, but I will nevertheless be quite content when I gaze down to look at my shiny pink toes.

I won't want my children to rub my feet when I am dying; I don't want them to have bloody abrasions on their hands at my funeral -- so tacky. But I might request a final pedicure, so as I take my final breaths, I can at least enjoy the view.

The After Party

As I staggered into the kitchen this morning at five, I couldn't for the life of me remember the party I must have thrown the night before. Dirty wine glasses everywhere, three empty bottles, and half eaten bags of every kind of potato chip known to man strewn everywhere. It had the markings of a fun evening (I love salt and vinegar chips); I wished I could summon a memory or two.

Then I noticed my daughter's coat "hung up" across the kitchen table, and, well, mystery solved. There are lots of parties to which I am not invited, but you know you're pathetic when you're excluded from one in your very own house. Okay, I'm exaggerating. I wasn't excluded by anyone other than myself. I chose to hide in my bedroom, texting and chatting with my adult friends on my cell so I could take comfort in knowing that they, too, seemed to be observing rather than participating in life these days.

For a while I sat in the kitchen with the twenty-somethings, hugging the old familiars as they arrived, engaging in fond reminiscences. I was mesmerized by their chatter, and couldn't help trying to figure out when I blinked and missed this transition from childhood to adulthood. Facing the real world after four years of college can be scary, but they all seemed so self assured, their individual anxieties obliterated by the swaddling comfort of old high school friends. They invited me (more than half-jokingly, I assume) to join them for a drink at the local watering hole. That's when I took off in a panic for bed.

This morning, I slipped effortlessly into my role as one-woman cleaning crew. I took my daughter's coat, along with those of her two siblings, from their spots on the table and over the backs of chairs and hung them up in the closet, where the kids will never think to look for them. Always a source of amusement for me -- listening to them run around frantically searching for the jackets they had so carefully stowed wherever they happened to land.

I washed the wine glasses and put the empty bottles in the recycling bin, ran the dishwasher, and enlisted the help of the dogs in cleaning all the crumbs up on the floor. In a few weeks, I will be waking yet again to an uncluttered kitchen that looks just the way I left it before I went to bed. And frankly, I'll be a little sad.

Three Shopping Days Left, Apparently

I have to say I was a bit wary the other day when my son returned home from a visit with his dad holding a Christmas present (I could tell by the Santa wrapping paper) which was allegedly for me from the kids. Particularly since my son admitted to having had nothing to do with the purchase or wrapping of the unexpected gift, I don't think I was being completely irrational when I held the suspiciously cheery package up to my ear to listen for ticking.

I didn't hear anything, but I wouldn't expect my soon to be ex to stoop so low as to use something as unsophisticated as an audible bomb. The dogs sniffed the package with a complete lack of interest, but all that tells me is that it contains neither food nor dirty underwear. I suppose I'll open it, eventually. As soon as the kids are safely on their way to a non-incendiary Christmas with their father's family.

Before they leave, though, I just have to assume -- so I don't look bad -- that the present is for real, which means I have not been given the dispensation for a complete Jewish Christmas as I had thought. Sure, I'm not invited for the festivities, but my gifts are apparently still welcome. At the very least I have to get my kids something. I had been operating under the mistaken impression that our parenting agreement gave me custody of the Jewish parts only. These things are so confusing.

So off I went to the mall yesterday, which was far less crazed than the malls I've frequented for last minute Christmas shopping in my in-laws' gentile version of deep dark suburbia. I was efficient, and I picked up the essentials pretty quickly, but the little excursion made me realize how much I'll miss the Christmas traditions that became such a part of my life by virtue of marriage. I'll miss the frantic Christmas eve trips to the mall, during which we would grab everything in sight just to make sure nobody was being gypped. I'll miss the sickeningly sweet homemade Christmas cookies. I'll miss the smell of bacon frying on Christmas morning, and the ridiculous tearing open of gifts that nobody really needs or wants, and that sit in piles on my mother-in-law's couch until it's time to schlep them home. I'll even miss the sporadic trips to Midnight Mass with my in-laws, where the beauty of the hymns far outweighs the nauseating stench of incense.

This year, while my children are off in Michigan suffering from sugar and fat overload and overindulgent consumerism, I will be having a civilized dinner with friends in a restaurant and seeing a critically acclaimed movie. I wonder, if given the choice, WWJD?

Sibling Arrivals

A disturbance in the force (or two) doesn't always connote a bad thing. As I retrieved each of my two older children from the airport this weekend, the dynamic of my life shifted a bit. I feel just a bit off balance, but I wouldn't change a thing.

When my oldest daughter was only six months old, I discovered I was pregnant with her brother. (That thing about not being able to get pregnant while you're nursing, not so true, particularly when you cheat a lot with bottles.) I recall confiding in my mother-in-law as I approached full term that I didn't think I was capable of loving another child. Motherhood was still relatively new to me, and I still marveled at how much love I could feel for one little person; I couldn't imagine there was anything left. My mother-in-law assured me I would find it.

And I did, the minute I laid eyes on my almost ten-pound son who wouldn't be able to fit one toe into the adorable newborn non-pink onesies I had purchased in anticipation of his arrival (or, as I had thought, his intrusion). My heart pried itself open effortlessly to make ample room for this large, gentle baby with the cauliflower ears and the pensive green eyes, and within days I couldn't remember what life was like without him.

My two eldest grew up together, played together, rarely fought; they were so close, it was difficult to imagine one without the other. They banded together when number three came along years later. I would refer to them as "my kids," and my youngest as the baby. Two distinct litters, each one a unit of sorts.

Over the last few years, I have grown accustomed to having the two older ones gone and spending all my time with "the baby." Her siblings may have been more aware of the small tremors that led to the eventual upheaval of my marriage, but she is the one living with me in the aftermath, picking through the rubble alongside me, reminders of what was then and what isn't now surrounding us.

It was unsettling yesterday, for me anyway, when "the baby" went off to spend the evening with her dad and the other two stayed with me. It was the configuration I had enjoyed for six full years, back in the day, but one that is so distant in my memory I kept thinking I forgot something. "My kids" found it strange that I found it so strange. No imagination, those two.

Out at dinner, though my daughter joined me in a perfectly legal glass of wine and my son became our designated driver home, I could still conjure up images of the two big-cheeked toddlers playing for hours on end, creating imaginary worlds with their plastic Lion King and Aladdin and Beauty and the Beast figures. (They don't know this, but I've never been able to give those toys away.) They still have the easy rapport they shared when they were so young, still seem to have a telepathic understanding of each other, and, now more than they needed to back then, seem to derive strength and support from each other in dealing with their mom, who sometimes just doesn't appear to know what she's doing.

They each had old friends visit after dinner, and it was nice to hear the house filled with all of their noise. My dogs sat protectively with me as I read in bed, leaping off to greet each guest at the door but returning immediately to their posts by my side.

There was definitely a disturbance in the force, for better or for worse. Leo spent most of the night throwing up, which leads me to believe he managed to get his snout into somebody's wine glass. Manny went to check on him every once in a while, because, well, that's what siblings do.

Decemberfest?

My annual winter cold -- which lasts from December through April -- has been dogging me for weeks, which has been great news for Manny the obese puggle. Forget the cinnamon chocolate coffee cake he and Leo devoured the other day before my daughter could get her hands on the surprise treat I had purchased for her (the Cannolli Kings strike again!); Manny's favorite delicacy -- second only to freshly worn underpants -- is a dirty tissue. Sure, he'll pluck a few clean ones from the box out of boredom, but being around me when I have a cold is, for him, like having constant access to a freshly baked rack of jelly donuts.

At least Manny has found a reason to see the glass half full in winter; I'm still searching for a bright side with any sort of significance or staying power. Particularly here in the Jewish neck of deep dark upper middle class suburbia, December is cold and cruel. Compounded by the absence of heart warming Christmas light displays and the mass exodus to Cabo that occurs the minute the final school bell rings before break, the frigid air outside assaults you and follows you inside; there's no place to hide. It was small consolation yesterday that I was able to get a good parking spot at Panera so I could run in for soup and a chocolate croissant. I need lights; I need communal body heat.

I watched a commercial on television yesterday (well, I watched about 17,000 commercials yesterday from the crater I'm creating on the couch), but this particular one made me realize how warm the Christmas season can be if you do it the Gentile way. Jingle Bells was playing in the background, fat snowflakes were wafting down onto streets already blanketed with fluffy white drifts, and lights twinkled on the houses as an old fashioned looking trolley meandered slowly through the wintry night. I think I'd be able to find enough warmth in that scene to forego my upcoming trip to Mexico. Okay, maybe that's pushing it, but the whole contrived tableau did have its appeal.

Alas, back to reality; here I am in Jewish deep dark suburbia, where it's easy to get a restaurant reservation or get tickets to a movie but the cold cuts through you like the opposite of a hot knife through butter. Manny has been feasting on so many discarded tissues I fear his butt is about to become a Kleenex dispenser, and my spreading ass has burrowed itself so deeply into the couch I can barely see the television screen over my elevated legs.

As a Jew and, in some ways, a chick, I am genetically incapable of stringing lights around the house to try to warm things up. The best I can do is flip the switch on my whimsical little pink tree, stuff myself with soup, croissants, and lots of chocolate, and snuggle up to fat Manny, who at least has the benefit of doubling as a space heater.

I'm not wasting any time dreaming of sugar plum fairies; just guacamole and margaritas on the beach.

Bounce

Growing up on the mean streets of Brooklyn, we played outside until our mothers called us from our apartment house balconies for dinner, making do with what little equipment we had. No fancy basketball hoops or hockey goals or makeshift baseball fields were set up on the rutted, grassless sidewalk; usually, all we had was a few of those pink bouncing balls.

It's not like we didn't have choices; there were two brands. One, Spaldeen, the other, Pensie Pinkie. Each of us had our preferences, even though, when push came to shove, we would play with either one. The Spaldeens were the lower end variety -- compact, faded pink in color, and slightly rough on the surface. The Pinkies were a bit more expensive and more pleasing to the eye and to the touch, with a dark and smooth pink surface. They were plumper than Spaldeens, and had a much more impressive bounce.

Either one sufficed for a pick up game of stoop ball or asses up or, the favorite on our block, running bases. We would all converge in the afternoon, until the weather became too impossible, kids of all ages and both genders, oblivious to the concept of organized play dates or fenced in yards. We played precariously close to the traffic, occasionally watching in horror as a stray ball or a reckless kid flew into the speeding trajectory of a car. (There were flattened balls and several broken bones, but amazingly, no deaths.)

All that was required for running bases was two older boys capable of throwing a pink ball back and forth and catching it fairly consistently, an unspecified number of bored children, and a narrow sidewalk with blocks of concrete that would provide a center line and a base on each end. The object was to run between the bases without getting tagged by one of the catchers. It entertained us for hours. One day, one of the older boys (probably trying to impress one of the girls) took a stick ball bat (i.e. a broomstick with tape for a grip) and bounced the day's Spaldeen clear across the far base line, right into the grip of a deceptively pathetic looking tree.

The little pink ball ended up caught between two little branches poking up like fingers at the top of the young sapling that had been planted into the concrete. It seemed impossible that the ball would get caught like that, held by the two flimsy looking twigs as if the tree were about to pitch a knuckle ball. We were fairly certain a few good shakes would help us retrieve the ball. A plump Pinkie would never have gotten caught that way; it would have snapped the tree in half.

No amount of shaking would help. Even Kenny, the neighborhood bruiser who had smacked the ball up there in the first place, couldn't undo the force of his bounce. Seasons came and went, the years passed, and that damn ball remained caught in that damn tree, forever out of reach. The tree's strong fingers held on, even through long winters, the pink ball the only splash of color in an otherwise black, white, and gray landscape. At some point, years later, I noticed it was gone, bounced into complete oblivion, like a bit of email spam.

Jill, Jill, Let Down Your Long...?

Years ago, when my youngest daughter was no older than five, she accompanied me on a bathing suit shopping expedition. This was before I discovered the somewhat (though only slightly) less degrading phenomenon of online swimwear ordering, which at least allows you to check out your hideous bulges in the privacy of your own bedroom.

It was also before I had lost all sense of dignity and still wore one piece suits that could be somewhat forgiving to the post-three-babies potato head physique, before the fact that I have to pee every ten minutes took precedence over self-consciousness. It was either that or an extra suitcase for my Depends. My daughter glanced at me that day in the dressing room, mesmerized as I bent forward to step into the little Lycra straight jacket. She gasped. I looked up, startled, still gripping the steel reinforced straps of the miracle suit, thinking maybe she had stepped on a stray pin. It was far worse. "Mommy," she said. "Your boobs are even longer than daddy's!"

Well, about ten years worth of gravity has taken hold since that fateful day, and if my boobs were sweeping the dressing room floor then, I would imagine they'd be quite useful if I ever need a Rapunzel-style rescue from a tower. Don't knock it; I give the guy a beer after his long climb and I very well might have my prince.

Frankly, I'm all out of ideas. One of the dating sites has been teasing me with an e-magazine that will help me to learn the "secret psychology" of what makes a man fall in love and keeps him hooked for the long term." Apparently, most of us women have been taught -- erroneously -- that great conversation and sharing similar interests will do the trick. All well and good, the teaser tells me, but not for sparking a true "heart connection." Hmm. Is that where a gimmick like long breasts comes in?

I read on, searching desperately for the secret to unlocking a man's feelings of lifelong devotion. Ahh -- finally, a clue. "The real key lies in knowing how to express your feelings in a way that will make him feel safe and deeply connected to you." I must also be my most "vulnerable, authentic, and feminine self." There were no specific examples offered, so I have no way of knowing whether my usual opening line ("Why the fuck aren't my butt warmers on yet?) is a good start. But I'm thinking I'm right on the money. What's more vulnerable than a gal who needs to be warmed up. Feminine? I'm downright girly. I don't exactly barrel into the car saying "my fat hairy ass is cold." And authentic? It's not like I say it with some highfalutin fancy shmancy accent!

So many unanswered questions. I might just have to sign on for the magazine. I'm particularly intrigued by the promise that it will teach me how to get his attention fast and have him chasing me and thinking about me day and night. If hanging my breasts out a window doesn't get a guy's attention, he's got bigger issues? As for chasing me and thinking about me day and night, who needs that shit. I just want to know that he'll take out the garbage.

Sticks and Stones

Before I officially give up on computer dating, I'm trying a new profile:

Cold, narcissistic bitch with no sense of humor seeks lying, cheating, cowardly, immature gentleman who has no integrity whatsoever and is passionate about absolutely nothing.

At the very least, I might finally see the last of the cookie cutter descriptions that fill my inbox on a daily basis. One more allegedly passionate, honest, communicative, sensitive, devoted guy and I might set my computer on fire. And no, it hasn't crossed my mind even for a nanosecond that a dreamy fireman might have to appear to rescue me from all that flaming bullshit.

Name calling is usually an exercise in futility; the "sticks and stones" ditty has always said it best. It's particularly pointless when you turn the name calling upon yourself -- even when the names are flattering. Take the vapid declarations on cyber dating sites, for example. Telling me you're passionate and sensitive means nothing; tell me you'd like nothing better than to polish my toenails after you rub my feet for an hour every evening and we can talk. Heck, tell me you like going to chick flicks and you'll have my heart skipping a beat (unless, of course, you like going to them by yourself).

Even worse, though, is someone who resorts to negative self-name calling. I have found that the simplest way to avoid taking responsibility for a particular misdeed is just to confess to a bunch of unflattering adjectives. After all, true confessions lead to discussion, and that can be awfully uncomfortable. Instead of admitting to a specific lie, just call yourself a liar. Instead of admitting to not having the balls to do something, call yourself a coward. Instead of admitting to a particularly childish act, just call yourself immature. There are endless possibilities; so many ways to appear contrite without really apologizing for anything at all.

I do it to my kids all the time. All they need to do is offer up the slightest challenge, like today when my daughter told me the mashed potatoes I gave her were chewy. Did I admit they were chewy because I overnuked them in the microwave? Of course not. I wanted her to feel bad for criticizing my cooking, so I simply said "I'm a horrible person." Well that shut her up fast. (And what's so bad about chewy potatoes?)

I suppose I have no right to complain when people pull the same crap on me, but when has that ever stopped me? I get very little satisfaction when someone just offers up a blanket "I'm a shit." I want details; I want blood. I don't necessarily want to be right (although I usually am); I just want to be heard. And I can only know I've been heard if I extract a point by point admission of guilt, signed and notarized under oath. Don't tell me you're a cheater; tell me you make bad line calls in tennis. Don't tell me you're a coward; tell me you'd never step in front of me to take a bullet. I respect that, and frankly, I'd probably never do it for you either.

As if on cue, I just received an email notification of a new perfect match. "I am honest, hard working, intelligent and have a good sense of humor." Seriously. Back it up, babe. Tell me about the time you returned a wallet you found loaded with cash. Tell me your ACT scores. Tell me a joke. I'm much more likely to go with the guy who contacted me a few weeks ago who mentioned that he killed his first wife but let the second one live (although she's still tied up in the basement). You don't run across that kind of honesty and integrity every day. Refreshing.

I guess I might have to be a bit more specific about my narcissism, coldness, and bitchiness if I'm going to attract a guy who, like me, is looking for depth. Maybe I'll add in something about my strong urge to kick stray dogs, maybe list a bunch of people I deem responsible for all my problems, and sign off with a heartfelt "go fuck yourself." Who knows? Maybe the lying, cheating, cowardly bastard of my dreams will reveal himself in all his glory.

Sour Cherries

If life is a bowl of cherries, I'll have the melon, please. With all due respect, Erma Bombeck had no idea what the pits could possibly look like, unless she was ever twisted enough to wake up one morning and try on bathing suits she had ordered online. At least the day promised to be cold, bitter, and miserable anyway, so I didn't ruin a perfectly good one.

Recently, one of my yoga teachers (who is way too young to be handing down advice of any kind to a bunch of middle aged women) offered up an uncharacteristically sage observation: we are all a little crooked and a bit twisted. (Has he seen me in a bathing suit?) Well, talk about hitting the well-manicured nails on the head, he certainly got that one right. Did I honestly think the sight of my spudly form in bright colored two piece bathing suits at five in the morning would inspire anything other than thoughts of suicide? At least I had a pounding headache and was so bleary eyed I couldn't really see, so the crooked juxtaposition of lycra on potato flesh had a bit of a Picasso-esque effect, which in some circles is considered great art. There I go again -- looking at the frigging bright side!

But not for long; let's get back to that rotten pile of cherries. As if the bathing suit incident wasn't enough to drive me to smash every fruit bowl I own into the wall, my favorite cherry of all has turned -- by her own admission -- sour. Cherry, my loyal blog fan and steadfast cheerleader, has begun sucking out her own pits and spitting them at me. Hmm, maybe it's that time of the month and she's just feeling a little overripe and fleshy.

The little tart called me a delusional romantic! Gasp!. I'll give her delusional, but romantic? Has she gone fruity? In a startling email, Cherry took issue with my optimistic take on the old folks dining together in complete silence:

Jill -- When did you become such a delusional romantic?? The old folks probably aren't talking to each other because they know the other can't hear and will forget what is said anyway, so why bother. They walk out holding hands or walking close to each other for extra balance.

xoxo

The Sour Cherry ??

Cherry is usually pretty rational, but this time I think someone has twisted her stem a bit too tight. Romantic, my ass. It's called self-preservation. I invite Cherry to view herself in the mirror in the wee hours of the morning in bikinis and try to envision anything better in her future than silent physical proximity. I certainly don't want to hear what the guy looking at me from across the table has to say, especially if he's had the dubious pleasure of the bathing suit view. Of course he's going to be off balance, with the stuff he's seen. Sure, the everlasting fireman fantasy remains in the back of my twisted mind, but let's get real; if a hunky firefighter saw what I saw in the mirror this morning, he'd be pouring gasoline on me and shoveling glowing ashes my way. And I guarantee you his hose would not be pointing anywhere in my direction.

My dear Cherry -- Yes, I'm delusional about a lot of things, but romantic? No way. Just realistic. Sure, reality bites sometimes, but I know full well when it's going to bite me in the ass, and I've learned how to protect myself: aim low. So when my idea of a happy future is having the great love of my life sit silently across from me saying nothing, I know it's just because he has nothing nice to say. Sure beats the shit out of the truth. And there is nothing delusional or romantic about that, my friend. It's the real deal. xoxo, Jill

Only You! Really!

It's gotten to the point where even the most innocuous "do you want to meet for coffee" takes on an ominous tone; all I hear is "we need to talk." I don't know why, but I have a few trust issues. So every glance, every word, every quick text these days carries with it a potential threat to my delicate and ever-waning sense of balance. I am perpetually braced for disappointment, rejection, or just plain old bad news.

I can't even accept the sincere and loving overtures of a potential new cyber dream date. Last night, I received an email from the person who very well could be my Mr. Right, and what did I do? Hit the delete button! What's wrong with me? This guy is head over heels smitten with me, only me:

Hello:

I find your profile so fascinating that I couldn't wait to write you. I am
a compassionate, gentle, perceptive, intuitive, communicative, loyal, reliable,
trustworthy, analytical, chemical engineer, and that has exposed me and has taken
me around the world. I love my work. l want u to know I'm willing to
relocate if I meet the right partner.

P.s I hardly check my profile so you can reply to my private mail at [themostperfectmanyou'lleverfind at g mail dot com].

Would any other woman be able to resist a compassionate and analytical engineer who exposes himself around the world? Who in her right mind wouldn't overlook the suspicious spelling out of "at" and "dot" in the personal email address (which of course can only be accessed if you use your own personal email address with all your personal information there for the taking) and jump at the chance to meet the smitten with me, only me, Chuck, who is willing to relocate for me even though, as it turns out, he practically lives in the same zip code. And so what if he didn't use my screen name or specify what exactly it was in my profile that so captivated him. Maybe, in his passionate excitement, he just couldn't narrow it down. But I denied Chuck even a fighting chance, this man who seems to possess every quality a woman could dream of -- although I couldn't help envisioning this charming but exposed world travelling engineer racing through international airports with his slide rule poking out of his breast pocket and his penis poking out of his zipper.

He went on with a bit of poetry of sorts, which by all rights should have been irresistible:

I thought you could use some beauty in your life today, so I'm sending you this greeting to let you know that I'm sending some good wishes your way. May your day be touched with laughter, your heart overflow with love, and your soul sing with hope. May everything in your life sparkle with a radiance that comes only from happiness. l hope to hear from you soon.

I suppose it's just difficult to hear your heart and soul singing while you're gagging. A modern day Shakespeare writes poetry for me, only me, and instead of swooning I have my head in the toilet. Maybe one day I'll overcome my trust issues (although my friend just confessed that many years after her divorce and several years into a happy marriage, she was beside herself with suspicion when her current husband emailed her an unsolicited "I love you"). And he even addressed her by name.

If it's any consolation to Chuck, everything in my life does sparkle with a radiance that comes only from happiness (and the occasional hot flash). When things cool down, maybe I'll give old Chuck a holler @ his personal email address.

Silent Night (and Morning, and Afternoon)

It was one of those impromptu weekend afternoons spent with one of my children, a block of time as unexpected and uplifting as a surprise delivery of twelve long stem roses. (I'm guessing, of course, since I've never received such a delivery, but it seems like it would be a really cool thing.)

When my daughter and I manage to overcome our inertia on a cold and dreary Saturday afternoon, the tiny spark of energy that impels each of us to get up off our respective butts and venture out somehow increases exponentially as we sit side by side in the car, as yet unsure of our destination but feeling a sense of accomplishment in going somewhere. It's as if we're two creatures in the snow snuggling up for warmth; together we're able to find energy reserves that only minutes earlier seemed so elusive.

Our first stop yesterday was Whole Foods for soup; I was salivating just thinking about the poblano corn chowder, she was not really hungry. I had to settle for minestrone, she was ecstatic to find broccoli cheese; we sat in the cafe and barely noticed how quickly we inhaled the warmth of our soups while we chatted about everything and nothing. Lest anyone think this was all about simple pleasures like soup and enjoying time together, make no mistake; we were already planning a visit to one of our favorite shoe stores, rumored (correctly) to be dumping everything at fifty per cent off.

As we chatted, I glanced occasionally at the elderly couple at the table next to us. Not a word passed between them, but they seemed as engaged with each other as my daughter and I were with our non-stop conversation. The silence was broken occasionally by simple gestures; at one point, I watched as the woman held up her slice of pizza up so the gentleman could bite off a large chunk. Eventually, they got up, grabbed their canes, and walked off holding hands. I nudged my daughter and we both watched, mesmerized. We looked at each other, and both uttered "Awwwww!"

I told my daughter of the elderly couple I had sat next to a couple of days earlier. They must have been in their seventies, although her heavily botoxed face made her appear a bit younger. Sort of. They didn't speak at all. The woman had finished her food, and had made her way over to her husband's plate, noiselessly scooping up forkfuls of the omelet he had been pushing around without much interest. The check came and they left, still without a word, walking within inches of each other.

"Of course they don't talk," my daughter said. "Old couples have nothing left to say to each other." Well shoot me now, I thought. Here I am in the midst of a divorce, still entertaining the fantasy that someone will come along and be my partner until death, someone to share the next chapter with as my kids go on to live their lives and treat me as a lovable afterthought. Will we really be left with nothing to say? My daughter went on. "They're retired, nothing interesting happens to them. And even if it does, they're together when it happens, so there's nothing to tell." Oy, how depressing.

Maybe not so much though. Sure, my daughter and I chatted about things, but I can't for the life of me tell you what. Obviously, the topics weren't all that compelling. As we drove home from our adventure of soup sipping, shoe shopping, and humdrum errand hopping, we both fell silent. It was a contented silence though, the kind you savor after packing in a good solid meal. We got home and parted ways silently, clutching our brand new fifty per cent off boots and heading off to do whatever it was we would be doing on a cold Saturday evening.

But I could detect in each of us a spring in the step that wasn't there when we first ventured out. Something had passed between us, silently. I thought about those elderly couples, and realized how lucky they are.

Excuses, Excuses

I have always found that if you want to break an appointment and you don't want to tell the truth (which is that you would rather have a tooth pulled without anesthetic than go), it's better to keep the excuses as simple as possible. The more elaborate the story, the less credible you are.

The other day, my friend and I received an email from a third friend explaining why she would not be able to make it to the lunch that was her idea in the first place and that she's already rescheduled twice. I'm paraphrasing a little, but here's what she said:

As you know, my son plays football in college and there's some special program for star football players that's being set up and about two hours before we're supposed to have lunch there's an open house and even though I don't really have to be there I want to think about being there. As you also know, my dog's had some loose stool, and I've been eating so much holiday candy these days my mind has turned to mush. Oh, and I almost forgot, last Friday my husband's uncle was found dead in his bathtub and the autopsy is tomorrow and the funeral will be some time after that I suppose. But I want to go to lunch with you guys more than anything before the holidays, so how about next Thursday, same time, same place?

I was out of breath just reading it. It wasn't so much the elaborateness of the tale as the sheer quantity of excuses; it was kind of like continuing to pump bullets into a guy who's already quite dead. And does anyone find it strange that the dead uncle did no better than fourth place in the list of really good reasons to cancel lunch? Let's face it, we're all a little overstuffed from cold weather chocolate binging, but it's not every day one of us can boast a naked dead relative. I'm just sayin'.

My close friends are all well aware that I tend to shy away from group lunches or dinners, even though I have been known to RSVP with an optimistic "yes" when the actual event is not quite upon me. So I'm comfortable enough, when I realize a day in advance that I don't want to go, to just say so. No phony emergency doctor appointments, no dog emergencies -- oh, no, Manny ate my underwear again -- and never, NEVER any terminally ill or dead relatives; I'm way too supertitious. I had a student once who had more dead cousins than your average bunny, and the weirdest thing was they always used to die right when a paper was due.

I didn't know how to respond to the email of alternative excuses, so I just said "sorry about your husband's uncle and all the candy; let's plan on next Thursday." I'm busy next Thursday, but I know there's not a chance in hell that will be a problem. My money's on a constipated cousin and a stuffed toilet (different cousin).

Not So Cross Pollination

Sure is cold outside. Yep.

I've promised myself -- and a few close friends -- that I'd let go of all the angry stuff, which pretty much leaves me with the weather. Yep. Sure is cold. Which is why I'm finding myself nose to muzzle with Manny the obese puggle on the couch with a space heater blasting right at our faces while Leo the labrador frolics outside in the weather he dreams about all summer. As I gaze at Manny's handsome wrinkly face, I can't help but think about how cold the world would be without mutts.

Years ago, when designer mutts were becoming all the rage, I wondered how puppy purchasers could be sure that their costly hybrids would indeed have inherited the best traits of both breeds. Labradoodles were selling like hotcakes up here in deep dark upper middle class suburbia; folks who wanted the hipness of a big dog without the ickiness of a fur-infested couch paid top dollar for puppies guaranteed to have the sweet disposition of a lab with the custom-made-furniture-friendly coat of a poodle. My luck, I would've spent thousands of dollars and gotten a bitch who sheds.

My kids are mutts -- Irish Jews -- beautiful mixes of the stereotypes from both worlds. They're all a little bit meshugenah, and the older two can drink me under the table. I have high hopes for my youngest on all counts. My Italian workout partner is married to a Jew; she lovingly refers to her kids as pizza bagels. Kind of a food theme that seems to cross ethnic lines. I'm sure, like my kids, they're beautiful and a bit meshugenah, and they probably talk with their hands. Except for the religion thing, I'm not certain that Italians and Jews are all that different from each other, so, if anything, the mix just enhances two already marvelous gene pools.

When my youngest daughter was in third grade, she used to go on and on about a kid named Eliot Goldstein (not his real name, of course, but you get the gist), a kid who was so far off the charts academically he had become legendary among eight year olds. The deepest, darkest, suburban competitive mom in me wanted a piece of this Eliot Goldstein, this super Jew with the super brain whom my brilliant (in my mind) daughter found untouchable. So when she brought home her class picture, I scanned it, looking for the big nosed nerd. I couldn't find him.

"That's him," she said, pointing to a face that looked as much like an Eliot Goldstein as Jill Ocean from Brooklyn looks like Bridget Flanagan from Belfast. I stared at this little smiling Asian face in the sea of whites, and burst out laughing. An Asian Jew. Talk about a designer mutt! And talk about an unfair advantage! It's like giving an already massive football player steroids. Trying to compete academically with this Eliot Goldstein would be like running a marathon against a Kenyan.

Manny is a designer mutt of the highest order. Part pug, part beagle, he is as fat as a house and has a freakishly keen nose for critters and freshly removed underwear. He howls like a beagle, but only when he's jumping all over you with relief because you've been gone for a few hours. He can lie around all day like a pug, but give him a whiff of a cookie or a hamper full of dirty laundry and he can leap from his slumber faster than a flying squirrel. He's an agile little porker. And so sweet.

That's how mixed breeds tend to be: "wholes" that are better than the sum of their parts. I have no first hand knowledge of Eliot Goldstein's disposition, but word has it he's a nice kid. Well don't that beat all. My kids may not be brilliant, but they get by, and they're pretty nice people. I have yet to meet a nasty labradoodle who sheds, or a mean-spirited, underachieving Asian Jew. Okay, I only know two, but I'm just sayin'.

Now I may be a pure bred Jew, but I'd like to think this post has been as sweet as if it had been written by a mutt. Not a trace of anger or nastiness to be found. Sure, I may have inadvertently offended Asians, Jews, Italians, the Irish, and various canine breeds, but I think I tried my hardest to focus on only the most flattering stereotypes.

Back to snuggling with my sweet Manny. Sure is cold outside.

Serenity and Serendipity

If the computer monitor on a spin bike goes blank, have you worked out? Even after an hour of panting and sweating, without the inherently questionable readout of my calories burned (the bike has no idea what I weigh), I didn't feel the satisfying rush of endorphins I usually feel after a much dreaded spin class.

I tried my best to simulate my typical exertion. I closed my eyes and imagined my rpm's to be in sync with the instructor's, imagined my hill level to be in sync with my fellow spinners' virtual climb. I tried so hard to feel the workout, but all I felt was anger and frustration; no steady blinking affirmation of my accomplishments, no computerized "atta girl" to keep me going. One part of my brain had me convinced I had outdone myself, overcompensating for the disconcerting lack of information with the workout of my life. The other part had me berating myself for my laziness, convincing me I might as well have sat my ass down in Starbucks and shoveled in some extra stale pastries. Does any of this sound neurotic to you?

This was all in stark contrast to the yoga class I attended Sunday. I tend to shy away from this particular yoga class because a) it's a bit on the lengthy side for a woman of my limited attention span, and b) it's anusara yoga, which can be a little bit kooky. There are things I love about anusara -- its strict focus on alignment, its mix of the spiritual and the scientific. But sometimes the rigidity pisses me off, and sometimes I'm just too cynical for all that damn spirituality and touchy feeliness. Like the Sanskrit incantation we're supposed to chant three times at the beginning of class. WTF?

I like the current instructor better than the old one, who liked to talk about herself incessantly and went apoplectic if the mats weren't all perfectly lined up in rows. Anatomical alignment I get; compulsive organization of sticky mats I can do without. The new gal didn't flinch when someone came in late and staggered her mat between two rows. If her heavily tattooed body and braid-worthy armpit hair hadn't already convinced me she was cool, that composure under pressure surely won me over.

Sarah is beautiful, tall and lithe, with flowing blond hair, soft blue eyes, perfect, gleaming teeth, and flawless skin (on her face -- body art covers much of the rest) that belies her thirty some-odd years. Her voice is soft and soothing, and when she speaks the room falls quiet. Sunday, she hobbled in on crutches, her lean body swaying between them as naturally as if she were walking on two healthy and secure legs. I was mesmerized by her grace, the way she glided around the room, navigating her way between tightly packed mats and occasionally using one crutch to flip open curtains and grab towels without even breaking her stride.

She apologized for being unable to demonstrate poses, but talked a lot about the collective energy in the room, the group "heart." Okay, I thought about leaving for a second, but I was captivated. Throughout the class, she encouraged us to go through our yoga poses with our eyes closed, and occasionally even stopped talking us through sequences, encouraging us to feel each other's breath and energy and imagine ourselves to be moving as harmoniously as a pool full of synchronized swimmers. I have no idea whether we were all in sync -- my eyes were closed -- and I would venture to say we looked more like a bunch of middle aged folks flailing about without life preservers than synchronized swimmers, but I felt like I was a part of something, and I left that class feeling invigorated. I even promised myself I'd participate in the chant next time.

A spin bike computer went blank and I was lost (not to mention really pissed off). A yoga instructor withdrew herself and left us pretty much to our own devices, and I took a leap of faith and let go. No anger. No frustration. I just closed my eyes and went with the flow, and I knew it was all going to be okay.

Stopping to Smell (and See and Hear) the Coffee

Guys, if you ever want to make an old lady swoon, here's the trick. Head to Starbucks with your seven month old twins, one baby carrier in each arm. Set them up -- one carrier on a big comfy chair, one on a little table, and proceed to lovingly take off each of their hats, smooth down their tufts of fine hair, and lean down to each of them to tell them not to go anywhere.

Shame on him for not considering the possibility that I was a baby stealer, the way I was staring intently at those two little bundles as dad scurried off to get his coffee and newspaper. I suppose he did the math, though, and figured (correctly) that by the time I managed to grab both carriers and maneuver them toward the door I would have made such a commotion that he -- and all the neighboring suburban fire and police departments -- probably would have been alerted to the problem. Funny, though, it reminded me of how neurotic I used to be about those things. Like the time I went to get cash from an ATM and had to climb a few steps to do so; I think I ended up withdrawing $500 rather than $50 because I kept turning away from the screen to make sure the stroller was still there with her in it. That was in the big city, though. Bad things don't happen up here.

I was mesmerized by these two little babies, a girl and a boy (the pink and blue blankets were a dead giveaway). Immobilized by their little infant seat prisons and stuck with whatever view dad decided to give them (and yes, he turned them periodically, be still my heart), the two of them just stared wide-eyed at whatever was in front of them or within their limited peripheral range. They both had mouths that turned down in what seemed to be a permanent frown, but their wide eyes dispelled any notion that they were at all unhappy. At one point, they both turned their heads to stare at each other. I could almost see the telepathic waves of conversation between them. "Hey, I like the smell of the Christmas Blend." "I wish dad would turn me a little cause that woman staring at us is giving me the creeps." "I'm pooping."

Those two probably learned more from their inescapable perches than any of us learns in a year. As far as I could tell, neither one ever blinked. I'm sure their ears and noses were as tuned in as their eyes, taking in all the sights and sounds and smells of this place that most of us who come every day never notice.

Later in the day, I went to a Caribou Coffee. I like to change things up every now and then, and it was a convenient place for me to wait for my daughter. Like the two babies, I sat and stared. And listened and sniffed. And I noticed I was the only person there without head phones in my ears; even folks who had companions were plugged in, their eyes cast downward either at their iphones or their ipads. Weird to think of all the stuff we miss.

I'll bet my bottom dollar that as those babies get older, that dad will be as morally opposed as I was to setting up little movie screens for them on long car rides. He might have to hear "are we there yet?" a few more times than your average twenty-first century parent, but those babies will have a sense of what the world around them looks and sounds and smells like as they venture away from the nest. Can that possibly be a bad thing?

I'm going to pack up my laptop for the day, maybe even put my blackberry out of reach for a while, and pay attention. Who knows? I might learn something.

Leaving Ire Land

My friend called me yesterday to scream at me for picking my husband up at the airport after his four day jaunt to Ireland for his girlfriend's mother's funeral. We figured out after a minute that she had just had one of those "nap-mares" -- those fitful and disturbing dreams you tend to have when you doze off during the day, the ones that seem so vivid and real you have even more trouble distinguishing reality from fantasy than usual.

I do have to admit the thought has crossed my mind. I'd love to get a load of the special lady who has inspired such loving care in my soon to be ex, not to mention such a willingness to toss money around as if he actually has it to toss around. Oh wait, that last part pre-dated her. The main reason I want to be there though is to see whether he brought his golf clubs with him. It was a big sacrifice for him to go (although I don't really think he has a clue that blowing off his daughter was a sacrifice); the very least the lady can expect is that he slip out after the funeral for a round or two.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised to learn he was involved in such a committed and loving relationship, but I guess I've never been astute enough to understand his logic. I always thought that before you get so deeply involved with someone that she becomes the center of your universe you have to let go of the wife you're trying to punish. I wonder if he tells her of his antics while they gaze lovingly at each other. "You've made my world complete, darling. Let me show you all the crazy threatening emails I've sent in the past month." Maybe she knows it all, and she is just better at the empathy thing than I am. Maybe she just gets turned on by evil and vindictiveness. For the sake of their relationship, I certainly hope so.

I'll probably have to pass on the airport pickup since I have to drive our daughter to her various activities and appointments this afternoon. I'd ask her dad to do it, but even if he weren't on a plane with his girlfriend he lives too far away to bother himself with petty shit like that. But that's okay. I wouldn't give up for the world seeing the look on her face yesterday during her first badminton tournament, when she seemed absolutely shocked at the series of whacks she had given the birdie to win an incredible point. Or hearing her terrified but smiling squeak as an opponent slammed a bird into her gut. Or sitting next to her while she nursed her jarred tailbone with an ice pack protruding about six inches from under her sweats.

Girlfriend's mom's funeral in Ireland, a few thousand dollars. A few rounds of golf in the old country, who knows? The chance to watch your youngest daughter play badminton for the first time, priceless.

Slush Fun

The raspy voice on the speaker hanging over my head in Starbucks is insisting that by next year all our troubles will be miles away. "Next year" is kind of a big window; I'm dying to know whether the guy has any idea if I have to wait the full twelve months.

I suppose all I can do is follow his advice, and have a merry little Christmas now. Live in the present, like a good little yogi. But the present is so cold, and white Christmases are nice in theory but I can dream about one all I want and still, when I open my eyes all I see is gray slush. And filthy spreading puddles on the floor of my garage. And lots of yellow snow.

The truth is, though, I'm a fan of changing seasons, even when winter is the one rearing its cold ugly head. It's not just that suffering through a Chicago winter makes spring (such as it is) all the sweeter; winter has its own charms. It's a time to hunker down, to wrap yourself in fuzzy blankets and furry slippers and curl up in front of a fire (theoretically, since I'm a little afraid I'll blow up the house if I start tinkering with the fireplace) with a good book (again, theoretically, since I have the attention span of a flea these days and haven't picked up a book in months). Maybe the cold will inspire me.

The biggest problem with winter is it extends past the holidays. In December, the snow -- still a novelty -- is a beautiful backdrop against twinkling lights and long dark nights. Holiday music is not only instructive but soothing, and it's nice to see people spending money on crap they don't need. I'll certainly do my best to pitch in. But -- and maybe this is in the New Testament so I haven't gotten to it -- for some reason it all comes to a crashing halt in January. Strings of lights are rolled up and packed away in basements, days get longer but still colder, and the holiday music and shopping give way to healthy club parking lots overcrowded with fleeting crowds of resolute New Years exercisers and ridiculously long lines in stores for returns. Bah humbug. Why can't we just enjoy the merry little Christmas now through, say, the end of March?

My daughter and I came home at about five today, having had enough of getting in and out of the car to walk through the double indignity of icy slush (it's like having dry skin with pimples), and locked up the house, vowing not to leave again until tomorrow. We did a little holiday maintenance -- set up the train around our pink holiday tree and dragged the big-ass ladder in from the garage to replace some light bulbs in the hallway chandelier. A little extra twinkle to fight off the gloom, and a warm and fuzzy feeling of girl power for good measure.

For a little while, our troubles seemed to be miles away already.

Thinking Inside the Box

You kind of know the day is going to be rough when you spend fifteen minutes outside at 4:30 in the morning in your pj's and boots searching frantically for your dog, who is already back inside (because you already let him in). Top it off two hours later with a jaw dropping phone call from an international jetsetter hubby and you might as well dip into your emergency stash of anxiety meds and crawl under the covers.

But not this bird. A little shaking and hyperventilating isn't gonna stop me, so off I went to face the day -- a little yoga, a little writing, a little eating, a little shopping. It's tough being this busy and important.

I get the feeling I'm not the only one in town who's a little off kilter these days. Maybe it's the excitement of the holidays. Maybe it's the cold. Maybe it's just plain boredom. Whatever the reason, there has been a flurry -- or, for fans of yesterday's quasi-secret post, a McFlurry -- of activity on the cyber dating sites. Maybe that's because everyone feels too fat and pasty for anything other than virtual contact. It's odd chatting with people when you know they're looking at a carefully selected picture of the most elegant you and you're sprawled on the couch with your bloated belly pouring over your sweats and yellowish brown stains in the pits of your old white tee shirt. Hot!

But a social life is a social life, and sometimes -- most of the time -- it sure beats zipping up those tight jeans. So I was mortified when I got an email today from one of my favorite cyber buddies telling me we could not longer be buddies, because the cyber computers had sent him the profile of his perfect match and he was smitten. It was only after I read excerpts of the profile and saw the picture that I realized my buddy was joking, and our long awaited lunch date at Super Dog would indeed become a reality. The day was lookin' up.

Here are some snippets, from the pen of the woman of his dreams: she does not think outside the ubiquitous box (what the fuck does that mean?), high heels and sexy clothes flatter her body (I didn't know shoes and clothes could talk), she's high maintenance and proud of it (honesty is hard to find), and perspicacious men knock her nylons off (where do I begin?). The picture did not disappoint. Here's a shocker -- the woman looks nuts! In the picture she's striking a pose that's supposed to be beguiling, I think, but she looks like she's taking a shit with her pants on. In the bathtub. Well not so much in the bathtub but on the edge of the bathtub. Kudos to her balancing there in her stilettos. In a bathroom full of mirrors. Now that's hot!

I'm not sure how this woman got to be fifty-eight without anyone snapping her up, but maybe too many folks are just too stuck outside that ubiquitous box to get it. I think I might crawl inside, get some perspective.

Mr. McSchmuck

Available upon request.

Too Err, With Love

Apparently there is such a thing as an "influential blogger," and I'm guessing, with a grand total of seven official followers signed in to this one, I am not one of them. Which means the information I disseminate won't get very far. Which means I can tell all the secrets I want.

So don't tell anybody, guys, but my brother and I are planning a surprise eightieth birthday party for my mother. I realize mom's deafness will not stop her from reading this, but my steadfast refusal to provide her with the blog site will. I have discovered, for the umpteenth time, that there really is no up side to sharing this stuff with her, as she will always detect some criticism of her between the lines. Okay, sometimes the criticism is right there in the lines -- right there in black and white -- but for the most part, really, I've been trying to behave.

We're planning a small celebration for her milestone birthday, at the same restaurant in New York where she and my father took me for my twenty-first, thirty years ago. Though it's difficult for me to remember -- or relate to -- the person I was all those years ago, the memory of that dinner is a vivid reminder for me of how hard I worked to change the course of my life, to end up where I am today. And I mean that in a good way; I am much more than the middle aged soon to be divorced narcissistic cougar saving up for a double wide.

When I turned twenty-one in the fall after I graduated from college, I was overweight, struggling with bulimia, and living with my parents. Dinner with my parents was not a secondary celebration of my birthday; it was the celebration. There was no night in a bar with friends to celebrate my majority, no twenty-one shots at the stroke of midnight. Just dinner with mom and dad in a ridiculously expensive restaurant, where I sheepishly took a few forkfuls of the signature souffle, conscious that my mother could see every fat cell in my body multiplying. I felt unqualified for everything back then.

There was nothing overtly wrong with my childhood, which is why I felt stumped, yesterday, when somebody asked me why I think I was as screwed up as I say I was in college. Those years, for me, are a blur of uncertainty and weight gain and lack of accomplishment and escalating eating disorders. They fill me with regret.

As I pondered the question, I realized that the ostensible perfection of my childhood might very well have contributed to my college struggles. I never had the chance, before I went away, to question myself or be dissatisfied or make a mess of things. And still, at twenty-one, young but already done with those four "best years of my life" (god forbid), I was protected by the strong embrace of my parents. An embrace born out of love, I know, but one that was, often, stifling and judgmental. I wanted out but I didn't, which made moving forward a bit difficult.

The best thing I have done for my children, I think, is to hug them lovingly but loosely. They've had plenty of room to screw up, and they have taken advantage of that opportunity. I look at my older two, aged twenty and twenty-one, and I marvel at how far ahead of me they are at that age -- wiser, more self-assured, scarred by mistakes but stronger as a result. And very, very aware that though I love them to death, there is not much I can do to make the road ahead easier. I can listen and I can guide, but I can't dictate. If, in pleasing themselves, they please me too, that's a windfall. But it's certainly not the goal.

When I return to that restaurant in February to celebrate my mother's eightieth (shh, don't tell), I will smile when I think of the frightened, chubby, insecure girl I was back in the day, afraid to eat my souffle. I may not be an influential blogger, or an influential anything for that matter, but, well, I've come a long way, baby, and I'll be shoveling in that souffle like nobody's business.

My kids will be there, and they may choose to eat their souffles, or they may choose -- much to my mom's chagrin -- not to order one at all. I will do nothing to influence their decisions. For them, it's just another fork in the road.

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.