Survival of the Fit

I was not the only one slipping into survivalist mode today. It was nearly impossible to find a parking spot at any of the local grocery stores, with folks scurrying through the aisles stocking up on provisions in preparation for the mother of all storms.

Now, intellectually I know that this little meteorological disturbance will not be anything close to the apocalypse everyone is expecting. Sure, it looks a little bit freaky when they show the pictures from space, with the entire North American land mass being suffocated by a pretty ominous looking cloud. But the media has already succeeded in convincing me that the Mayans knew more than modern day weather men, and the real apocalypse isn't due for almost two years. Those guys knew their shit -- especially their astrology -- and my money's on December 21st, 1012. The Mayans are probably giggling in their graves about all the hullabaloo over this little tempest in a teapot.

Nevertheless, I found myself fighting the crowds at the local Jewel, worried primarily that I would run out of dog food for my beloved Manny and Leo. But while I was there, I figured I'd try to stock up on essentials for me and my daughter so we wouldn't end up eating potato chips, almond M&M's, and double stuff oreos for three weeks. The novelty might wear off.

Frankly, even if tomorrow's storm is as apocalyptic as predicted, it might be too late. We might just self-destruct long before the first flakes start to fall. Deep dark suburbanites are serious not only about survival, but about survival of the fittest, and to be the fittest, one must avoid carbs, fat, sugar, and anything else that tastes good. A few cat fights almost broke out by the low-fat cottage cheese, and I really thought World War III might break out over the last case of caffeine free diet coke. I felt an anxiety attack coming on, and I bet there's nothing worse than panicking during an apocalypse, so I gave up on being fit and simply headed over to the wine aisle to pick up a few bottles of red to help keep me sane.

After all that hassle, my household will have to survive on potato chips, almond M&M's, double stuff oreos, red wine, and lots of dog food. We'll be fat and happy; heck, we'll be downright giddy. This will be a good practice run for the real deal.

A Walk (or Two) in the Park

Central Park is beautiful in the snow. Saturday, as I strolled through the always-there-but- always surprising oasis in the middle of Manhattan, first with my younger daughter and then with my son, I couldn't remember ever seeing the park in the middle of winter. At least not a winter that has seen about sixty inches of snow in one month.

The news reports are full of stories about how people in the Northeast are struggling with the elements this January, and they certainly are. But Manhattan enjoys the dubious benefit of plenty of traffic and exhaust fumes, so the streets are remarkably passable. Central Park, though, is like an unreal bit of winter reality in the midst of the metropolis, its paths unplowed, slushy and slippery, its sloping walkways treacherous unless you happen to be on skis.

And wherever all the complaining New Yorkers are that we keep seeing on the national news, they were not in Central Park on this rare sunny day in January 2011. That's not to say there weren't plenty of New Yorkers there; the place was packed -- with walkers and runners and young parents pulling their kids along on sleds. The skating rink was filled to capacity, the hot chocolate vendors fighting to keep up with demand. And beneath all the woolly hats and tightly wound scarves, everybody seemed to be smiling.

My two walks in the park this past Saturday, first with one child and then with another, were as idyllic as any walk in a vast, quiet country field on a summer day. We chatted non-stop, occasionally catching each other as we slipped, occasionally pausing to navigate our way around other urban adventurers on the narrow paths, but barely noticing the cold. We talked about our year, a turbulent one for each of us, but in such different ways. I've come home knowing not only how important my kids are to me, but, surprisingly, how important I am to them. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

The weekend was one of generations coming together, the Thanksgiving clan convening to celebrate our oldest member's eightieth birthday. There was no shortage of shtick. Some cousins went to the wrong place after a long drive from Boston (kind of my fault), my fur-clad mother narrowly avoided being pelted by animal activists (she can't hear; I think she thought they were just saying "hello"), and my poor son had to shop for something to wear that night with his mother, two sisters, and his grandmother in tow.

Then, of course, there were thirteen boisterous Jews at a large table in one of New York's fanciest restaurants, taking pictures and clinking glasses and kibbitzing with a wait staff that seemed quite content to participate in our revelry. Not our fault that the guy with the stick up his butt at the next table kept getting bumped as we played musical chairs. He should lose a few pounds.

My mother's eightieth birthday celebration with "The Fam" (as I have dubbed the group on Facebook) was a smashing success, from the moment we stepped off the plane (or, for the others, the subway, or the bus, or the car, or the taxi). It was, truly, a walk in the park.

Batter Up(stairs)!

Like any red-blooded younger sibling, Manny the obese puggle has had it up to his floppy ears with all the attention Leo is getting. He's back to his life of crime and petty disturbances; negative attention is better than no attention at all.

Yesterday, when I dropped my daughter off at home before I rushed off to the store to get provisions for dinner, she called me in a panic; Leo was muzzle deep in Aunt Jemima pancake mix. The box (which my daughter had, naturally, left on the floor so she would not forget to bring it with her to school the next day), was torn open at the top, its powdery contents scattered around Leo on the upstairs carpet. I was appalled; Aunt Jemima pancakes without her syrup? It's like the spring without the fall.

I was thrilled that Leo was back to his old self, but we were puzzled by Manny's apparent lack of involvement in the caper. He was downstairs, my daughter informed me, sleeping. With a box of ready to mix pancake batter spilled all over the carpet, ripe for licking? I think not. I told her to check for evidence on his crooked little snout. Sure enough, there it was, the smoking gun, sprinkled against the black background of Manny's innocent face. And poor, not so smart Leo, was left to take the rap. The pancake batter -- which, by the time I arrived home, was no longer just powder; it's the kind you just mix with water, and apparently saliva works just as well -- will leave a mark.

So, just to piss Manny off, I thanked Leo for trying to clean up the mess his brother had made, and rewarded him with a nice, long belly rub. Well, never try to piss off a criminal mastermind who's already pissed off. Manny must have heard me ask Leo if, seeing as he got an extra belly rub and all, he might consider not waking me up in the middle of the night to let him out to pee. Leo, bless his heart, obliged. But guess who stirred at two o'clock in the morning -- for the first time in his life -- and ran downstairs and barked his little head off until I came down to let him out.

Like I said, negative attention is better than no attention -- or no Aunt Jemima -- at all!

The Wee Wee Hours

When my oldest daughter was a baby, I used to enjoy the middle of the night feedings. The hard part was dragging myself out of bed at two a.m., but once I got over that hump, the rest was gravy. There was something peaceful about being alone with her in the wee hours of the morning while each of us enjoyed -- for different reasons -- her efficient emptying of my swelling breasts.

She would go right back to sleep, and I would hold her for awhile before depositing her in her crib, savoring the sweet smell of her newborn head, marveling at the soft outlines of her face as she dreamed her sweet dreams. Her bow-shaped lips would open and close in tiny spasms as she concentrated in her slumber; her tiny body pulsed with each breath. Finally, as I felt myself drifting off, I would tear myself away and look forward to the bliss of a few more hours of sleep before she began her early morning cooing. Sure, the days seemed endless sometimes, but those nights -- before life became complicated by other (equally wonderful, of course) siblings and a not so wonderful job, passed way too quickly.

Almost twenty-two years later, I find myself being awakened on a regular basis at two a.m., but this time by an old dog. I've gotten used to hearing the telltale sound of Leo's toenails tapping on the wood floor downstairs, knowing a few low, tentative barks are soon to follow. I rush downstairs to let him out before he starts barking in earnest, waking fat Manny from his beauty sleep. (I don't worry about him waking my younger daughter; a Bolivian marching band could pass through her room without rousing her.)

As was the case with my daughter's middle of the night feedings, I look forward to the bliss of a few more hours of sleep, knowing that Leo will rest quietly after he does his business. But the process of letting him outside to pee -- especially in the dead of winter -- and waiting inside, on the cold kitchen tile, for him to finish, isn't quite as enjoyable as feeding time used to be. Especially now since I worry constantly that he will just lie down and never get up.

It's official. The tumor they removed along with Leo's spleen was cancerous. The good news is there was no evidence it had spread to the liver, but still, it's an aggressive form of the disease. So last night, when I waited patiently for him to show up at the back door and he didn't appear, I found myself putting boots and a down jacket on over my pajamas and trudging into the frozen back yard. There he was, enjoying the snow, glancing over at me as if I was nuts. Duh.

We're visiting the doggie oncologist (I picture Snoopy in a lab coat) next week, so we can discuss the chemo options that might extend Leo's life for a year. When you think about it, that's seven years in human time, so nothing to sneeze at. And I'm going to go for it, as long as I feel reassured that the drugs will not make Leo uncomfortable. Given the way he has rallied after major abdominal surgery, I'm optimistic.

A dog is not a child, and a dog is supposed to go before you do. And if I've learned anything from the "Leo crisis" this week, it's that Leo will let us know when he's had enough, and when that happens, we will listen to him. But my tail wagging, barking, jumping Leo is not ready yet, and neither are we. So I will just have to appreciate the fleeting time I have left with him -- even if it's spent freezing my ass off in the middle of the night waiting for him to pee.

Tall Tails

I never thought I'd be so thrilled to hear Leo bark. When Phil the furnace guy arrived yesterday morning, Leo actually bolted down the stairs, barked repeatedly, and even bounced up and down in his signature fake jump. Music to my ears and eyes.

Since Leo can't talk, I've relied on the position of his tail to monitor his recuperation. When we first visited him in the hospital, the morning after his surgery, his thick, heavy tail -- normally a lethal weapon -- was tucked pitifully between his legs. Even when he wagged it, that wonderful symbol of canine contentment remained stuck in the downward position.

Each day, Leo has been able to lift his furry smile a little higher; by Sunday night, it was almost parallel to the floor. But yesterday morning, when Phil arrived to fix the furnace, Leo did his best version yet of smiling from ear to ear. His tail lifted above the ninety degree mark, waving back and forth at its customary full throttle. Pure, unadulterated joy, simply because a vaguely familiar human had stopped by. Leo really couldn't give a shit about the heat.

Naturally, I've been worried about whether going forward with surgery for a ten year old lab who probably has cancer was a humane thing to do. We weren't ready to let Leo go, but I can't help but wonder whether the decision was best for him. More than anything, his lusty bark and enthusiastic tail wagging has reassured me. Leo is alive and well, for now, and enjoying life's most simple pleasures. Like a car rolling to a stop in front of our house; or a sudden gust of blowing snow; or (his and Manny's personal favorite) high school kids pouring off the school bus at three forty-five every weekday afternoon.

I was pretty happy to see Phil the furnace guy too, but only because I couldn't wait to smell and feel actual heat coming through the vents. I have never been able to grasp the concept of simple pleasures the way Leo and Manny do. But sometimes I get it. Right now, I'm smiling from ear to ear, because Leo just managed to jump up on the couch.

My Tale of Two Cities

Okay, I admit it. While most of the Chicago metropolitan area literally shut down yesterday afternoon to watch the Bears face off with the dreaded (and dreadful, I'm told) Green Bay Packers, I was snuggled up on the couch with Manny watching the Australian Open.

Zillions of chickens in the Midwest were running around without their wings (it's taken me years to figure out that there's nothing particularly special about the chickens raised in Buffalo), thousands of humans in the Midwest were running around without their brains (how else does one explain sitting outside when it's one hundred degrees below zero just to watch a bunch of oversized men push each other around), and I don't even care enough to refresh my memory and find out what a line of scrimmage is. In my mind, the frigid football spectacle made a stadium full of sweaty, drunken Aussies look downright intelligent.

Sure, I'm disappointed about the Bears' loss, but I'm even more disappointed that the New York Jets lost as well, crushing my dreams of a Superbowl which could indeed have been a metaphor for my own inner conflicts. (Who else can turn the Superbowl into something that's "all about me?") It's an even fifty-fifty now, the portions of my life that I've spent living in Chicago and New York. New York is where I was raised; Chicago is where I've spent all of my adult life, raising others but still trying to figure out what I'm going to be when I grow up.

New York and Chicago, my yin and yang, although I'm not sure which is which. Like everybody, I have my dark and passive yin moments, balanced by the occasional brightness and strength of yang. The energy of two great cities pulses through my veins, and I like to think I've absorbed the best of both. I'm edgy and I'm laid back, I'm loud and, sometimes, painfully quiet. I'm a Mets fan and I'm a Cubs fan, and, to the extent I can care about football, I would have liked to see both the Jets and the Bears make it to the Superbowl. Doesn't make me all that different from television and advertising executives, I suppose.

On Superbowl Sunday, my yin and yang will join forces, and I will be rooting against both teams -- all the guys who dashed my hopes of throwing the greatest Superbowl party ever. I'll say a prayer for all the flightless chickens as I nibble on their wings, and I'll put in a good word for next year for the two great cities that have shaped me.

Now We're Cookin'

All of Leo's vitals are good, and he's doing just fine on regular old oxygen, so the super nice folks at the veterinary hospital are pretty sure he can come home this afternoon. There's only one stumbling block: he refuses to eat dog food.

Well, hellooooo! Would they eat dog food when there's a whole jar of peanut butter and a loaf of fresh bakery bread sitting there? Leo had no problem licking peanut butter off my fingers yesterday when I showed up with the emergency provisions. And, according to yesterday's nurse, he would have made room for an entire sandwich later on had they allowed him to be such a glutton.

But they won't release him until he eats regular dog food, and my task this morning is to bring some of his delicious kibble from home and coax him into eating it. Now Leo may have the nicest disposition in the world, but he's a stubborn old coot, and he's no mensa candidate, so I have my work cut out for me. Somehow I need to convey to him the connection between choking down the disgusting dry chunks and going home, where I am certain his spirits -- and his tail -- will lift.

So don't tell my human children, who are well aware that I make very little effort to stock the house with food for them or prepare any sort of delectable meals, that as soon as I finish my Starbucks and this "Leo update" I will be cooking some long grain rice to sneak into the crevices of Leo's food bowl. Not Uncle Ben's instant, mind you; Leo gets rice from scratch. I'd go into the rice paddies and really do it up right if I had some extra time.

And please don't tell my kids about the little thermos of beef bouillon I'll be sneaking into the hospital in my purse. Sure, I love them, but their hungry stares have just never pulled on my heartstrings the way Leo's does. Maybe if they were dimwitted enough to sit for indefinite periods of time, unblinking, watery brown eyes gazing so longingly that it almost seems possible for them to will the food off someone else's plate into their own mouths, I'd take the kids more seriously. Leo (and Manny), not rocket scientists by any stretch of the imagination, have the routine down, and I fall for it every time. Patience can be so much more effective than brains.

Yes, first I will try to reason with Leo, and explain to him that he can't go home until he eats his kibble. Just a few bites. But when that fails, I will be armed and ready with a sprinkle or two of rice and a little drizzle of bouillon. And, with great fanfare and lots of "good boys" from the super nice staff at the veterinary hospital, we will head for home.

Leo T. Lab Update

It was weird not tripping over a big, chocolate brown animal sprawled on the landing this morning. Weirder still how spry my legs felt after a night of not being contorted by the space sucking presence of an eighty pound dog at the foot of the bed.

At the very least, I should feel rested from not being woken at two in the morning for Leo's nightly trek out to the yard to pee and bark. Not so much. I was still up at two, trudging downstairs to find the number for the animal hospital so I could check on Leo's progress. For the third time since he had come out of surgery, I'm embarrassed to admit. He is doing well, and I can't wait to go see him the minute the doors open for visiting hours at ten this morning. My daughter plans to be dressed and ready to go with me -- on a Saturday morning. Now that's love!

Up until last night, I thought I was in love with my chiropractor, but as it turns out, he's got nothing on the animal lovers who are taking care of Leo. I am now hopelessly in love with three desk clerks, five veterinary nurses, an emergency care doctor, and a veterinary surgeon. The kindness -- not just to the patient but to the humans -- was simply overwhelming. Ten amazing women versus one man with magic hands. A tough choice, but right now, no contest.

And then there are the supportive emails and messages from my friends, and the offers of help (and actual help -- thanks Beth!). I'm feelin' the love guys, feelin' the love! No worries -- Leo is a tough old bird, and my money's on him. I will give him extra hugs, and, if he could talk, I'm sure he'd send extra licks and crotch sniffs everyone's way!

Leo

Leo is sick. Very sick. He's having surgery tonight which, at best, might buy him a few months.

At ten, Leo is still very much a puppy. Prematurely gray around his muzzle and his paws, he shows few signs of being the equivalent of a seventy year old human, except maybe that he needs to pee in the middle of the night. Leo can still break into a sprint faster than any young stud I know. Not that I know any young studs.

Today Leo just didn't want to get up. He lay listless on the floor, getting up occasionally to lap up some water, then flopping himself back down with what appeared to be great relief. I'm not sure of many things, but I'm pretty certain that if I had a ruptured tumor bleeding all over my abdomen I'd be pretty whiny. From Leo, not a peep. I can only imagine how much energy it took for him to thump his tail up and down in appreciation every time I went over to say "hi." Leo is probably the most good-natured soul I'll ever know.

A dreary and cold winter day became drearier and colder as the news of Leo's condition unfolded, although I barely noticed I wasn't wearing a coat as I tried to coax him out of the car at the animal hospital. Somehow he knew this was not a place he wanted to visit, and he literally dug in his heels. Two nurses managed to sweet talk him out of the back seat (he's a sucker for pretty ladies) and hoisted him up onto a gurney so he could ride -- like the prince he is -- into the hospital. Whatever Leo does, he does with style and grace.

Manny knows something is amiss. He didn't even seem to enjoy eating what Leo refused to eat at breakfast, though he'd been eying it all day. It's just no fun eating alone.

There's so much I want to say about Leo, and to Leo, but right now I'm at a loss. Please say a prayer for my wonderful, loyal friend.

Bad Moody Blues

Why is it that whenever I'm sitting around feeling sorry for myself I insist upon playing really depressing love songs. I just made the most heart wrenching playlist. For Pete's sake, what the hell am I thinking? And who the hell is Pete, and is he single?

The saddest part is I keep crooning along with the music, much to the dismay -- and utter annoyance -- of my daughter, who is now trying to recover from a harrowing week of finals. But no amount of subtle throat clearing and not so subtle door slamming seems to have an impact on my solitary sing-along. Frankly, I think I sound damn good -- almost as good as I do in the shower. I just can't figure out why the dogs have their heads buried under the couch cushions. They must be cold.

And with good reason. I think it's about one hundred below zero outside, the kind of day that makes even upbeat folks want to stay inside. Other than driving my daughter to and picking her up from her last final, and swinging through Dunkin Donuts to get some munchkins for the day's nourishment, I've managed to remain shut in all day. After a couple of good naps and a few snacks, there was nothing left to do but scan itunes for some thoroughly demoralizing melodies.

Not surprisingly, most of the tunes I've chosen are being belted out by female country singers, with one very notable exception: a little known piece sung by Art Garfunkel called Second Avenue. Not to worry, it's about loneliness and lost love -- don't want you to think I'm snapping out of it -- but it's set on an overpopulated street in an overpopulated building right smack in the middle of overpopulated New York City. Loneliness might not sound so appealing, but solitude in the midst of a crowd is one of the things I miss most about the big city.

In a week, I'll be in New York with my kids to attend the surprise party for my mother which is no longer a surprise. But because it was supposed to be a surprise and she wasn't supposed to see us until dinner, I booked a hotel room for me and my daughters in the heart of Manhattan. (My son is lucky; the city is his college campus.) I was thrilled for the excuse; we will have the rare opportunity to enjoy the bustle and not have to commute back and forth from my mom's apartment in the hybrid city-burb of Brooklyn. My kids all share my love of big cities, and we are looking forward to the opportunity to get lost, together, in the wilds of the Big Apple.

I plan to be out of my forlorn and lonely funk by then, and will make a playlist for the trip. A little Frank Sinatra, maybe, to start spreading the news of our arrival (since the surprise has already been ruined), and some Billy Joel to keep me in that fantastic state of mind that is, and can only be, New York.

You Ooze, You Lose

My daughter asked me the other day to explain "seepage." I told her it's the way information oozes out of people who don't really want you to grasp the whole truth because they're astute enough to know it might elicit a rather unpleasant reaction.

She seemed puzzled -- possibly because she was asking me in the context of her upcoming biology final -- but a teachable moment is a teachable moment, and she may not get an "A" on her test but I think I still offered up a valuable lesson. I anticipate that when she's taking Economics in a year or two she might ask me to explain "float." And I will explain that it is the way people let slip vague concepts so they can gauge the intensity of your rage before expanding on the thought. Which -- and I just love any opportunity for interdisciplinary instruction -- might lead to more seepage, or, in particularly violent cases, a screeching halt of all attempts at communication.

"Float" can often have the illusion of something pleasant; the word alone conjures up images of a rainbow colored soap bubble. As a result, even super smart potato heads can be fooled, sucked into thinking the the idea being floated is completely benign. I've got to start going easy on the carbs, and eat more fish, which my grandmother always told me was "brain food."

Anyway, when the floated idea in all the glory of its refracted light doesn't burst, that's when seepage starts in earnest, and seepage, unlike floating bubbles, is categorically ugly. I'm sure it's pretty hideous in the biology lab as well.

Well, I've been snookered by seepage too many times recently, and frankly I'm getting a headache from constantly trying to read between the lines of ooze. Seepage often includes a fact followed by a lame and rather incomplete explanation. "I needed some alone time (fact) and it has nothing to do with you (lame)." "I am going to do something that will hurt you (fact) but it's not something I really want to do (lame)." "You're a great person (fact, obvi) but I think I might be gay (lame but creative)." Ooze is ugly, insidious, and, once it starts, just keeps coming.

I'm no biologist, but I think sometimes these tendencies can be attached to the Y chromosome. It's just an idea I thought I'd float.

Bridging the Gaps

My dentist told me, yet again, that this whole divorce thing has not been good for my teeth. There's another chip, this time right in front. The gaps are getting wider.

As much as my attorney keeps assuring me that this will all be over soon, the gaps seem to widen on a daily basis. Just when I allow myself to think I can see the other side, my husband's ridiculously shameless botox queen attorney files yet another nonsensical pleading, and the bridge I thought we were desperately trying to build starts to sag like my all my factory original parts. I can't help but wonder how much money the aging beauty queen pocketed for producing the latest sloppy roadblock.

Oh, well, whatever. Back to more important things. Like my teeth. I fear I'm going to start looking a bit like Alfred E. Neuman, the iconic cover boy from Mad Magazine. Except I'll be anything but iconic. Moronic seems a bit more accurate. It's a good thing I've decided to give up dating; I realize there's a lid for every pot, but I don't think I want to get involved with someone who gets off on being able to reach his tongue all the way back to my tonsils even when my teeth are clenched.

I'm going to let my dentist fill in this one last chip, and then I'm just going to switch to a soft diet. Applesauce and yogurt from here on in, and unlimited beverages. My bar bill might go up a tad, but I'll still be a pretty cheap date. And these days, that equates to lots and lots of sex appeal, so maybe I won't have to give up on romance altogether.

As for the divorce, I don't think my dentist can help me with all the pesky little potholes that keep popping up as the botox queen continues on in her quest to erode my sanity, as she persists in her pricey efforts to gap the bridge. But, as the iconic gap-toothed Alfred always said, "What, me worry?" I just have to keep believing I'll get to the other side. Somehow.

The Finals Countdown

I've been sitting in Starbucks for fifteen minutes now, staring at a blank computer screen. The problem isn't really the screen; it's my mind, which seems to have gone completely blank. I can hear the marbles banging against my once active cranium whenever I shake my head. The chiropractor seems to have loosened more than my neck.

It's finals week here at the high school in deep dark suburbia. My daughter has locked herself in her room for long stretches each day, adhering strictly to the detailed schedule she had devised for herself last week. Eat, study, watch TV. Eat, study, hang out on Facebook. When I called her down for dinner the other day, she informed me she would not be down for another nineteen minutes. Whether she was deeply engrossed in the Krebs Cycle or some heavy duty social networking I couldn't tell you, but I'm glad she's taking her schedule seriously.

The combination of my own blank mind (except for a few stray marbles) and the pall that has settled over Mayberry while girls trade in make-up and tight jeans for ashen skin and sweats (gasp) and boys who can grow beards grow beards and others settle for some extra peach fuzz has made me sort of nostalgic for school days. Lord knows I can't remember as far back as high school, but I distinctly remember with a bit of a rose colored eye the coziness of finals week in college and law school. No classes, no schedules other than the overly optimistic blocks of time scribbled on bits of paper, no fashion worries. Just gallons of coffee, boxes of stale cookies, and the indescribable comfort of expandable waist bands.

My daughter doesn't seem to see the sweet romance in all that she's going through right now, but (and don't tell her this) she's been extremely pleasant as she hibernates and readies herself for her first set of high school exams. To me, she looks absolutely exquisite when she shuffles out of her cave in baggy shorts and an oversized tee shirt, her hair dangling in natural waves and her face as God (or somebody) intended it. All the bullshit has been stripped away, and with it a good deal of adolescent scorn. The pressure seems both humbling and liberating.

It's gotten me to thinking of strategies for melting away my own bitchiness, which I admit can give any teenager a run for her money. Is it possible that engaging in some sort of intellectual activity might help? Not that doing mountains of laundry and talking to dogs all day isn't stimulating, but it just doesn't seem to be filling in the empty spaces between the marbles.

When my daughter gets through her biology final, I'm going to borrow her text book, and conduct a little laboratory experiment of my own; I'm going to see what effect the Krebs Cycle has on a mind that has turned to mush.

Mashed Potato Head

It's official; now that my son is going back to school tomorrow, I'm left with two -- and only two -- fine men in my life. At least locally. Manny, obese puggle and criminal mastermind, and Leo, the lab with the kind disposition and tiny brain who has unwittingly become Manny's loyal henchman (Leo doesn't know the meaning of the word "no," nor does he know how to "just say no"). But devious and dimwitted as they may be, unconditional love is nothing to sneeze at.

Sure, some might find the shedding objectionable and the inexplicable barking intolerable, but nobody's perfect. Trust me, I've been swimming in the cess pool of available men, and it stinks. I decided I had finally hit bottom when the most likable of the bunch turned out to be five foot seven only if standing on a stool and ordered an "Amsdale Lite" when we went to dinner. WTF?

Another winner who had been thinly disguised as a normal and sweet man for a good two months called the other day after having ceased all communication for a week. "Is everything okay?" I asked, feigning concern. "I've had some personal issues to deal with, nothing to do with you. Just needed some alone time." Well, I politely wished him luck and generously offered him all the alone time he wanted, and burst out laughing when he wondered why I seemed done, and when he suggested we never know what the future holds. I admit I have no crystal ball, but I felt pretty darn certain my future wasn't going to include him. He seemed baffled.

My most recent favorite was the guy who professed deep love for me, but couldn't believe I expected him to "drop everything" -- i.e. his spot at a bar surrounded by adoring bimbos -- to be with me when I was having a bad evening. And then there was the guy (another one who feigned adoration on more than one occasion) who, at three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, told me he couldn't see me until Monday afternoon because his sister had invited him over for meatloaf at seven that evening. I'm obviously not getting male math.

There are too many stories, too many indignities to mention. But the beautiful thing about men is their firm belief that they can (and must) do whatever they want to do at any particular moment and can always apologize later (and add a few crocodile tears for good measure). All better, they think. I hate to admit it, but it's worked on old Mrs. Potato Head more than a few times. Could I be that insecure about my extra layer of carb flab? I might have to talk about this with my therapist.

Every night, when I head up to bed and find my two furry protectors posted strategically on my bed, leaving just the right amount of space for me to pet one with my hand and tickle the other with my toes, I know what a lucky woman I am.

Rocky Roads

By the time the wifi connection thawed out and kicked in at Starbucks this morning, it was time to pack it all up and head for spin class. By the time my legs thawed out and kicked in at spin, it was half over and I gave up to go home and eat some breakfast. My jaw seems to be the only part of me that never freezes.

Now, as I sit in Caribou (which is warmer than my Starbucks, at least when you sit with your back almost right up against the fireplace), I'm connected, and at the same time bombarded by all sorts of inspiration. My coffee cup runneth over with pithy bits of wisdom: marshmallows have no nutritional value, and that's okay; be the first to apologize; life is short, so stay awake for it. All very nice thoughts, as long as you're not in as shitty a mood as I'm in today. Frankly, I don't think marshmallows have any redeeming qualities, except when they're slightly frozen in the midst of a scoop of rocky road ice cream. I seem to always be the first to apologize, and let me be the first to apologize for the fact that I don't intend to do that anymore. And yes, life is short, and I freak out about that on a daily basis, the closer I get to the end. But sometimes I just don't want to stay awake, and if life is so short, why do the days sometimes feel so damn long.

There are only two shopping weeks left until my mother's surprise eightieth birthday party, which I was surprised to learn yesterday is no longer a surprise. My brother and I had a long chat about how my mother, once (okay, and still, to some degree) a royal pain in the ass, has become able to listen to our tales of woe despite her deafness, and has become surprisingly able to offer up support, good advice, and, most startlingly, unconditional love. I suppose it was always there, but not so easy to find.

My mother, with all her shtick, has evolved into a worthy matriarch of sorts, and she has been able to give me perspective, especially in the past year, when it seems to elude me. She is even able to laugh at herself, so my brother and I don't have to laugh alone. It would be nice if she were a bit beefier so I could crawl into her lap and let her tell me everything's going to be all right, that none of this will matter, in the end.

It doesn't seem fair that my mother is turning eighty, although I suppose it was less fair that my father died at seventy-eight. I need to know my mother is there these days, and "eighty" can be a frightening number. I know it is for her. It's why my brother and I have opted not to have everyone make loving and admiring speeches about her at her birthday dinner. Not just because she won't be able to hear them, but because we don't want this to be the equivalent of a "lifetime achievement" award at the Oscars; we all know what that means. I prefer to think of this as a celebration of a new phase for us -- for me and mom. One in which we will savor each other, because, as my Caribou cup reminds me (in the context of kids), we should spend time together; tomorrow, we will both be a day older.

My favorite bit of advice from my wise cup of Caribou: spin the globe then pack your bags. A nice thought, but then what. I have yet to see a Winnebago with wings. Or rudders. I do have my daughter's tote bag though, so what the heck -- I can still pack, and I can always dream. And I can always find a way to pop in and visit my old mom.

Travel, Lite

My daughter's new employer continues to send "welcome aboard" gifts, as if the signing bonus wasn't enough. Well, all I can say is finders, keepers, and since the packages arrive at my front door I am accumulating a nice set of travel gear. I have a handsome new tote bag (I can just face the company logo inward), and a handy travel mug. Now all I need is someplace to go.

As more and more of the marital pot (no, not that kind of pot) ends up in the swelling bank accounts of matrimonial attorneys, I become more acutely aware that my customary travel habits will have to change. It's a good thing I'll be living in a trailer, because it's going to double as my chariot. Kenosha can be lovely this time of year.

Years ago, as I sat with my husband at one of the grittier dives on the marina in Puerto Vallarta, we somehow attracted the attention of a couple of retirees well into their third round of drinks, even though it was just a bit past noon. They regaled us (between belches) with stories of their great Winnebago adventure. Their home on wheels was carrying them through their golden years, as they drank their way through North America. Given their level of alcohol consumption, I can't imagine they made very quick progress, but then again, it's the golden years, and they've got nothing but time. Until their livers implode, that is.

They went on their way -- to the bar about ten yards down the pier -- and we chuckled about their lowly ways, their pathetic lifestyle. Well, I don't know who's laughing now, but it's certainly not me. By my calculations, I'm just about three retainers away from spending the rest of my life sleeping it off and motoring off to the next cheap watering hole. Uno mas, por favor. It's never too early to start practicing.

I'm hoping the next "welcome aboard" package contains something really useful, like an E-Z Pass and a lifetime supply of Advil. Maybe even a travel potty seat (for those times I can't make it back to the trailer). My daughter has told me she doesn't want the gifts anyway; she's just pissed she's not getting what her friend's firm sends: godiva chocolates and DVD's of The Office, season six. She'd cut my fingers off if I tried to keep those.

My new tote bag is packed, my travel mug is full, and I'm ready to go wherever a full tank of gas will take me.

Telling it on the Mountain

I received an email today about a writing contest. Unfortunately, submissions need to be about the American West or the Colorado Plateau, and I'm not sure where Jewish, middle-aged angst fits within those settings. The good news, though, is it's a fiction writing contest, so even though I have very little knowledge of the region, a little ignorance isn't going to stop me.

I've been to Colorado twice: once, on a "teen tour," when hormones made it virtually impossible to focus on the sights, and again, some thirty years later, when hormones made it virtually impossible to focus on the sights. I was with my husband the second time, and it was summer. I recall being on a particularly arduous climb. And, oh yes, I spent some time hiking up a mountain or two.

My marriage had hit a plateau of sorts, and I wasn't quite sure whether the next stage would find me trudging through mountainous terrain, or plunging off the edge of a precipitous cliff. We had already done our fair share of trudging, not to mention pushing each other toward the edge, but nobody had gone over. Yet.

We were trying to accomplish what "couples therapy" had yet to achieve: understanding, forgiveness, rekindling. All that crap. Mountain air is thin, though, and dark thoughts and recriminations and fantasies of revenge seeped into every pore. The wide open spaces of the spectacular American West did nothing to help me escape my demons; if anything, they bullied their way in, filling up the empty air the way years of worn out clothing fills up closets. We had taken off for the wild West in hopes of leaving the past hurt and anger behind, but, for me, there was just no place to hide.

The plateau in our marriage lasted far longer than the weekend of hiking in the mountains, with some brief periods of great effort tossed in on occasion. Ultimately, though, we found ourselves at the edge, toppling over and hanging for dear life onto flimsy outcroppings. Separate flimsy outcroppings.

We're still separate, but each of us is on much more solid ground. It's an arduous journey of a different sort, but I have to believe that this one will find me (and him, but who really gives a shit about him?) at the top of the mountain, enjoying the spectacular views. I have to believe I will have beaten back a lot of the darkness, and even the thin mountain air won't let the old demons penetrate.

Next time I visit the Colorado mountains, I hope it will be in winter, and I'll be on skis. Even though I've only gone skiing twice, and only on hills that make the dip in my driveway blacktop look like the Grand Canyon, I know I'll love it. Sure, I'll be alone with my thoughts on a mountain, but fear for one's life works wonders for concentration. Anyway, I'll be soaring downward -- most likely on my ass. The demons won't be able to keep up.

Nice Melon!

My therapist keeps telling me I should hold my head up. I went to a chiropractor to get a second opinion, and he wholeheartedly agreed. Holding my head up will alleviate a lot of the pain.

According to the xray, my neck literally tips forward, my upper spine bent from the weight of my head. So for several days I've been consciously trying to lift what feels like a bowling ball sitting on a golf tee, to free up the knots and the stress. It's exhausting. So much easier to just let it hang.

When my oldest daughter was born, we called her "Tweety Bird;" her round head was disproportionately large, and it was impossible to imagine she would ever be able to balance it on top of her spindly little body. But -- and I'm not bragging here even though it was quite an impressive developmental milestone -- she held that thing up within two months, ramrod straight. It was a sign of physical strength, for sure, but what I didn't realize then was how much it foreshadowed her strength of character and emotional fortitude. It takes a lot more than muscle to keep your head up high.

Rumors and twisted versions of tales are spreading through Harper Valley like wild fire, the flames catching and being sucked down cross streets as they burn through intersections, smoke oozing through all the open spaces. Sometimes I feel like I'm choking. Where the hell is my fantasy fire fighter when I need him?

If I don't hang my head, my throat starts to burn and my eyes start to sting, but I'm trying to heed the advice of health professionals. Each day, the muscles in the back of my neck feel a tiny bit stronger, and each day I fight back the poisonous fiery breath of the neighborhood dragon, and I breathe. The air is still a bit toxic, but that's what the exhales are for.

I don't think I'll ever slay the dragon, but I don't need to. All I need is to beat it back, to keep it at bay. When the going gets tough, I can always tie a lead weight or two to my low pony tail. But if an infant can muster up the energy to lift up what must feel like a melon, I hardly think a fifty-year old woman has an excuse for a sloping neck.

And once I master the head holding milestone, I'm going to get to work on the social smiling. These days, it's usually just gas.

There's Snow Place Like Home

It's five thirty in the morning, and I've already dropped my daughter at the airport and arrived at my Starbucks. It's been a while since I've been here at this hour with my laptop; the addition of my two older children to the household for winter break altered my routine.

She was supposed to leave yesterday, but a relentless storm kept her snowed in for one more day -- an unexpected bonus. After a harrowing morning of driving around running last minute errands in near white out conditions, a courtesy call from American Airlines spared us from the pointless ride to the airport. Instead, we picked up greasy burgers and fries for the three of us (my son was up by then) and hunkered down for a cozy snowy afternoon. The food stuck to my ribs but the easy laughter was the perfect antidote to the heaviness of the meal. It was like old times.

The three of us -- my two older children and I -- used to spend lots of time together. Only fifteen months apart, they grew up as best buddies, at least until the social pressures of school interfered. They spoke their own language -- the special language of virtual Irish twins -- and created a world full of games and fantasies that kept them happily occupied for hours on end. I used to love to watch them.

As they grew, their differences became more apparent, and there were times -- during the high school years -- when a grunt was the best they could offer each other (or me, for that matter). As young adults, they have pursued different paths, and have different dreams. Probably not so different, but in their minds, the discrepancies have caused some tension. They've become suspicious of each other, defensive almost, as if their differences necessarily lead to judgment. Harsh judgment.

And so they went at each other the other day. I got the frustrated phone call from my daughter, my son disappeared for a while to chill. I stayed out of the way, offering only an ear and whatever version of unconditional love and support I could demonstrate. The air cleared, tempers cooled, and after dinner, after I had gone to bed, they talked, they apologized to each other, and they hugged. It don't get any better than that.

The snowy afternoon sealed the deal. The three of us sat on the couch, fighting for space under the motley collection of blankets, watching a movie. It was Tuesday, and the three cleaning ladies had arrived for the hour-long whirlwind spin through the house. Every time we tried to play the movie, the vacuum went on, and the screaming Polish conversation drowned out whatever the vacuum could not. During a brief vacuuming lull, as we tried yet again, Leo the lab woke from his afternoon nap to alert Manny the obese puggle that the snow plow had arrived; the two of them barked until the job was done and the intruders were safely out of sight.

The three of us laughed until our faces hurt. I could still see them as they used to be, their chubby cheeks jiggling with glee over some private joke. Ahhh, the comforts of home sweet home.

Ancient Chinese Secrets

I don’t know what people have against the self-proclaimed “Tiger Mom” who has written a book advocating her interpretation of the “Chinese method” of parenting, which, as I understand it, is a relentless rejection of joy. I suppose if I were Chinese I might have a problem with it, but for the rest of us it presents a wonderful opportunity for showing our children just how good they have it.

The Today Show segment came on just after I returned from taking my youngest daughter to school this morning. A fly on the windshield of my car would have assumed I am the devil incarnate, given my daughter’s dour expression and the complete and utter scorn with which she responded to my questions (which was a step up from the painful silence that met most of my inquiries). Her life is miserable, and I am, as always, a prime candidate for “bad mommy hell.” When the time comes. Thankfully she’s still too young to be placed in charge of my medical decisions should I end up in the hospital.

I was feeling pretty bad about myself until I listened to Tiger Mom defend her book and her methods. Stylish, beautiful, thin (of course), and accomplished (if you’d call an Ivy League professor accomplished), she readily and proudly confessed to the wok-load of things she has banned from her daughters’ lives: sleepovers, play dates of any kind, any grade less than an "A;" in sum, the essential elements of childhood. Not to mention self-esteem; she admits to having returned her daughter's hand crafted birthday card one year, deeming it grossly inadequate.

But even without any semblance of a "normal" American childhood, her daughters looked pretty happy in the pictures, and I have no reason to believe the photos were inauthentic. It got me to thinking that maybe I could wipe the scowl off my daughter's face this afternoon if I tell her that instead of vegging in front of the television watching old Friends episodes for three hours she would have to practice piano and study calculus. Who cares if she doesn't play the piano or take calculus -- the kid just needs to man up and grow a pair.

I guess it all comes down to what you want out of life, not just for yourself but for your kids. Professor Tiger Mom looks content, hell, downright smug, with her wildly successful and driven life. Her husband is mysteriously absent from the pictures and his opinion -- no doubt a product of indulgent white America -- of Chinese child rearing is noticeably irrelevant; my guess is he's so terrified of his wife he'll do whatever she says. He's too whipped to know any better, and the daughters will certainly grow up with lots of academic and professional success and lots of bragging rights. It sure beats failure.

Have I been wrong to tell my kids the opposite of what I learned (having been raised according to the tenets of the gritty first cousin of the Chinese method -- the Brooklyn Jewish mother method)? Are passion and personal fulfillment all a bunch of hooey? After all, what good are passion and personal fulfillment when everyone else doesn't view you with a touch of awe? When you are the only one who perceives the value of your own life? Pointless. And all the passion in the world won't pay the mortgage.

Eat, pray, love? That's for losers. Push, practice, persevere -- that's my new mantra. As soon as the snow clears, I'm going out to buy my daughter a cello.

The Perfect Criminal

Apparently, I've been implicated in a crime. Luckily, my accuser lacks a certain degree of credibility, since he's in the clink for another nineteen years. I know this because the investigator who called me reassured me that the guy wouldn't be able to come after me until 2030. Phew.

So I don't know what I said to satisfy the attorneys that though I may indeed own a blue sweater, I was not the bag lady who was supposed to pick up several million dollars worth of postal bonds at a Chicago loop location. Maybe it was the background noise on my end of the phone call -- a combination of my daughter asking me what I thought about a pair of cute shoes and the Nordstrom loud speaker paging a customer to women's lingerie. They could probably tell the only "bags" I was carrying came from Lululemon and Neiman Marcus.

When you teach at a law school, you come into contact with all sorts of low lifes, most of whom happen to be law students. Occasionally, though, a clever inmate with lots of time on his hands will draft a barely comprehensible letter and send out copies to scores of folks in academia who he rightly assumes are likely to be bleeding hearts. The tales of injustice tend to be quite graphic and compelling, and I was often tempted to write back to at least express my empathy (such as it is) and apologize for not being able to help. But after receiving a few threats on my life from students unhappy with their grades I decided I was better off steering clear of convicted criminals.

The whole episode got me to thinking though. If I'm capable of exonerating myself over the phone, sight unseen, I might just be able to commit the perfect crime. Why peddle steel reinforced yoga clothes to old ladies like myself (criminal in its own right) if I could actually get away with, say, being a bag lady. To everybody outside of Harper Valley, I have all the trappings of respectability; I'd be the last person anyone would suspect. I bet I'd net more than ten bucks an hour, and I wouldn't even have to pay taxes! Win, win.

Feigning idle curiosity, I asked for the name of my accuser. I'm thinking of writing him a long overdue letter, seeing if maybe he could use my "help."

Employment Opportunities

I just accepted a job selling yoga clothing in a store a good thirty miles away from my home in deep dark suburbia. My salary won't do much to put food on the table, but my deep discount will keep me (and my friends) well-outfitted for a lifetime of downward facing dogs. And the commute might keep me sane.

I view my new employment as a sort of witness protection program. Sure, there are as many judgmental hypocrites in the deep dark suburbia to which I will be commuting as there are in my own, but in this situation the unknown evil certainly trumps the known ones. I always thought the "Harper Valley" of pop music was a figment of some creative yet highly paranoid imagination, yet I find myself living right smack in the middle of a modern day Harper Valley, where every day is judgment day. Not fictional at all; a timeless -- albeit baffling -- reality.

Here in the Harper Valley of the twenty-first century, it's all about alignment and collective scorn and loyalties created by ultimatum. Kind of a warped version of the moral compass, with a dial that resists the forces of nature in favor of the forces of gossip and malice. I always thought the stories my daughter would tell me when she was in high school about boys not talking to friends of a girl who had rejected one of their male comrades (did you follow that?) were amusing anecdotes about immaturity. I had no idea the behavior was part of the human condition -- at least as it exists in Harper Valley.

To be fair, not everybody here is like that. Some folks seem to have missed the community lecture on rushes to judgment and group scorn and just basic sticking your nose into other folks' business. I would be shocked if even my closest friends failed to be cordial to my asshole (sorry, that was a typo) husband, just as I have never experienced anything but pleasantness from his friends -- the people who would be "on his side" simply because they have only heard "his side."

I am lucky -- or maybe I just have good taste. We all love a little gossip, but I've chosen to surround myself with people who, rather than inserting themselves into the messes of others, are simply grateful that it's happening to someone else, not them. That's not to say my friends thrive on the misery of others; they simply thrive on the absence of a particular misery in their own lives, knowing full well that whatever is happening to their neighbor could just as easily happen to them.

In the song, Mrs. Johnson donned her mini skirt and "socked it to" the Harper Valley PTA, outing the divots in the manicured lawns and the chinks in the neat picket fences and the skeletons in the well-organized closets. I don't really have the energy to sock it to anyone. Tomorrow, I'll be signing off on my witness protection program, and I will happily immerse myself in yoga pants and blissful anonymity.

Hair Brained

Apparently, a correlation has been found between the location of a woman's ponytail and her intelligence. Her perceived intelligence, that is. The credentials of the folks putting forth the theory are, at best, questionable, but to be on the safe side I've tied my hair back today at the nape of my neck. The last thing I need is to be taken for a fool.

In a nutshell, the higher the tail, the ditsier the gal. As far as I can tell, cheerleaders and teenagers are exempt from stereotyping based on ponytail angle; a high bouncy one is for them, if anything, more an indicator of liveliness than stupidity. But put a middle aged woman in one of those and she screams moron. At any age, tie it up at the top of your head and, well, I won't repeat the politically incorrect adjective used in the article but let's just say we're talking IQ in the double digits. On a good hair day.

I never knew hair could tell us so much about a person. I always thought I wore a ponytail to keep my tangled, unruly mess out of my face. Actually, I've always thought that a ponytail of any kind showed a certain level of common sense and ingenuity, not to mention an admirable lack of vanity about coiffure. Who knew I could be so off the mark?

I wonder if mens' hair offers up its own variety of valuable information. Male pattern baldness aside, there's still lots of news to be gleaned from the hair that seems to sprout from every follicle once a man hits forty. A cyber dating buddy recently sent me the following excerpt from the profile of his latest "perfect match":

I have a huge body hair fetish, and am looking for only the hairiest men out there. I mean hairy everywhere: entire back and shoulders as well as chest, covered DENSELY with hair everywhere.

Clearly, the beastly look speaks to this woman. But what does all that fur say? What lusty secrets does she hear from those curly, sweaty strands? Whatever the case, my buddy was all over it; he cancelled all his waxing appointments, and was, he admitted, completely aroused by the prospect of having this woman braid his back. Different strokes for different folks, I suppose, but it sounds like someone's ponytail is maybe a bit too tight. I don't have a picture of the gorilla lover, but if there's a ponytail location that suggests totally fucking nuts, I'm guessing that's where hers is.

From now on, before I go on a date, I'm going to demand to see clear pictures of the guy's torso -- all views. I'm not sure what the level of hairiness will tell me, but if the information is there, I will find it. As long as I wear my thinking cap and keep my ponytail on the down low.

The Bottom of the Curve

Great news! Researchers have come up with a new theory of happiness, and it’s an upside down parabola, with middle age right smack at the bottom where it belongs. It’s only gonna get better from here.

Some studies scream with flaws, but this one seems pretty airtight, and there’s no way I’m looking to debunk a hypothesis that has me on the fast track to euphoria. And the article I read was in The Economist; the British sound so intelligent I tend to believe them, no matter what they say. (Really, who else but a Brit could spell “aging” with an “e” and not be subject to ridicule?)

The theory certainly rings true for me so far, especially the part that points to the forties and early fifties as being the peak time of unhappiness. It’s almost making me giddy with excitement about my next birthday (only ten months to go). According to the researchers, happiness goes hand in hand with our physical deterioration; at some point, we simply stop striving for what we haven’t achieved and accept our limitations, realizing time is short and we might as well enjoy ourselves. Sure, having kids leave the nest and having some financial security helps, but it’s more about our physiological and emotional development than anything else.

I’ve never wanted to be someone else – someone younger, or prettier, or smarter, or richer – although I certainly have wished on occasion to not be me. I mean that only in the sense that I regret certain mistakes, and regret having to suffer the consequences of whatever life tosses my way, whether or not I’m at fault. But I’ve never wanted to trade places and become another person; for better or worse, I’ve grown very accustomed to the person I am, and don’t really have the inclination or the energy to get to know someone else. Mrs. Potato Head is here to stay.

When I look at my children and marvel at their youthful glow and their optimism and their bodies that don’t creak and the wealth of opportunities that lay before them, I do so not with envy but with joy mixed with lots of worry. I worry that they will become less youthful (they will), that they will become more jaded (they will), that they will one day suffer aches and pains (they will), and that one day the world will no longer seem to be their oyster (it won’t). They will (I hope) go through the stages of life and experience joy and sadness and success and frustration and the daily ebb and flow of contentment. And all I can do is watch and hope for the best.

At least now, I can reassure them that when the going gets tough, there is a light at the end of the tunnel – although that light seems, well, light years away for them. Only those of us who’vemade it to the bottom of the “u-bend” and beyond know just how quickly time passes.

I probably won’t even have to tell them that things will get better. Within a few years, they’ll be watching me as I swing from the rafters, my ecstasy unfolding before their very eyes, and they’ll get it.

Stirring the Pot

The closest I came this year to making a new year's resolution was promising my daughter I'd actually cook something new at least three times a week. I've been grabbing all sorts of ingredients, stirring them up, and letting them simmer. We never know how it's going to taste, and more often than not it's bound to be a recipe for disaster. Maybe, every once in a while, it'll be delicious. So many ingredients, so many variables. Life, and in our house these days, dinner, can be full of surprises.

Years ago, when my father was dying, I had lunch with a friend who was also on the verge of losing her dad. I was losing my favorite person on earth; she was losing a man who had, at times, caused her great emotional pain, and she was struggling with the ambivalence that goes along with years of unresolved conflict. Watching a parent die, no matter what the relationship looked like, is nasty business.

And it's complicated. It draws out all your emotions and stirs them up into a big mysterious stew and lets them simmer for what seems an eternity. A recipe for disaster some days; you just never know how the pain is going to taste. At that lunch, on that particular day, my friend and I descended inexplicably into a hysterical fit of laughter. An observer would have thought we were discussing anything but the death of a loved one. Sure, we had tears in our eyes, but laughter does that to you. There's just such a fine line between joy and pain. Indifference is so much simpler.

I thought about that lunch yesterday as I sat drinking a Starbucks, cackling with what would have appeared, to the casual listener, to be unadulterated amusement. I was on a conference call (yes, I'm very important) with my attorney and my financial adviser, discussing the sorry state of my finances and the relative costs and benefits of pursuing further discovery. Hilarious. The mere concept of having a conversation with an attorney about prudent spending when every sentence you utter costs another pound of flesh makes me giggle.

Every once in a while, with good reason, I need a good cry, but the truth is laughter is usually the best medicine. At the very least, that phone call helped me burn a few calories; I had come in from the cold thinking I'd never thaw out, and by the time I was done, I was sweating bullets. And I felt better than I had all day, despite the various disturbing revelations I experienced during the call. Wringing my hands and moaning wouldn't have changed the facts, and the cardiovascular benefits would have been negligible. You just gotta laugh.

Last night's stew was vegetarian chili. It was neither disastrous nor delicious. No voracious shoveling in, no scornful pushing around on the plate. Pure and simple indifference was what I got from those ungrateful children. Easy to recognize; not at all complicated. They were unmoved by the eight hours it took to cook it. (Who cares if those eight hours took place in a crock pot; eight hours is eight hours.)

I just had to laugh.

The Windy City

My new best friend, Jose, came to fix the fence while I was away. Once again my world is self contained, protected. Theoretically.

Miss Jill, he calls me. Actually, Miss Yill. “Everything is all okay, Miss Yill,” was the message I picked up from him when I landed at Ohare the other day. If I had known everything could be okay for only two hundred fifty dollars, I would have arranged for Jose to mend my fence a lot sooner.

Last year at this time, I came home from a wonderful few days with my daughters to a world in which the shit started to hit the fan and wouldn’t stop. The era of the friendly separation officially ended, and acrimonious divorce proceedings began. Within weeks, my theory that the official, court-sanctioned break up of my marriage would be civilized, with attorneys acting only as liaisons as they expertly navigated the system for us while we went on with our lives, was blown to smithereens.

It’s been a year during which all my fences have been blown wide open; I’ve been battered at regular intervals by powerful storms, but the greatest bruising comes simply from the harsh winds of change. There are reminders everywhere, of the good, the bad, and the ugly, all of the haphazard pieces of my life which have become so comfortably familiar. It’s difficult to let go of any of it, and I find myself clinging sometimes to an irrational hope that the clocks will turn back and everything will simply go on, as it was. For better or for worse, just like we promised before God stepped aside and let the state take over. I think God needs to intervene at this end of things.

The mourning process that accompanies divorce moves at a snail’s pace. I suppose it’s difficult to achieve closure and acceptance when something can’t be pronounced clinically dead. The marriage and its trappings continue to breathe, and take on a life of their own that seems so much larger than the life you’ve suddenly been left to figure out. Even when you’ve chosen to finally pull the plug, it takes an excruciatingly long time to sever the connection. It’s as if somebody put crazy glue in the sockets.

Jose may have fixed the fences, but the new slats of wood are so different in color from the rest of the fence it looks as if he simply slapped on a bandaid. But really it's just a fresh scar, a scar that will fade over time and eventually become almost indistinguishable from the parts that were not broken. Almost, but not quite.

At any rate, Jose says everything’s okay. Maybe he’s right. Maybe the harsh winds will change direction, and the old wounds will begin to heal.

Mama Mia!!!

Some guy bought my younger daughter a drink the other day. Okay, we were poolside in Mexico, it was a virgin pina colada, and the guy – the hotel owner’s grandson – was too shy to approach her so had a friend do his bidding, but still. Add to that all the young men fawning over my older daughter the minute she would flash a smile and I began to wish I had brought along a bodyguard. Or maybe an octagenarian with failing eyesight so at least I could get some attention.

As is usually the case for me (in my wildest dreams), all I need to do is wish for something and there it is. Poof! A handsome young Italian cop in a speedo was not exactly what I had in mind, but somehow this fairy tale version of a bodyguard materialized by our sides two days into our Mexican vacation and seemed to have nothing better to do than hang with us. (Ha ha, hang!) My mother always told me you could spot a European just by looking at his shoes. Well, Officer Angelo’s flip flops looked perfectly ordinary to me, but the skimpy bathing suit lurking beneath his long beach shorts was a dead giveaway. Let’s just say that when I kept looking down, it wasn’t exactly because I was being coy. And the accented English; dio mio!

Well thank goodness I didn't wish too hard for the blind old fart. My lazy beach vacation had suddenly been upgraded to a sightseeing trip. Goodbye fireman fantasy, hello Italian law enforcement. I immediately started imagining my upcoming crime spree in Italy, just so I can snag a pat down. (Sure, I was not exactly the object of Officer Angelo’s attention, but really, who gives a shit? A little eye candy went a long way toward alleviating the tedium of the endless hot and sunny hot days.)

Language barriers and cultural differences aside, our scantily clad Roman cop was a fine addition to our vacation. Guess I’m a sucker for a guy in a uniform, and his were top-notch; his white jeans in the evening left little more to the imagination than the speedo. Polite, soft-spoken, attentive to our every whim – they don’t make ‘em like that on the Jersey Shore. Or on the shores of Lake Michigan, for that matter. This was no Saturday Night Fever Italian from my neck of the woods in Brooklyn; this was the real Macoy. Maconi?

The hotel owner's grandson never showed up again, which was kind of disappointing since I had been harboring grand hopes for a round of drinks for our entire crew. At least we still had Officer Angelo, his rippling muscles ready to be flexed at a moment's notice should anyone unsavory invade our space. He kept a watchful eye on my girls. And me, well, there was really nothing left for me to do except keep a watchful eye on Angelo.

Pink Paradise Lost?

The pink and white paradise where we honeymooned twenty-five years ago remains unchanged. The palm trees are as verdant and stately as they always were, the flowers as brightly colored and plump as if they had been painted onto the impossibly lush landscape. Pink jeeps still rumble by on the hilly paths to the casitas, the drivers chipper and ageless. Fresh croissants and coffee still appear as if by magic in the morning through the box cut into the wall of the casita; nothing there has become worn out or stale.

On my first evening this time around, as I looked in the mirror over the bed, I wondered why the person looking back at me had so many more wrinkles. I suppose paradise wouldn’t be paradise if it was affected by the ravages of time, but mere mortals are fair game, and twenty-five years have taken their toll.

Sounds like I got my panties in a knot, I know, complaining this way as I settled in for a few days of rest and relaxation with my daughters in a ridiculously beautiful place where people seemed to exist just to cater to us. Maybe it was just the petty annoyance of my thighs rubbing together after a month long chocolate binge. Or maybe it was the really attractive excavation I performed on my chin when I detected the beginnings of what would have remained an invisible zit had I not tried to squeeze the living crap out of it. Or maybe it was just that for some reason (possibly the ten minute headstand I did in a yoga class the week before) I couldn’t move my neck. The warm Acapulco sun had not yet worked its magic on my little infirmities, much less my psyche.

Even sunshine and warmth can’t fix everything though. The memories are just so hard to shake. When we arrived here for our honeymoon, everything seemed so full of promise; the meticulously manicured hotel grounds were merely a confirmation of it all. This time, the perfection seemed to stand in stark contrast to all that has gone awry.

With the marriage, that is. There I was with my daughters, two of the beautiful fruits of my labor, so full of promise and dreams. I may be a little worse for the wear, but perfection is an illusion, and even in the painted pink and white utopia so many years ago, things weren’t exactly as they seemed. Just ask the maid who walked into our little love nest to find me sitting on the toilet and puking my guts out in the bathroom garbage pail, begging my new husband to whisk me away from this god awful country. Was it an omen? No, I don’t think so. Just garden variety food poisoning; even paradise has its dirty little secrets.

There was an upside to the stiff neck, I think. It stopped me from spending the week turning around, looking back.

Feliz Ano Nuevo

I woke yesterday morning to all the detritus of New Year’s Eve and then some. Every year, on the first of January, I sneer at the concept of a New Year’s resolution, knowing full well that the first morning of the year inevitably begins with a pounding headache and a startling inability to function. This year January 1st fell on a Saturday, which will allow many of us to cling to the fiction that our fresh new existences can remain on hold until Monday.

At least I didn’t wake up to miserable weather. The Acapulco sky turns blue every morning, like clockwork, and the ocean breeze allows you to acclimate gently to the blazing heat of the day. But even there, where life can seem like paradise (as long as you don’t venture out onto the streets teeming with cars on the verge of break down and scantily clad people who shouldn’t be scantily clad) New Year’s Day starts with a buzz kill.

Still sprawled sideways across my bed, I looked out onto our pretty pink patio only to see piles of dirty dishes on the table, and a trail of chewed up leftovers that had been dragged by nocturnal critters across the tile. Some of the uneaten food wasn’t even appealing to the critters, and still lay shriveled and hardened on the crusty plates. Music still blared from a club across Acapulco Bay (I envisioned throngs of revelers passed out in their party masks on the makeshift dance floor) and the loud pop of an occasional stray firework pierced the morning quiet. To top it off, I stumbled over to the little box in the wall of our casita where I am generally greeted by a basket of fruit and rolls and a lukewarm pot of coffee and found it empty, except for the final hotel bill listing our incidentals for the week.

Cynical as I am, though, I tried hard to start the year off on a positive note, and trudged off to the gym to try to minimize the effects of the seventeen tons of guacamole and chips I’d eaten in the last five days. Back home in the tundra, the gym is where even the laziest slackers head on New Year’s Day, deluding themselves into thinking something will change. I gotta hand it to the folks at the hotel in Acapulco, not feeding into that kind of bullshit. The gym had not even been straightened from the day before. There were no towels, there was no water, and there was certainly no equivalent of the valet service offered in January at my home gym so the brand new exercise nuts won’t have to walk from their cars.

Why kid myself? I turned around and went back to the room to await delivery of my breakfast, and set my mind to thinking about where I would get my final guacamole fix before heading home.