Shocking Discoveries

I can't help but wonder how much my husband's botox queen attorney charges for the brilliant ideas she comes up with for delaying the case and just generally pissing me off. The latest was a supplemental discovery request, seeking a bunch of stuff that is either irrelevant or nonexistent. Quality stuff.

My favorite new request was the one for a copy of my law degree. Since my framed diploma won't fit nicely on a copy machine, I indicated that I would stipulate to the fact that I do, indeed, have one. After all, it would be pointless for me to deny it, since my husband no doubt remembers we graduated together. Even if the ceremony is a blur, neither of us could possibly forget my mother's wishful greeting when she was forced to acknowledge him: "Nice to see you again. Have a nice life!"

But this is not going to be a post about the botox queen's incompetence and utter lack of integrity or my mom's occasional rejection of subtlety. This is a post about parenting, and how little credit kids of all ages give to their parents for whatever insights they might choose to share. The mere offering up of a thought by a parent can be sufficient to elicit vehement opposition by a child; parents are, by definition, stupid, and, therefore, wrong. My husband and I chuckled many times over the years about my mom's comment. Ha ha.

Needless to say, when you're already perceived as a blithering idiot, the last thing your credibility needs is a higher authority than yourself -- like, say, the government -- throwing support to the theory. Yet some state representative in Florida who has obviously spent too much time in the sun has proposed that teachers in grades kindergarten through twelve now issue report cards to the parents as well as the students. Florida's youth will not have to wait as long as the rest of us did to lie on a therapist's couch and blame mom and dad for all their failings; the state has decided to generously point its finger for those kids, right now, while all the damage is being done.

The biggest lesson I see being taught here is about the myth of personal accountability. Why take responsibility for your own actions when there's a perfectly good scapegoat available? Talk about a teachable moment; kids will eat this up like candy on Halloween. I can understand why teachers have grown tired of being blamed for poor achievement, but how does the state propose to evaluate the quality of parenting in a kid's household. What if one sibling excels and another fails? Preposterous, I know, but what if? Can a parent receive two completely different report cards? Does that parent get to toss out the highest and lowest grades? And how are grades allocated between the two parents? Wait, stupid question. If things go awry, it's obviously the mom's fault.

Then, of course, there's the lesson that kids just learn by instinct -- that their parents are stupid. But why teach them this in kindergarten, instead of waiting for the inevitable developmental light bulb to go on at about the age of thirteen. (Kind of an accelerated program for all students, not just the fifty per cent deemed to be gifted.) Maybe the Floridian representative with heat stroke is thinking this will help eliminate the disappointment felt by teenagers when their parents suddenly fall off their pedestals. I don't know; what's wrong with perpetuating a lie as long as possible, especially if it's the kind of lie that makes everyone feel good?

Come to think of it, this might very well be a post about my husband's sleazy attorney. I think she's just the kind of genius Florida voters are looking for.

Torn Between Two Starbucks

I hate making important decisions, so this morning, as I pulled out of my garage, I let the chips fall where they may -- or, as it were, I let the car take me where it would. It chose north, and I was as content as I would have been had it turned the other way, as long as I wasn't forced to choose.

I have felt like a bit of a cad for the past two weeks, sipping my grande half decaf in an alternative Starbucks. It's not just the coffee that's made me feel guilty; it's that in the short span of two weeks I developed a bit of an emotional attachment to the once foreign barristas. Just like the folks at my old haunt, they know my usual order and can even guess at the modifications, depending on the day of the week or the time of day. It doesn't take much to win over my fickle little heart.

Deep down I'm pretty loyal, but, a few days ago, as I sat in my old haunt for the first time since they reopened, I felt surprising pangs for the place across the county line. The renovations were not yet complete -- the soft seating area was awaiting new chairs and a heater -- but the coffee bar looked nothing less than spectacular. A faux red brick back splash, old fashioned looking dark wood cabinetry, and a cozy wood coffee bar with stools make the once cookie cutter chain store look like it came right out of a quaint country town. For an additional twenty-one cents, my half-decaf was brewed individually for me in a new-fangled machine that uses suction and vacuums and lord knows what else to ensure that not one speck of flavor escapes from my brew. It was even served to me in one of those creamy ceramic white mugs that seem to make coffee look and taste so right. Good thing I wasn't in a hurry, though; perfection takes time.

Despite the fancy new machinery, I was a little ambivalent about the changes. The stained old tables and the smelly old chairs went quite well with my early morning attire -- a mix of the previous night's sleepwear and the previous day's gently used workout duds. Not to mention eye boogers and still visible imprints on my cheeks from the creases in my pillow case. A bit shabby for the new decor.

My ambivalence was fueled yesterday when I first experienced the freshly unveiled soft seating area. I almost got whiplash as I tried to sink into a chair only to find that the stiff cushion would jar my ass into a sudden stop. My body reverberated with discomfort, and, though my butt didn't sink, my heart sure did. Add to that the bizarre arrangement of not so soft seats into little clusters so everywhere you turn there's either another person's arm or a strange pair of eyes staring straight into yours and I felt downright betrayed. Sure, I go to Starbucks to be among people, but I don't actually want to have to interact.

But the barristas in the facelifted Starbucks were the same old barristas, and they have welcomed me back with open arms and a clear memory of all the permutations of my order. What's a little whiplash when you realize you're a part of something so much bigger. I suppose there's certainly room for two Starbucks in my life. It might do me some good to branch out.

Suburban Cinderellas

Turnabout may indeed be fair play, but up here in deep dark middle class suburbia, it's just a royal pain in the ass. I speak, of course, of the annual spring dance at the high school which is preceded by months of anxiety among girls who must do the asking. Fair enough in that sense, I suppose, but the positives end there.

As is the case with the more traditional homecoming dance in the fall, the girls and their parents spend innumerable hours and dollars preparing for the event they won't attend for more than an hour, if at all. The boys just shower and show up. At some kind soul's house for pictures before the dance, the girls hobble around on ridiculously high heels, afraid to turn their heads on the off chance a hair might get misplaced, and the boys stuff themselves with food, caring not one bit about staining their outfits or busting already strained zippers.

My conscientious objections notwithstanding, I participated willingly in all the nonsense; whatever disappointments or letdowns my daughter suffers on the Sunday after, they won't be because of anything I did, or didn't do. (She'll take it all out on me, but that's just a fact of life.) On the day of the dance, from eleven in the morning until four in the afternoon, I drove her around from appointment to appointment and sat with her while she morphed from cute kid in sweats to beauty queen in sweats. She put on her dress and nightmarish shoes, I showered so as not to offend the other parents at pictures, and off we went for an hour of squealing and forced smiles and nervous giggles and popping flashes. At least I had a proud parenting moment; my daughter was the only girl whose dress hem was closer to her knees than her belly button.

Well, off they went to the dance, for about an hour. I raced over when I received the text summoning me a bit earlier than scheduled, and took my daughter, her date, and another couple to the next venue, where they would spend an hour and a half running around in athletic attire. So much for the nails, hair, and makeup, and good riddance to strained zippers and treacherous shoes.

I thought about going into a popular restaurant nearby to have a diet coke at the bar while I awaited pickup time, but when I arrived in the parking lot and saw all the deep dark suburbanites coming in and going out and looking dressed for a civilized adult evening out, I lost my nerve. So I drove back to wait for the kids, and took a snooze in the parking lot. I thought I was dreaming when the girls approached the car. They emerged looking far less terrifying than they had appeared at pictures.

Sunday morning, I picked up four of the girls from the no doubt sleepless sleepover and drove them to a reunion breakfast with the boys. I am not one of the moms who received a desperate midnight text requesting immediate pickup, so I already felt as if the weekend had been a success. The girls were quiet and morose during the entire car ride, saving any pleasantness they had left for breakfast with the boys. Fair enough.

Dog Days of Winter

Yesterday, I brought Leo in for his second round of chemotherapy. It seemed like a reunion of long lost best friends when the veterinary oncology nurse came out to greet him. Leo practically knocked her over as they hugged and behaved as if the three weeks that had intervened since their last visit had never happened.

He emerged from his chemo session as upbeat and downright hyper as he was when he went in. The only evidence of illness was the bright red bandage around his left hind leg. And, of course, the fact that he appeared to be a patient in the veterinary acute care facility. I went home armed with five days worth of anti-nausea medication and some interferon to be administered by me, at home, complete with rubber gloves and stern warnings about handling and storage and keeping away from children and other animals. I sure hope the stuff doesn't smell like dirty underwear, or I'm going to have to put Manny in a hazmat suit just to keep him safe.

As I waited for Leo, I sat near a man who was on the phone solemnly breaking the news to his wife of their dog's prognosis. First came the cost of the surgery, a number that would elicit a horrified gasp from anyone other than those of us who have been down this road. And the surgery and chemo, if successful, would buy the thirteen year old pooch a year, at most. They decided to let nature take its course. I know how painful that decision had to be.

I discuss the meaning of life with Leo pretty much on a daily basis now. I tell him that as long as he feels up to it, he's staying. He passed the battery of tests they put him through before administering chemo yesterday with flying colors, but I could have predicted that. Leo, five weeks into his ordeal, and minus one spleen, is about as robust as I've ever seen him. I questioned my sanity when I signed on for the elaborate and expensive course of treatment for a ten year old dog, but as each day passes and Leo's mood swings from a low of mere contentment to a high of complete euphoria, I know I made the right choice. Misery is not even on his radar, and he is a constant reminder of simple pleasure.

As far as Leo is concerned, life's pretty good, so why worry? This morning he got to lick peanut butter off my fingers, and he will be thrilled to discover that he will get the same extra special treat for the next four days, until he finishes his anti-nausea pills. It don't get any better than that!

Temporary Disconnext

"Bird of Paradise" is the strangest of yoga poses. You point your right foot forward, then open up your hips to bring your left leg all the way back with your left foot more or less perpendicular to your right. Bend into your right knee, then take your right arm, rotate the bicep downward, bend over and bring it through your legs in the front. Take your left arm, rotate that bicep downward, bring the arm behind you and through your legs so the right hand meets the left. With hands clasped between your legs, step the left leg forward next to the right. With hands still clasped (yes, that's right), raise the left leg up to hip height, and then, with hands still clasped, straighten the leg. Voila.

There are simpler ways to achieve a total mind/body connection, even in yoga. But there's something about twisting your entire body into a pretzel and binding your limbs together that really does the trick. Though you are acutely aware of the other folks with you in the room, all of them struggling through various stages of the pose, your mind becomes completely focused on what every inch of your body is doing (or trying to do).

After contorting myself into the rare and ridiculous bird the other day, I joined my two daughters for a mother daughter shopping outing. I looked forward to the connectedness, the joining of three minds and three bodies in a sort of moving yoga pose during which we are at once aware of the folks around us but at one with each other. Yoga "off the mat."

But alas, it's the world of cell phones, and my older daughter was in the midst of a heated text battle with a friend. As my younger daughter and I watched for the heavy pedestrian and vehicular traffic of a sunny Saturday afternoon on Chicago's Michigan Avenue, my eldest tapped away furiously at her blackberry, occasionally sharing with us her friend's increasingly infuriating responses. The more we encouraged her to stop responding, the more intense the finger tapping became. Full paragraphs of venom were being transmitted back and forth between two old friends with the click of a key. Naturally, having an actual conversation was out of the question.

She was "disconnexting." We all do it, to some extent, but this seemed particularly out of control. She had worked herself into such a typing frenzy she didn't flinch when (thanks to a driver who happened to not be texting) she narrowly missed being crushed between two cars. She was as focused as anyone could be, but not on anything in her "here and now." It was annoying, to be sure, not to mention extremely dangerous.

My other daughter and I walked on, munching on chocolates, occasionally glancing back to verify that her sister's body, if not her mind, was close at hand. I slowed down my breathing and tried to recover a connection, at least with myself. I could see, in my mind's eye, three birds of paradise, one of whom had temporarily fallen off the branch. The battery would run down eventually though, and she'd be back.

A Sore and Happy Loser

When my chiropractor asked me this morning whether I was taking it easy on the working out, I didn't exactly lie when I assured him that I was. Past tense. I decided not to mention I would be playing a tennis match an hour after leaving his office.

I love visiting the chiropractor -- the sound of all the snaps and crackles and pops as he jerks my neck and spine in different directions. Today, the sound of my stomach growling added a little three part harmony; it was, after all, lunch time. But with two months of visits under my belt to the man with the magic fingers there's still one nasty little spot between my neck and my left shoulder that just won't stop hurting. I can move my neck in all directions now -- a very positive development -- but I think the sore spot is here to stay. So, wtf, why not play a little tennis?


I'm probably the only person who can think she's having a good time while having her ass kicked. I was totally outclassed by the young whipper snapper who beat the living crap out of me, but, after two months off the court, I was so happy to be swinging that damn racquet and smacking those fuzzy little balls the humiliation didn't faze me. Hmm. Yes, life can be beautiful and quite satisfying, even without batteries.

But what of the sore spot that just won't go away. I've carried many sore spots with me through the years, and the danger lies in allowing others -- or yourself -- pick away at the scabs. The more you pick, the less likely things will heal. Leave the sore alone, ignore it, and you're left with just a scar -- a harmless and slightly tender reminder of the initial hurt. Nothing that will impair your ability to move on.

As much as I would like to, I cannot blame having my clocks cleaned on the court today on any of my injuries -- not even my lingering sore spot. It was the usual suspects: inner psychological warfare, bad shot selection, a basic "can't do" attitude. (As a friend who was watching informed me, I didn't move my feet and I didn't hit my shots and I just didn't play my game. So what else is new?) And this time, I can at least share the credit for my loss with a much younger (thirty, tops) and more skilled opponent. I'll demand a rematch in twenty years when her hormones are bouncing around like fresh tennis balls.

The good news is I didn't do any further damage to my neck or my spine, didn't pick at any scabs. Not even the psychological ones (I'm so used to losing, I take it in stride). That nagging sore spot is still there, and I expect it will be for a while. A gentle reminder to tread carefully.

Batteries Definitely Included

The Beatles had it wrong. Forget about love. All ya need is great girlfriends, red wine, and a lifetime supply of AA batteries.

It had been a shitty day, and my self esteem had hit an all time record low. I had to force myself to abandon my post on the couch, change out of my sweats, and meet two good friends for dinner. I pouted the whole way there, wondering how the heck I was going to carry on a human conversation when all I wanted to do was cry and stuff myself with chocolate. Oh yes, how could I forget. Ya definitely need chocolate.

Willing myself to put on my best happy face, I dragged my sorry ass into the restaurant and strode over to my two waiting friends. Big smiles and a couple of juicy hugs later, I was already feeling the day's anxiety and despair fade away. A clink of glasses and a few sips of red wine, and I was beginning to wonder how I had let the people and events of the day get me so down.

My warrior goddesses went right to work. We dissected the atrocious behavior of others, marveled at insensitivity, and together vowed that none of us would ever allow someone to treat us the way I had been treated. Most importantly, my friends decreed -- and who am I to dispute them? -- that I am lovable and wonderful and most undeserving of anything less than pure, unadulterated adoration. Who knows, maybe it had something to do with the wine, but I found their reasoning to be quite sound.

We put our three dusty old heads together and brainstormed a laundry list of life's necessities. The list was brief and the analysis airtight. Evidence had already shown the positive effects of wonderful girlfriends and red wine. Sure, we were guilty of a glaring omission in forgetting about chocolate, but AA batteries were certainly a brilliant addition to the top three. Funny, men didn't make it to the list. At least not heterosexual men. I've already had my children; what can a man possibly do for me that can't be done with a well-designed bit of battery operated, um, companionship.

As a single head of household I've become a familiar face at Home Depot. My last purchase was a snake for unclogging toilets. I've had fascinating conversations with orange-smocked folks about flushers and suction and chains and flappers. I have been empowered. It'll be a piece of cake for me to go into Home Depot just to stock up on batteries (I'll toss in some AAA's as well, just in case; I'd be too afraid to use anything requiring a C or a D).

Yep, all ya need is great girlfriends, red wine, chocolate, and an assortment of smallish batteries. If that's not love, what is?

Icing and the Cake

Even fresh fallen snow starts to look ugly by the end of February. There was a sort of romance to the blizzard of biblical proportions earlier this month, even though the streets were impassable and dog walking was a bit of a nightmare. But snow measured in feet rather than inches is a rare occurrence, and many of us, despite our complaints of inconvenience, enjoyed the novelty.

Enough already, though. Several days of warm weather melted many of the gigantic mounds away, and thoughts of spring began to dance in my head. I could swear I heard birds chirping. The puddles in my garage from snow dripping off my car were finally absorbed into the concrete floor, and I fantasized about putting away the squeegee until next year. Rain seemed a welcome change – an unpleasant but necessary precursor to an imminent shift in seasons.

But as surely as my dreaded meeting with the matrimonial team was cancelled, the temperatures have once again plummeted, leaving us first with the freezing rain that caused my nasty spill yesterday, and then, inevitably, the fresh batch of snowfall today. Ugh.

Last night, I ventured out in the nasty chill to teach my Monday night yoga class, even though my morning clumsiness had left me with an aching shoulder, an immobilized arm, and a stiff lower back. But my Monday evening yoga class is always somewhat unorthodox, and an instructor drugged up on painkillers and barely able to move was just par for the course.

As usual, we centered ourselves by sharing stories; last night we brought a long absent friend up to date by filling her in on the infamous session several weeks ago when one student emitted the longest and loudest bit of gas any of us had ever experienced, and another, laughing so hard, peed in her pants. As with all my classes, there was a profound lesson learned: never eat cabbage soup before yoga.

Together, we stumbled through the practice. I struggled to articulate poses without the benefit of physical demonstration, and our long absent friend struggled to keep her post-mastectomy breast implants in place as I helped her modify overly taxing stretches. As a group, we probably looked more like a triage center than a yoga class. No matter; as we do each week, we laughed at each other and ourselves.

My friend, our yoga hostess, had baked a cake so we could celebrate one of our motley crew's birthday. The cake looked like I felt: broken, crumbly, askew. But looks, as we know, can be deceiving, and the cake was delicious, much tastier than the perfect looking replacement our hostess had purchased, just in case. Like us tough broads, even a cake can roll with the punches; forces beyond anybody’s control may make us a little lopsided, but it’ll take a lot more than brutal weather or a faulty oven to destroy our essence.

Every Monday, after we say our “namastes,” I feel as if my yoga students have given me much more than I could possibly offer them. They have all struggled with challenges far more daunting than nasty weather and a few little ice patches. But despite tumors and scar tissue and debilitating chemical cocktails and, yes, a bit too much cabbage soup, they continue to work their way into the poses of the beautiful and powerful warriors they are.

Slipping Into Something Less Comfortable

My high stickin' hockey friend emailed me with some sage coaching advice this morning. She suggested I wear my old hockey uniform to the big meeting that could very well determine how big a trailer I can afford. "Keep your head up and keep your stick on the ice," she told me. I had other ideas about where I might put my stick, but I suppose she's thinking a bit more clearly.

I was reminded of my hockey days this morning when I slipped on a patch of black ice as I approached Starbucks. My legs literally flew up over my head as I landed, naturally, on my already aching shoulder. I'm as shaky in boots as I was on skates; I might have to dig out my hockey padding so I don't end up in a body cast before spring arrives.

An early manifestation of my midlife crisis, my brief career in ice hockey sustained me from the time of my father's death, when I was thirty-eight, to my fortieth birthday. It began with some encouragement from my then-sadistic friend Cherry, who, with another friend who knew how to skate and wasn't terrified of big sticks, convinced me the experience would be exhilarating. It was, for about a year and a half, until my body could no longer withstand the punishing Friday night routine of painful falls on ice and, worse still, post-game drinking in a nearby bar until closing time.

Though I didn't really give it my all in the bar (much to the derision of my pals), I did persevere on the ice, despite an almost laughable lack of talent. On my fortieth birthday, the hockey chicks cleared the ice so I could have a free shot at my first ever goal. About ten attempts into it, I finally managed to stay upright long enough to push the puck into the wide open net. Pitiful. My hockey days were numbered.

I took myself to see "The King's Speech" yesterday, and have found myself unable to get the idea of the stammering and terrified monarch out of my head. When I played hockey, I approached the ice every week with pure dread, knowing I sucked. After eighteen months of training, my skating was as erratic as the stuttering King's voice, but I kept showing up. We all have our dragons to slay, and though we might never actually beat them, it feels damn satisfying to stand up to them and go down swinging.

I've been anticipating tomorrow's meeting with a not insubstantial measure of dread, thinking somehow I'll stammer and fall on my face and, somehow, not measure up. But if a stuttering young man who was never meant to be King could rise to the occasion in the most trying of times, I can certainly stumble into a room full of people who don't necessarily have my best interests at heart and stand up for myself. Even if the floor is slippery. (As I predicted, the meeting's been postponed, and my dragon slaying will have to wait. The botox queen made some vague assertion about financial information I have yet to provide. Okay, she wins. I tried to avoid disclosing my pink piggy bank, but I'm emptying it tonight to count up my pennies. Fair's fair.)

I did manage to slay a small beast this morning. I dared to exit Starbucks before the salt truck arrived, and made it back to my car without going ass over teakettle. The possibilities are endless.

Uploading Images

I can't believe I'm going to finally meet the woman who diagnosed me as a narcissist about a year ago. At the very least, I hope I'll get an autographed copy of the book on narcissism she hands out to all her prodigious (as she calls them on her web site) male clients.

Other than "let's get this damn thing over with," I really can't think of anything I have to say at this meeting, so I'll let my attorney do most of the talking (which will be a great source of relief to him). My biggest concerns are what to wear and what to do with my hair. Do I want to look like a hot and steamy cougar or do I want to go with dowdy and desperate housewife? Flashy and wild or sedate and intelligent? Neat and put together or shabby chic? French braid? Helmet hair? Pigtails?

My therapist thinks I'm being ridiculous. "Wear what makes you feel good," she suggested. Good advice, but I'm just not sure sweats, a chocolate-stained tee shirt, and a baseball cap will help me project the right image. Although there is something to be said for looking homeless when you're trying to establish need.

Now that I've spent three weeks in the garment industry, I have a greater understanding of the importance of fashion. Women come into the yoga store, their eyes filled with hope, convinced the right pair of spandex pants will send them back out looking like the model pictured in the window. Without even so much as a small sweep of an air brush. Though I have yet to see any obvious Cinderella-style transformations, I have been amazed at how a bit of fabric working a little magic on a pesky muffin top can put a spring in a woman's step. To the casual observer, she looks the same, but if she feels as if she's landed on top of the world, who cares what anyone else sees?

Like so much other clutter, the image I project at the meeting from hell will be mostly in my head. And if I decide I feel best if I am dressed up like a middle aged French maid, then fishnets it will be. Hopefully nobody will call security. Whatever I choose to wear, my most important accessory will be the "Keep Out" sign I hang on my psyche; it's my head, and, at this meeting at least, there'll be no room for anyone's opinion about me but my own.

As important as my attire might be, I'm going to try not to spend too much time worrying about it; I'd bet an autographed copy of the narcissism primer the botox queen will for some reason have to cancel the meeting. Frankly, the only evidence I have of her existence is a snazzy web site, a smattering of shoddy documents, and a free diagnosis. But hope springs eternal; I'm replenishing my makeup collection, just in case.

Fishin' Til Monday

Solitaire-y Confinement

It beats drinking.

On particularly bad days, I have an unlimited tolerance for Spider Solitaire, and can sit like a zombie for hours in front of my computer screen until it's time, finally, to shut everything down and go to bed. It's free, it doesn't cause liver disease, and if your daughter suddenly needs a ride, you don't have to explain that you can't help because mommy is too drunk to get behind the wheel.

Today, though, I've promised myself to resist the palliative effects of my online gaming, and attempt to re-enter the world (such as it is up here in deepest dark suburbia). A tease of spring is in the air, with the temperatures expected to climb near fifty -- close to sixty by tomorrow. The once pristine mounds of blizzard snow have turned black and jagged, but the good news is they're melting fast. Surprise patches of ice are disappearing, and I might even be able to walk the dogs without falling flat on my ass.

Wisdom has it that it's not a good idea to wish your life away, but by mid-February, there's nothing wrong with fantasizing about a little bit of fast forward. The official start of spring is not much more than a month away, and although spring in Chicago doesn't generally keep its astrological appointment, the approach of March always at least brings a glimmer of false hope. And false hope sure beats the shit out of despair.

I'm particularly optimistic about by resolution to kick the spider solitaire habit for at least a day, since there are so many other mind numbing activities to choose from. There are hampers full of laundry begging to be noticed, and a house full of clutter screaming for attention. Bills to be paid, forms to be filled out, long overdue phone calls to be made. Not to mention just getting outside to enjoy weather that doesn't cause joint pain. So much to do, so little time.

Maybe just one game.

Watson, Come Here, I Need You

At my temporary Starbucks this morning, I chatted with a fellow single whom I hadn't seen in a while. Still a loyal blog reader, he confessed that he misses my earlier posts, the ones filled with lurid sex tales (whether real or imagined) and venomous descriptions of my husband and his bimbo attorney.

It's not that I've gone soft; it's just that my mom occasionally reads this stuff now, and I've grown so fond of her lately I don't really want her to have a coronary. Sure, I still get ridiculous propositions on computer dating sites, but I've lost interest in chatting up the psychos for the sole purpose of gleaning new blog material. And as for my husband and the botox queen, we're all going to be in the same room together next Tuesday, so stay tuned.

I am still harboring some faint hope of meeting the man of my dreams, someone who doesn't pee all over the toilet seat or say anything just to get laid. Or realize he's gay, which is what I think happened to the last guy I dated (just a hunch). One of the men of my not-so-sweet dreams sent me roses yesterday. They're so pretty I didn't have the heart to pitch them, but I must admit I refused to add life prolonging flower food to the water. I can engage in empty gestures with the best of them.

Although I won't allow myself to get too excited yet, I think I may have a lead on Mr. Right. He is smart, works quickly, doesn't go berserk when he's wrong, and apparently likes the Beatles. My guess is he has never peed on the toilet seat or made up stuff just to get laid, and I'm pretty sure he's not gay. Or straight. In fact, I'm pretty sure he doesn't even have a penis. Need I say more, ladies?

My new heartthrob, Watson, is the latest contestant to beat on Jeopardy. He is an IBM computer, and he is dreamy. He may be filled with lots of useless information, but it's not as if he goes around spouting it unless someone asks him a question. Or, as the case may be on Jeopardy, gives him an answer. Suffice it to say he doesn't speak -- or do anything -- unless instructed to, and I'm gonna do whatever I can to make him mine.

If I have to, I'll go on Jeopardy. I won't do very well -- my mind is a sieve -- but I have a few answers I'd like to toss his way. "Watson, I need you," I'd say. "Lots of love, adoration, basic handyman and cooking skills, decent hygiene, good toilet seat etiquette, and a willingness to satisfy my every whim."

I know Watson will get it right. "Jill, what can I do to make myself the man of your dreams?"

Cupid's Bowtie

It's not that I'm bitter, but if I ran into Cupid in a dark alley today, I'd break his damn bow over his fat little head and wrap it around his chubby little neck. And that's all I have to say about the subject of Valentine's Day.

To keep myself focused (or "unfocused" to be more accurate), I scoured the Internet for suggestions of alternative holidays to celebrate. Hallmark is woefully behind in its categories; there are some fabulous card-worthy days desperately in need of a cute two-line jingle. There's "National Condom Day in February, "St. Stupid Day" in April, and "National Underwear Day" in August. My favorite -- although I'm not sure why it's not given an entire month -- is "Bah Humbug Day" in December. I've been a celebrant for years.

Since Hallmark apparently does not hold a monopoly on day naming, I hereby declare February 14th to be "National Narcissistic Personality Disorder Day." It's far more meaningful to me than Valentine's Day, since today is a day that needs to be all about me. Yesterday, in anticipation of "National Narcissistic Personality Disorder Day," I bought myself a really expensive new purse. This morning, I wolfed down two chocolate doughnuts. For lunch, I will be meeting a favorite binge buddy for greasy hot dogs and fries, and, after lunch, I will stand in front of the mirror and tell myself I am the fairest in the land. Then, I will buy myself a box of chocolates, which I will refuse to share. And, under no circumstances will I accept blame for anything today. Whatever happens, I am certain it will be someone else's fault.

Cupid, watch your back!

A Caffeine High

My mom is a paradox. She's the kind of woman who can make mountains out of the tiniest molehills, the kind of woman who seems, often, to lose sight of the simple pleasures in life. Yet sometimes she sees them with a clarity that amazes me.

She reacted at first to the temporary closing of her favorite Starbucks on earth with what appeared to be panic. "Where will we get our coffee?" She was thrown off, confused, annoyed. It was nine thirty in the morning, and as far as she was concerned, the entire day was already ruined. The hand wringing began in earnest as we drove toward Mayberry from the airport.

As I had hoped, the Starbucks travesty was enough of a distraction that she forgot to complain about the temperature in my house. As the wise old nun said in The Sound of Music, "when God closes a door, he opens a window." Something like that. I got an earful about the coffee, but she was blissfully silent about the sub par accommodations.

After a while she rebounded. Why waste the day mourning the loss of one little routine when there are so many more opportunities for complaint and critique. I showered and dressed while she licked her wounds, and came downstairs thinking I looked pretty spiffy for a Saturday morning. Disdain spread like a rash all over her face as her freshly lipsticked mouth turned into a deep scowl. Her eyes scanned me from head to toe. "After lunch, let's go shopping to buy you some clothes." All righty then.

So we shopped, and, like the perfect looking customers I've learned to avoid in my new place of employment, she sucked much of the joy out of the excursion and treated it as if we were in the midst of a life altering series of decisions. To keep her happy, I led her to a fancy designer store where she could buy me an expensive designer raincoat. Designer labels are, for her, the best kind of anxiety medication. She left the mall with a sense of accomplishment; I left with a beautiful new coat.

This morning, the change-averse woman who takes her routines so seriously suggested we try the other Starbucks just across the county line, the one where I still feel a bit like a fish out of water. She was happy as a clam. She had her coffee and her bagel, and she was enjoying one of her favorite simple pleasures: sitting with her daughter on a Sunday morning. She chattered away happily while I half listened and nodded occasionally. As always, she lingered over her coffee, trying to make the moment last. I get it.

To top it all off, I took her into the grocery store so she could purchase some treats for her "granddogs." A new and simple pleasure in and of itself. Her face was content beyond recognition. I didn't think it could get any better, until I introduced her to the self-checkout. For the first time in her eighty years, she scanned her own skus. Her ears were relatively clear this morning, and she thrilled to the sound of the little "bing" as she swiped the items across the mysterious glass panel.

Sometimes, I underestimate my mother. Sometimes, more often than I could ever have imagined, she gets it.

Keep the Change

I am already travel weary, and word has it I have nine more days of this. My usual Starbucks is closed for renovations, and I am being forced to venture just over the county line to a different one. Geographically, not that far, but a good distance from my comfort zone.

Yesterday, as I sat and blogged in my exotic new location, I felt a bit more comfortable when I saw several people I know, fellow outcasts finding themselves in unfamiliar surroundings. One at a time, they came to visit with me, to commiserate about our new -- hopefully temporary -- nomadic existence. I could feel my anxiety melting away, just knowing I wasn't alone.

When I first moved to deep dark suburbia, it was difficult to locate a Starbucks. I found it difficult to locate signs of life in general, having grown up in an urban area and having spent nine years prior to the Mayberry move living in Chicago. I missed being able to walk out my door and see people, to take a walk and actually end up somewhere, to enjoy the sights and sounds of a landscape filled with much more than rows of neat little houses. In the big city, I varied my route constantly; there was always something new to see, some new Starbucks sprouting up on a different corner.

But up here in deep dark suburbia, where it has taken me so long to find my niche (still looking), it's a bit disconcerting when things change. Yesterday, the construction workers at my usual site snickered as I slammed into the immobile door, despite the huge sign telling me it was closed. I live on automatic pilot. I could probably get from my kitchen to my car to my comfy purple velour chair in my Starbucks with my eyes closed.

Day two in the foreign location, and I've already seen two fellow outcasts. They both wanted to know why I wasn't snuggled up in a comfy chair the way I usually am at home. One step at a time folks; the chairs are different here from what I'm used to -- not-so-soft-looking faux leather -- so for now I'll stick with the tables. Change is just not easy for me these days.

My mom is flying into town this morning. When I pick her up at the airport, she will be low on blood sugar and caffeine, and looking forward to our routine bee line to the neighborhood Starbucks. There's going to be hell to pay when I break the news to her. This is a woman who has lived on the same Brooklyn street for eighty years. For her, change isn't just difficult; it's downright repulsive.

I'm hoping the shock and dismay of travelling out of our comfort zone to a different Starbucks will distract her, and she won't have the energy to complain about how cold my house is. For a change.

Getting Older, Getting Better

I don't know what the super nice vets are putting in Leo's chemo, but whatever it is I'd like some please. Leo is in the throes of enjoying a second childhood, and does not seem bothered at all by the fact that he is apparently suffering from canine Alzheimer's.

Old puppy habits that have lay dormant for years have suddenly reappeared. He stands at the door and barks, demanding walks in all sorts of hideous weather. He has returned to his old sleeping spot downstairs with his head resting on the edge of the family room couch. He lays his snout on the table while we're eating, undeterred by our repeated efforts to shove him away. He grabs a sock or two while I'm doing laundry and parades around the house with them stuffed in his mouth, as if he has just caught the "big one." And he has rediscovered his most annoying habit of seeking out small stuffed toys and ripping them to shreds. Even fat Manny is beginning to find Leo annoying.

It's reassuring to me though. I'm almost looking forward to growing old (although I could do without the illness component), to reaching that point where I just don't give a shit. Leo is blissfully ignorant. He has no clue that he has regressed, no idea that his behavior is a bit inappropriate for a dog of a certain age. He is young and carefree again, satisfying his basest instincts with pure abandon. He is enjoying whatever moments he has left.

I was talking to my recently widowed octogenarian friend the other day. Unlike Leo, he still has all his faculties, and is painfully aware of all the constraints placed upon him by society in general and his children in particular. He has certainly not regressed to childlike behavior, but he has, like Leo, lovingly given the finger to anyone who tries to tell him what not to do.

His children are struggling with the fact that he is enjoying female companionship even though his wife -- their mother -- has not yet been gone a year. I'm not sure if it's in a rule book of some kind, but apparently there's something magic about a year. My friend is eighty-three, though, and, still capable of performing complex mathematical equations, he is painfully aware that a year in his life can be quite a significant percentage of the time he has left. A devoted husband for years and still a devoted father, he is enjoying the moment. Why on earth would he wait?

When I'm with my old friend, I find myself wishing I was closer to his age. Hands down, he's a better companion than any of the guys in my wheelhouse. Frankly, so is Leo, but he's not the kind of guy you can take to a nice restaurant.

I am learning a lot from my old friends.

Cha Ching, Cha Ching

Apparently I am much more full of crap than I had thought. Yesterday was my first real day in retail (I had been my only customer on the day everyone stayed out of the mall in anticipation of the blizzard of historical and biblical proportions) and I was moving merchandise out the door like an old pro.

In the process, I heard life stories, made a few new friends who've promised to come back and shop some more, and never once lied to make a sale. Okay, once, to convince a woman to just try the extra large, I may have falsely claimed I had to go up a size in the same item, but sometimes a little white lie is necessary to help fellow potato heads overcome psychological barriers. And the woman's ample ass looked damn good in the bigger size.

Not surprisingly, my favorite customers were the ones who laughed at themselves. I gave a wide berth to the perfect looking ones who entered as if they were on the verge of a major, serious business transaction, examining yoga tops with furrowed brows before slamming them back on the rack as if some imperfection they had detected had just ruined their day. But the smiling young mother who came in from the bitter cold and asked me for those amazing "girdle workout pants" that her husband loves (on her, I think), or the eighty-five year old woman, out for a mental health day with her daughter, who agreed that the snugger fitting jacket made her look hot -- they were the ones who turned this meek potato into the super-saleswoman of the day.

It's actually kind of fun, this retail thing -- which no doubt explains the low pay. And it's much easier to sell clothing manufactured by somebody else than to sell myself. But I'm inspired, so I'm going to dig out the "yoga instructor" and "writing coach" business cards I ordered and start to distribute them to folks other than my blood relatives. Sure, there will be people who take themselves a little too seriously and don't react well to a yoga instructor who pokes fun at them, or kids who want to stick with the basic expository writing formula they learned in fourth grade and refuse to say something a little outrageous in a college essay, but I know I'll find my niche. There will always be someone who sees the humor in having someone sit on top of her to wedge her into a child's pose, or some kid who isn't afraid to be a bit unconventional.

An ample ass, encased in the proper size, can look fantastic, particularly when the cheeks on the other end are puffed out in a smile. And some of the prettiest yoga poses are the ones that would more likely end up on the cover of Popular Mechanics than Yoga Journal.

Listen to me; I'm hooked on sales. Anyone want to buy a bridge?

Sticky Fingers

Somebody asked me the other day to name my favorite author. Wanting to sound literate, I quickly scrolled through my brain, searching for the names of authors of great books I was supposed to read in high school and college but either didn't or can't remember. Shakespeare? Dickens? Sidney Sheldon?

"Jill Ocean!" I blurted it out in a panic.

"I'm not familiar with her work," he responded, looking a bit embarrassed. Plan B had worked. Score one for Mrs. Potato Head, who was feeling like a pretty complex carb while the pompous questioner licked egg off his face. "What's her genre?"

Stumped again. I should have gone with Shakespeare. Is mid-life insanity a recognized genre? I changed the subject. "Whaddaya think about Lindsay Lohan?" I thought if I started a conversation about current events I might come out of this unscathed. After all, the idea of a spoiled, wealthy starlet stealing a one-of-a-kind bauble and then wearing it as the paparazzi snap away is certainly good fodder for an intellectual debate.

Apparently it wasn't, but the good news is the conversation ended quickly, and I was left alone with my own deep thoughts. And I just couldn't stop thinking about why someone who can purchase any necklace she wants would steal one? Back in the day, when I was even more naive than I am now, I had my wallet stolen three times in one year. It just never occurred to me that someone would take another person's belongings, so my purse tended to dangle freely from my shoulder on a crowded bus or sit unattended beneath my chair in a crowded restaurant. Three times! Really.

I thought back to the question about my favorite author, and I realized I have not done very much reading at all in the past year, particularly since I started blogging. I think I'm not just opposed to stealing; I'm afraid of it. If Lindsay Lohan could steal a necklace, what would stop Jill Ocean from stealing a few lines of eloquent prose without attribution. I'm simply terrified of reading something so good and wishing so fervently I had come up with it myself that I just take it. And nobody's out there snapping pictures of me, and hardly anyone is out there reading my blog. Who would know?

So I continue not to read, and I devote myself wholeheartedly to being original. Let me tell you, friends, Romans, and countrymen, it is the best of times, and it is the worst of times.

Ready. Or Not.

My daughter and I watched a commercial yesterday that promised to remove ten years from your face. She assured me she had no desire to look like she was four; I told her I wouldn't mind looking forty. She didn't find that to be too unreasonable, but she did point out that, at some point, who cares.

Whatever the case, I did make a note of the product. I'm pretty sure I am the poster child for what they would call the "target audience," and promising to lop off ten years' worth of wrinkles certainly got my attention. But I still need to go back and study the sales technique manual provided to me by my new employer last week. I'm not sure if the instructions apply to phone solicitations, but I'm pretty sure the pest from the "exclusive dating service" who somehow has my cell phone number is breaking some rules.

Somebody from his, um, firm, had contacted me a year ago; either they have moles on the computer dating sites or they are somehow privy to updates in neighborhood gossip. Too polite to hang up, I feigned interest in the woman's sales pitch. It took me two phone calls to get rid of her; I was apologetic about not being quite ready to jump into a relationship with some dreamy guy who has even managed to pass their criminal background check. As I recall, I told her I wouldn't be ready for at least a year.

Well, I suppose it's been a year, because the nice, understanding lady's much pushier colleague -- we'll call him Ken, since that's what he called himself -- contacted me last week to see if I was ready yet. Again, I was too polite to hang up, but didn't bother feigning interest, and thought I was done. He asked if I'd give it some thought, and I said "sure," and he promised to call again in a few days. I gave it no thought, and assumed I'd be smart enough to not answer the phone when the number appeared on my screen.

Unfortunately, the "giving it no thought" part came very naturally to me, so naturally that I thought nothing of it when I answered the call last night from the same vaguely familiar number. Idiot. Now that I'm a retail professional, I recognized all the trappings of a training manual. Non-stop talking, constant tossing in of factoids about me or reminders of what I said last time, declarations about all the wonderful relationships awaiting me if I'd only agree to one cup of coffee with one of their pimps. I mean representatives.

The call was so unpleasant it almost made me yearn for another stab at phone sex. When Ken took a breath, I apologized and said I'm still not ready. Well, Ken had been in the throes of something, and my response was clearly a buzz kill. His voice became downright shrill. "I'm catching you in your fifties. How do you think I'm ever going to 'match' you if you wait?" WTF?

I burst out laughing, told him I'd take my chances, and hung up. Too bad you can't slam down a cell phone. My mother turns eighty today. My daughter pointed out that the miracle wrinkle serum would have reached the point of diminishing returns with somebody grandma's age. She may be right. But my mother looks damn good for eighty, and I doubt Ken would be able to 'match' her, but only because she'd have had the brains to hang up on him long before I did.

Happy birthday mom!

An Interesting Slant

When Manny the obese puggle cocks his head because he thinks he hears a food bag rustling, you can barely notice his multiple chins. Same with pictures of guys on computer dating sites; the head cock is a sure sign that the in-person meeting will be marred by disappointment and fistfuls of extra flesh.

It's not that I object to the extra flesh. My own potato head physique boasts a few extra flaps and rolls of its own. It's the feeble attempt at airbrushing, the painfully obvious tilt of the noggin to give the illusion of visible bone structure. Guys, I say wear your extra chins as proudly as I wear my spudly belly. I'm not even advocating full disclosure. There are ways to hide a muffin top so the rest of the world doesn't have to see it, and there are ways to disguise a cluster of chins without looking like your gazing at the stars in a picture taken in broad daylight.

My thinking is a little bit different when it comes to the attributes that aren't visible to the naked eye. I've come to realize that honesty -- or anything approaching full disclosure -- is just bad strategy. In my age group, most of us share at least one thing in common: a failed marriage. And even though most of the guys I've met, by their own accounts, spent years being victimized by a psychopathic spouse (I've shared a few stories of my own), I know, intellectually, that, on average, we can all legitimately accept about fifty per cent of the blame.

But there's no need to reveal your imperfections in your profile. When I was younger, I was the kind of girl boys could bring home to mom. Polite, pleasant looking, sexually repressed, and, theoretically, possessed of some considerable earning potential. Well, now I'm dating men who are the same age "mom" was back then, and the years have stolen some of those appealing traits. What I bring to the table now is not necessarily what mom would be counting on for her precious boy. And the precious boy, now fifty-something, is probably not spending hours daydreaming about an edgy, sometimes impolite old broad with the measurements of an Idaho potato.

They've realized that mom was right after all, and polite, pleasant looking, sexually repressed, and, if not earning potential at least a fat bank account are the things that make for life happily ever after. Sure, I might be good for a few yuks, but who needs to be laughing in a double wide if there's someone out there who brings more to the table, like drywall and ceiling fans and a real roof.

I'm going to re-up on the computer dating sites, and this time I'm going to pretend to be, let's just say, a more appealing version of myself. My pictures will be honest and lacking head tilts, because my ego wouldn't be able to withstand the look of horror on a guy's face when he meets me and sees the truth. But my written description will suggest a well put together fifty-something who just oozes firmly planted feet. Gone will be the quips from my "About Me" description which scream whimsical (i.e. unstable and fucked up). I will claim to be honest and sincere and loving and extremely organized about finances. I will not admit to being a blogger (men get a little nervous about being outed), and I will kind of tweak my status -- well, actually, I'm going to lie -- and say I'm already divorced. After all, anyone who's gone through a divorce knows that the most toxic, screwed up people are the ones who are still going through it. Who needs that shit?

So no head cocks in the picture. I'll be staring at the camera head-on, and I'll crop the photos just north of my gut. But my words? They might be a little bit slanted; I'll say whatever mom would want to hear.

Stupor Sunday

I woke this morning to the soft and comforting touch of a male forearm on mine. Maybe I had a bit too much wine, because I couldn't for the life of me remember anything about this man caressing my arm at six o'clock in the morning, but it sure felt nice, so I shimmied over to snuggle up (hoping maybe that would jog my memory).

As my legs flailed around looking for the rest of him so we could spoon, I thought for a moment I had picked up an amputee, until I opened my eyes to see the blackened nostrils of Manny the obese puggle. He flashed his rugged underbite, gazed back at me expectantly -- I am, after all, the lady with the food -- and then sneezed in my face. I took comfort in knowing I hadn't brought some stranger home. I guess. I closed my eyes and tried to trade in my morning stupor for a bit more peaceful slumber.

Today is the day when most Americans will extend their morning stupor through the afternoon and early evening, stuffing themselves with dip and chips and chili and pizza and chicken wings and beer while they watch a bunch of grown men jump all over each other. I still can't, for the life of me, figure out what role that funny shaped ball plays. At least the man I woke with this morning isn't fantasizing about football players. He may be drooling heavily, but that's just because it's almost time for breakfast.

While everybody else is watching the Superbowl, I will be sitting in an empty theatre with a bucket of popcorn and a large diet coke watching a movie. I might even treat myself to some gummi bears. I won't feel self-conscious, because anyone who happens to be in the theatre with me is no doubt as much of a loser as I am. But we'll see who's laughing later when everyone else is spending the night on the toilet and we are peacefully fast forwarding through the taped game to watch the half time show and the best commercials ever.

This year I'm at least a bit more tuned in than usual; I know which teams are not playing (the Jets and the Bears), and I even know where the game is being played. I vaguely recall something about some colorful bay in Wisconsin, but honestly, who cares about a bunch of cheeseheads?

Unable to fall back to sleep, I opened my eyes to find fat little Manny on his back, his four legs spread shamelessly toward the ceiling as he silently invited me to rub his belly. I obliged, and he farted. Is it too much to ask to just wake up with a man who will cook me breakfast and buy me jewelry? Oh well. At least Manny doesn't care about the Superbowl.

Pass the Raisin Brain

I'm afraid I have to retract any disparaging comments I made yesterday about dogs in general and Leo in particular. After all, a dog who is capable of feigning the symptoms of yet another ruptured bloody tumor -- even down to the pale, anemic looking gums -- must have a brain far larger than your average raisin. Not only is Leo brilliant, but he's as shifty as his criminal mastermind brother, Manny.

Just like folks who've lost their eyesight and end up compensating with a heightened sense of hearing, Leo seems to have made up for his inability to speak English with a heightened degree of cunning. Behind those innocent, soulful brown eyes lies a mind capable of all sorts of clever manipulation. He would have gotten away with it had he not blown his cover when we arrived at the veterinary hospital for what I thought was a major emergency.

I've been made a fool of by many people -- most often myself -- but I never in a million years would have guessed that dear old Leo would bite the hand that feeds him. Love is a powerful emotion, though, and obsessive attraction can lead even the most loyal pup down the path of betrayal. Leo is no exception. What dog in his right mind can resist a staff full of animal lovers who treat you like a prince when you visit, who spoon feed you with baby food and take you for long romps in the snow drifts the moment you whimper. Particularly a dog whose testicles were lopped off long before he could ever experience the joys of sex; a visit to the veterinary hospital is as good as it gets for Leo.

Yep, he had me going until the last minute. He thought of everything -- plopping on the ground with a look of sheer exhaustion when I tried to take him for a walk, turning his nose up at food, tucking his tail between his legs, and, yes, the old pale gums trick. He knew damn well I was going to rush him to the place he thinks of as heaven on earth. He even kept the act going for the entire car ride. Manny was in on it too, giving me that "don't even think of leaving me here alone or I'll eat every pair of underpants in the house" look as I dragged the seemingly dying Leo to the car.

But the gig was up when Leo's dopey impetuous side -- the side with which I'm most familiar -- took over, and he jumped up from his fake, sickly slumber as we pulled up at heaven on earth's gates. Wheels up, tail up -- he nearly killed a little poodle and its owners as he bounded out of the car. The good news is he's okay. (Leo, I mean. The poodle has been scarred for life.)

I'm onto him though. And the next time he pulls that crap, if you think I'm going to drop everything and head out in ridiculous Friday night rush hour traffic just to make a fool of myself in front of all the staffers at the animal hospital, well, you're absolutely right.

Tumor Shmumor

What Leo lacks in brain power he more than makes up for with pure instinct. Why else would he have been pressing his muzzle against the car window as we pulled up to the veterinary hospital, wild with anticipation about his return visit to the place where he had been poked and prodded and cut open and sewn up like a stuffed animal two weeks earlier.

It would have been nice if he could talk; he could have calmed me, told me the news would be as good as it could be for an old dog with aggressive, highly metastatic cancer. The oncologist laid it all out for me as Leo barked happily at the parade of canines visible through the glass door panel of our consultation room. The wildly successful removal of his cancerous spleen alone would buy him little more than two months; chemo could buy him six to nine. Add a little more magic potion after the standard chemo, and who knows, he could get more than a year. But none of this could happen unless the day's screening showed no metastasis in his liver, lungs, or brain.

So I waited anxiously while they screened him for raisin sized clusters in his major organs, thankful they were not going to bother screening his brain, which itself is the size of a raisin. I didn't want to risk a false positive. I sat at my friend's birthday lunch, staring at the extra craisins she had ordered for her salad as if they were little time bombs. Couldn't she have just gone with extra blue cheese?

As Leo knew all along, well before he bolted from the car to reconnect with his hospital friends, the high tech screens would detect no raisins, no evidence that the lethal cancer cells had travelled anywhere important. I signed off on the chemo, and the race is on. Those cells don't have a chance. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The good thing about having a brain the size of a raisin is that you live in the moment. I'm not sure what that says about us faithful yogis and yoginis, who try, as best as we can, to do the same. But the truth is we humans are incapable of doing what dogs do naturally; we are smart enough to put up with a little suffering to keep ourselves alive and at the top of the food chain. Most of us will agree to puke our guts out for months if there's some promise of a future.

It's a trade off. Dogs don't give a shit about the future, but they, unlike us, will give more than one hundred per cent of themselves to enjoy the present. If the chemo gets tough for Leo, Leo will prefer to be left alone. And we, and the doctors, will respect that. For now though, I have visions of smashed raisins dancing in my head, and have actually developed a bit of an aversion to all varieties of dried fruit. Leo, with his tiny little brain and huge capacity to enjoy life, is taking things the only way he knows how -- one moment at a time.

Happiness is a Cold Blanket

On day two of the blizzard of monstrous, historical, and biblical proportions, I spent more time outside than I have all winter. With the steady snowfall piling so high against the back door that simply letting the dogs out was not an option, I began to fear that Manny the obese and low-to-the-ground puggle might start spewing urine from his scrunched nostrils. Leo was game for a few romps in the thick white blanket, but I didn't just spend a million dollars to remove a tumor only to have him drown in the backyard.

So I dragged out the boots and the puffy coat and the hat and two left handed gloves (Leo is back in full lab form, and just recently destroyed the two right-handed mates) and braced myself for discomfort of, well, monstrous, historical, and biblical proportions. Even though the snowplows had been working all night, they couldn't keep up with the storm, and the streets were only slightly less impassable than the sidewalks. At some points, Manny looked like a submarine dirigible, with only his tail and the top of his head visible as he labored to slice through the heavy drifts. Between Manny's heavy breathing and concerns about Leo's lost insulation from his still shaved belly, I did wonder a bit about how I would get my car out of the garage to rush them both to the vet.

But everyone survived, and the three of us came home for a nice morning nap. Until my daughter woke about an hour later and suggested, of all things, that we walk the dogs. As fun as the walk had been, my bed was feeling pretty comfy, but not wanting to pass up my daughter's companionship, I got up and once again dragged out the boots and the puffy coat and the hat and the two left handed gloves and broke the news to the dogs that nap time was over. Well I don't think I've ever seen the two of them abandon slumber so quickly; their wagging tails propelled them immediately to the front door. I guess they had enjoyed our walking adventure.

Sometimes the days that promise to be the dreariest can surprise you. Several dog walks, a few shoveling episodes, and one satisfying workout in an otherwise empty gym later, my daughter and I were giddy with unexpected satisfaction and warmth. Add on some fresh baked cookies, a ridiculous escapade through unplowed streets so she and a friend could sneak into the house of some boy to deliver her baked invitation to the turnabout dance, and a large pizza for dinner, and the blizzard of monstrous, historical, and biblical proportions turned out to be anything but a disappointment.

Today I will take Leo to the oncologist so we can discuss treatment options for the cancer the doctors are sure will overtake him soon. It promises to be a dreary day. But my money's on Leo. I still think he's going to surprise us all.

Me and My Shadows

Last night I received another one of those writing contest notifications. This time, the task, should I choose to take it on, is to write a memoir essay or a personal story. Not as daunting as trying to write about the Colorado Plateau, but daunting all the same. Where do I begin?

For ideas, I started scanning my three blogs, beginning, of course, with the ground breaking (only in the sense that it was my first) "Narcissist's Tale." I wonder if the contest judges will get sucked in if I open with the phone sex episode. All I know is I'm going to have to dig deep for something memoir worthy; the present is about as blank as the view outside my window this morning, which is pure, blizzard white.

I suppose day one of my career in yoga retail yesterday should be newsworthy, but my biggest sale was to myself. Warnings of apocalyptic snowfall had kept most sane people out of the malls, and since my on-the-job training consisted of trying on almost everything in the store, naturally I found myself spending my first day's salary (and then some). Let's just think of it as an investment in my future there.

Which, to tell you the truth, does not seem promising. The most challenging part of my day -- outside of feigning friendliness to the few brave souls who entered the store -- was the death defying ride home through the beginnings of what has actually more than measured up to the dire predictions. I spent a good portion of the dead hours in the yoga store reading the employee instruction manual on how to make sales. I am now crushed to know that all the compliments I've ever received when walking into a store were simply part of a checklist.

I was also shocked to learn that some shoppers are sent in by "corporate" as spies, and are asked to fill out lengthy evaluations about the quality of your greeting, service, and general attentiveness. Those corporate types think of everything; the faux shoppers have to identify you by name and physical characteristics, so good luck pinning your foul disposition on a coworker. Most surprising was the notion that a salesperson's failure to repeatedly tap at a customer's fitting room curtain to offer up additional garments is a negative. For me, the pestering is the kiss of death; it's why I avoid certain stores.

Like I said, the present doesn't offer much in the way of fascinating memoir material, so I'll be digging through prose about phone sex and bikini waxes and botox beauty queen attorneys. I could, of course, talk about Punxsutawny Phil's failure (frankly, this winter, I think it was not failure but refusal) to see his shadow today, but Groundhog Day has already been written.

I'll think about it tomorrow. For now, I'm working on my customer service skills. "It's not the pants, honey. Your ass is fat."