Holy Smoke!

I’m not afraid of flying, but I did start to panic when the flight attendant started making her opening announcements today. If tampering with a smoke detector in an airplane lavatory is a federal offense, I’m a little nervous about what I might be charged with when housekeeping discovers the smoke detector we pulled off the wall in our hotel room last night.

Just as my daughter and I had turned off the light and settled under our respective covers to let the white noise of NCIS reruns lull us to sleep, we heard a suspicious chirp. Ironic, given the hilarious bird-noise-free commercial we had just viewed (for the umpteenth time) for Aflac, its mascot duck having been recently silenced due to some tacky comments by the human quacker. Yes, we had just chuckled at the sight of the voiceless duck plastered against the front of a speeding train, its beak opened wide in a silent scream. Then, moments later, “Chirp!”

I assumed it was just one of the foul (fowl?) voices in my head (there’s no law that says those voices must be human), but my daughter immediately recognized the sound of a smoke detector with a fading battery. Shit. Pointless dialog from a favorite television series is one thing, but a pointless chorus of isolated chicken squawks is quite another. It’s like having the hiccups; the silence between each eruption is just an anxiety filled interlude of false hope. “Chirp!” We stared at each other and held our breath. “Chirp!” “SHIT!”

We considered our options. The last thing either one of us felt like doing was putting on some respectable clothing to wait indefinitely for some hotel staffer to replace the battery. Both of us have been having trouble sleeping so we figured we’d notice smoke without the help of our chatty detector, and there would be little harm in removing the battery ourselves. So up went my daughter, and, with impressive speed, she located the battery compartment and removed the defective item. I cheered, she bowed, and we turned off the light, again. “Chirp!” She seemed to have heard it too. Could we both be hearing the voices in my head? “Chirp!”

On went the light, again, and up went my daughter, again. She found a button to press, which seemed to awaken the lone chirper’s entire gaggle. It sounded suspiciously like a full blown smoke alarm. Luckily, when she pressed the same button again she silenced the birds, and we returned to the annoying but somewhat less threatening sound of the lone chirper. This time, she pulled the entire device off the wall. So naturally I wondered this morning, briefly, whether tampering with a smoke alarm in a hotel room in the nation’s Capitol was as serious an offense as tampering with a smoke alarm in an airplane lavatory. But the device was off the wall, and at least we’d be able to sleep. “Chirp!” Oh, say it wasn’t so. “Chirp!” Damn bird; it was like a chicken running around after its head has been cut off. Could anyone be that stubborn in her refusal to accept reality?

We considered our options: tossing the device out the window (too dangerous), putting it in the hallway (too incriminating), burying it deep within an extra blanket (too ineffective). We went with a bit of wire twisting and pulling – the scientific approach – and the bird was silenced.

Aflac is looking for a new obnoxious bird voice. I’m thinking we should have boxed up the damn smoke detector and sent it in for an audition.

Paranormal

I might have to invest in a new laptop before I gather together the cash for my new double wide. My trusty old pink computer (emphasis on old, in cyber years) has decided to ignore some of my most basic commands, most notably my instructions to create paragraph breaks. At first, I asked nicely. I thought the big jumbled glob of words that appeared when I published yesterday's post was probably a result of human error, so I immediately returned to my draft and re-pressed the shift button wherever I deemed additional white space appropriate. When that didn't work, I resorted to repeatedly stabbing away at the "enter" key while shouting obscenities. Still, no breaks. No time for my poor readers to take a moment and breathe. I was hyperventilating. I chalked it up to an anomaly, an unfortunate Internet snafu that was maybe caused by heightened radiation levels floating across the Pacific, or possibly by the same mysterious forces that were wreaking havoc with the Cherry Blossom Festival. Lest anyone think I am undermining the disaster of clumped prose, rest assured I have planned all along to remedy the situation when I return home to my more modern desktop. At least this is a disaster that is within my power to fix. Today, when the horrific merging of divergent thoughts recurred, I felt some sort of public apology was in order. Mostly because I was concerned about my few loyal followers thinking I had not only begun losing my edge but was shedding my grasp of the basics as well. I can't afford to lose you guys! I am fairly certain this post will publish as an unappealing block of endless words congealed into an intimidating and unwelcoming dark blob, but if you get this far, please accept my apologies, and know that I will remedy the catastrophe when I return to deep dark suburbia tomorrow!

Bling (Revised, with Paragraphs!)

My mom was acting strangely, even for her. We were back in her apartment after having dinner at the same restaurant where she has the same percentage of the same dinner at the same table every Sunday at five o'clock on the dot. Have I mentioned she's a creature of habit?

Anyway, I can always count on her going about her usual business, which will include, in this particular order, checking the voice mails she can barely hear and complaining about all the pain in the ass phone calls, returning all the pain in the ass phone calls because to not do so immediately would just be wrong, checking her emails and complaining about all the silly Internet jokes and laughing out loud at each one, changing from her St. John suit into her ratty old house dress, pressing her St. John suit and lovingly hanging it up, and finally, removing her makeup and performing some excruciating cleansing ritual on her teeth. Then, and only then, she might join me in the living room where I am sprawled on the couch watching some mindless television, still dressed and still in a food coma.

I have grown to depend on her utter predictability as much as she herself relies on the security of her daily rituals to make sense of her life, so when there is a breach of protocol, I get a bit thrown. Particularly when the breach seems to involve an inordinate amount of discussion about her potentially imminent demise. I know she is neither sick nor expecting to be hospitalized for any reason any time soon; if she were, she would have purchased a new nightgown -- complete with something she calls a bed coat (wtf?) -- and it would be sitting on the love seat in her bedroom, ready to be grabbed on her way out the door. One must have new bed attire for the hospital. I am not making this up. I speak from experience.

Apparently, she recently heard someone exactly her age claim that she was at the end of her life. I'm sure the deaths of Elizabeth Taylor and Geraldine Ferraro this week didn't help. My mom, god love her, is addressing her mortality as she addresses everything else: with a keen materialistic eye. So there I was, minding my own business and just beginning to slip into couch potato mode, and she appeared, having postponed at least a half dozen routines, dumping little velvet pouches of fine jewelry on the table in front of me. All stuff I will never wear, but she wanted me to help her decide what to sell (she'll never do it) and make sure I would hold on to certain pieces, just so I'd remember her. As if!

It's not something I want to think about, but, faced with her glittering array of eighteen carat gold and diamonds, I realized I can't imagine life without her and her outsized, conspicuously costly baubles. And the baubles alone will be a very poor substitute.

She and her crazy rituals are the few things in life I could always count on.

Southern Comforts (Revised, with Paragraphs!)

I've crossed the Mason-Dixon Line, damn it, so I have officially gone south for spring break. Jeez, if all my body parts get to go south, why shouldn't I go too?

The Cherry Blossom Festival has officially begun, and given this year's global cooling, at least on the east coast, the festival -- and the blossoms -- will probably be gone before the frost completely disappears. Even so, it feels a lot warmer here in D.C. than it did this morning in New York City when my daughter and I froze our asses off waiting to board the delayed and slightly malfunctioning but ultra-cheap bus. It took about an hour for our toes and fingers to regain sensation, but the misery of the biting cold was long forgotten by the time we pulled into the lot in D.C. There's something about the sight of great plumes of pink blossoms and greening grass and buds struggling to burst forth on winter-weary trees that almost makes this place feel like some sort of vacation paradise.

Or maybe it's just good old-fashioned southern hospitality. I'll admit, things move a little slowly down here. In the time we waited for what I thought would be no-brainer lunch sandwiches we could have had a six course sit down dinner. And up north, they probably would have given us something closer to what we actually ordered. People speak with a bit of a drawl down here, and don't seem to consider the possibility that you are in a hurry. Granted, D.C. is hardly the deep south, but the pace is noticeably more relaxed. There's a reason the Federal Government is located here.

But hospitality takes time. And for all the money they spent renovating my deep dark suburban Starbucks, that place has got nothing over the Starbucks connected to my hotel here. My coffee may have taken forever, but I waited contentedly in one of the seven -- SEVEN! -- huge comfy chairs, complete with an ottoman and two side tables. Add to that a delicious looking mint green plush couch and a cushy banquette against one table-lined wall and the place has the feel of a welcoming southern plantation. Kind of makes all the woes I've tried to leave behind seem awfully trivial.

Speaking of trivia, Monday night is "trivia night" at a favorite haunt of Georgetown students, and I have been informed that my attendance is mandatory. Not just for dinner, but for the trivia festivities afterward, which means, as I vaguely recall from a previous Monday night visit, I will be the oldest person in the room by at least thirty years, and I will be spending much of the time feeling self-conscious about being the only one whose parts seem to have gone south. There's a limit to the amount of alcohol enhanced perkiness this woman can stand.

But, I'll keep in mind that this week I, too, have gone south, in a positive sense, so fiddle dee dee, I'll worry about the body parts another day.

Driving Miss Crazy

"Honk the horn!" 

Actually, as I heard it, she had instructed me to "hahnk the hawn!"  If New York is looking for a new tag line for license plates, I think my mom is on to something.  The Big Apple's version of "live free or die."  In Gotham, drivers go on high alert when someone isn't leaning on the horn. Even my hearing impaired mother knew something was missing.

When I arrived at LaGuardia yesterday evening, I had little time to stretch my legs and decompress before I was put to work.  Driving in New York City can be stressful under the best of circumstances, but driving in New York City on a Saturday night, in the dark, with my mother shouting instructions at me (except when they might be useful), had me wishing I hadn't left my bag with the emergency stash of pills in the trunk.  (She's reading this over my shoulder, telling me all the things I did wrong; at least she can't hear what I'm muttering under my breath.)

I spent the night in my old room, which still contains much of the furniture and decor of my youth.  It's amazing how comforting it is to lie down on the rather uncomfortable convertible sofa bed that now stands where my twin bed once stood, to stare up at my favorite old light fixture, to listen to the incessant yet soothing lullaby of ambulances and police cars and, yes, hahnking hawns, streaming down the broad thoroughfare below my window. Music to a city girl's ears.  

  

The symphony was incomplete, though; no barking from Leo for his middle of the night bathroom break.  That particular bit of silence interrupted my slumber; in Leo's honor, I dragged myself out of bed anyway to pee, even though I didn't need to. (I'm pretty sure Leo doesn't usually need to either.) I spent my entire childhood falling asleep to the background noise of city traffic, and I've spent the past two years or so awaiting Leo's nightly wake-up call. It's taken me years, but I've grown accustomed to suburban quiet; I'm not sure what I'll do without Leo's midnight barking, though, when the time comes.  

Happily, I was awakened in the ridiculously early dawn hours by my mother crashing around in the hallway outside my bedroom, performing the same morning rituals she has performed for at least a half century.  Soon, we will head to the car so I can spend another few hours enjoying the harrowing experience of driving in New York.  Hawns will hahnk, mom will shout useless instructions at me, and I will try to remember to keep some anxiety pills close at hand.  

I love the noise.  I wish my mom could hear some of it.  

Did He Really Say That?

Last night, I dreamt I kicked someone I know fairly well in the balls. Unfortunately, I woke up with a start to realize I had almost drop kicked poor Manny out of the bed. He's still trying to figure out what he did wrong. (Typical male.)

It's too bad I had to wake up during the best part of the dream. Manny only got kneed in his side; the protagonist in what was, up until that final, deliriously satisfying moment, a nightmare, got a good clean shot to the nuts at point blank range. I can't wait to go to bed tonight so I can catch the sequel.

I guess I've taken the no-dating vow to heart -- for fear that my friends will string me up by my toenails if I go back on my word. I have taken to demonizing men as a species, even when I'm not conscious. I did get a gratuitous email this morning, though, from the dating site that would not accept me because of my theoretically "not single" status. (If I'm not single, by the way, why am I lying on my couch alone every night watching NCIS reruns?) But I digress.

The email was a teaser for one of those highly inspirational and informative newsletters all the dating sites send out from time to time, a bit of reassurance to the more pathetic among us that Mr. Right is out there; it's only a question of strategy. The article that caught my eye was "Ten Things Women Never Want to Hear on a Date." In my experience, the thing I usually don't want to hear from the guys I've met is "when can I see you again?" but that wasn't on the list. It was the kind of stuff you wouldn't necessarily think of as problematic without the cyber experts there to clue you in, like "I still live with my wife," or "next time we meet, could you wear a mini skirt and six inch heels?" I'll have to try to remember that those are bad signs.

My last date ever -- the one I went on several days prior to making my vow -- was with a guy who claimed in his profile he was fifty-five but went on to explain a few paragraphs down that he was really older but because people never think he looks older than fifty-five he's chosen that as his official number. We exchanged a few emails, and though he got huffy that I had the nerve to ask his real age (had he not opened the door?), he confessed pretty quickly that he was sixty-two.

Well, whatever. I was long overdue for a meal in a nice restaurant, and he mentioned several times in his profile how successful he has been, so I agreed to meet him. The first thing he asked me was how old I thought he looked. So I'm standing there thinking sixty-two, you old geezer, which wouldn't bother me at all if the guy wasn't so obsessed about it. At least my steak was good.

Here's my suggestion for the eleventh thing women don't want to hear on a date: a dissertation on the benefits of wheat grass, which tastes pretty nasty but is really good for the skin. This man was actually telling me to follow his skin care regimen so my face could look as good as his. He wasn't even the guy I kicked in the nuts in my dream.

And my friends think it'll be tough for me to stick with the no-dating vow!

Higher Elevations

I am anticipating a seismic shift in the earth's geology over the course of the next week as my little corner of the world empties out and the land masses of Europe and Mexico start to buckle beneath the weight of my neighbors. I've already begun to experience a bit of altitude sickness as the early escapees depart and deep dark suburbia rises above sea level.

To be fair, it's not like I'm staying home to singlehandedly keep watch over the deserted deep dark streets; I'm heading to New York and D.C. for a few days to visit family and old friends. Not very exotic, but I expect the company will be excellent and the trip will keep me from wallowing in self pity. My youngest is heading to London with her dad, which sort of gets under my skin in a big way but I'm trying not to let anybody know (so mum's the word). I've asked her to pick me up one of those Kate Middleton style hats so I can wear it when I sit for hours next month watching the royal wedding. I intend to don my Sunday best and pretend I am a guest. I never pass up an opportunity to participate in a fantasy.

Speaking of fantasies, as I sit here now I am staring at the back of my fireman's head. (I think he purposely sits facing away from me because he finds me too distracting. Or maybe he's just grossed out by the drool.) Just as well, though, because last night I officially promised my two friends I would eliminate men of the dating kind from my life and stop depending on them to boost my self-esteem. This time I really really mean it. Frankly, I'm already feeling a bit uplifted, although that could very well be the shifting land masses at work.

My daughter has informed me that her friends are all excited about my impending visit to D.C. I am sure that has nothing to do with free meals, but even if it does, I am excited about seeing them as well. They will all be dispersing in a few months, and this is probably my last chance before graduation day to spend time with the people who have accompanied my daughter on her four year journey to adulthood. They are lively and hopeful and, though they may be slightly nervous about leaving the security of campus life, they know full well that the world is about to become their oyster. I am hoping to soak up some of their optimism.

I will be returning to deep dark suburbia a few days before everyone else does, so I'll have a little time to acclimate to my version of reality (and acclimatize to the newly altitudinous terrain). And as the masses return and we settle back to sea level, I will vow to keep my spirits elevated and bury all cyber dating emails under the rubble of the shifting earth.

The Best Medicine

Yesterday, one of my students referred to my brand of yoga as fun rather than spiritual. Well nama-friggin-ste to that! All this time I've thought myself to be the purveyor of great insights and deep thoughts, the creator of a veritable "eat, pray, love" experience within the confines of a suburban basement. Harumph!

I'll admit my behavior can occasionally be somewhat un-yogic, but there's certainly no reason to call my spirituality into question. Case in point: when I checked my email yesterday while my students enjoyed, thanks to my meticulous instruction, a perfectly aligned downward facing dog, yelling "Oh fuck!" may have, on the surface, seemed somewhat inconsistent with the basic yogic tenets of mindfulness and serenity. But first and foremost, yoga is about being present, in the moment, and at that present moment I was extremely pissed off. Yoga is also about non-violence, and the fact that I didn't punch anyone (or kick a hole in the wall) surely affirms my highly spiritual nature.

The email, though not surprising, was infuriating all the same. It was about hubby's botox queen attorney's eleventh hour cancellation of the already twice cancelled meeting scheduled for today. She was deeply sorry, but she had already made other commitments. Of course she had; what benefit is there to her if we actually move forward with this divorce? At least I don't have to worry about what outfit to squeeze myself into today so I can look hot and intimidating. Ah, hello beloved sweats.

Instead of spending the morning preening for the long awaited introduction to the attorney of my nightmares, I joined a group of wonderful women for a workout in a friend's basement. We didn't do yoga poses, and my body may have been more vigorously taxed than it would have had I attended my usual Thursday yoga class, but it was as soothing as could be. It wasn't really about the muscle flexing, just as in yoga, for me at least, it's not all about the stretching or the chanting. It's about connection, not just with my own mind and body, but with the minds and bodies of the wonderful women in my midst. We laugh our asses off while our bodies are in motion, and somehow, by the time we're done, it's as if everything toxic has been sucked out of us. At least for the moment.

I've never seen any reason to be in temple to feel close to God, and I see no reason to be sitting quietly on a yoga mat to feel closer to Buddha. My spirits are lifted simply by being among people who laugh with me, and no amount of chanting or heavy breathing could improve upon the feeling. (Unless, of course, the heavy breathing is emanating from my fireman friend at Starbucks; more on that another time.)

In most yoga classes, we're instructed to "be with our breath." In my classes, I want us to be with our laughter. Fun and spiritual. Or at least spirited. It don't get any better than that!

Topless

The icy rain that has not quit for two days makes me wonder whether I really drove with the top down in my convertible the other day. Maybe it was just another one of my topless dreams.

Waiting for spring to arrive in Chicago is like waiting for a baby to be born once the due date has passed. "When are you due?" people would ask when I waddled toward them, grimacing not so much from the weight of my ridiculously distended belly but from sheer frustration. Never I would think, once the brightly marked date on the calendar had come and gone. Winter and my pregnancies; they hang on greedily, refusing to yield to the promise of new life.

Eventually, my babies were born, and I expect that spring will arrive, like they did, when it's good and ready. The signs were there that day when I put the top down on my seven year old car, butt warmers blasting as my friend and I cruised back home from lunch via the "scenic" route (which wasn't all that scenic with the tree branches still as bare as they were in December). Still, despite the chill and the somewhat barren landscape, the day seemed filled with promise.

If you listen closely on the rare bright March days in Chicago, you can actually hear the birds chirping. You don't notice their months long absence when you're too busy wishing away the joint and muscle pain of winter, and you don't notice them once they've become part of the summer scenery. But in March, their songs are like a sold out symphony for which you feel blessed to have snagged tickets. Music to the ears, and to the soul.

If the weather forecasts are to be believed -- which they usually are when they're bad -- I won't be driving with the top down again for a while. But I'll be listening closely for the birds, who will reassure me that it won't be long.

Bite Me, Lady

Both dogs did well yesterday. Leo once again got a clean bill of health and remains in remission. Manny came with us, of course, but this time he waited until we went back outside to poop. All in all a successful visit.

The experience was marred only by the woman who came in with her large dog while we were checking in. As dogs do, Leo and the new arrival barked at each other and strained against their respective leashes for a meet and greet. I didn't pay much attention, other than grabbing onto the leash tightly so Leo wouldn't drag me across the floor.

So there we were, just hanging out, minding our own business and strolling aimlessly around the lobby awaiting the arrival of an oncology nurse (who would, naturally, send Leo into an orgasmic frenzy), and this woman with the big dog looked at me and said "Stay away, please. Your dog bit my dog." Leo? Was she kidding me? Like any obsessive parent, I was certain that my dog could not possibly have been the aggressor. At best, there had been mutual nips; at worst, her bratty beast had been unduly provocative, and maybe Leo's nip was appropriately emphatic. He does it to Manny every once in a while, with good reason.

The woman at the reception desk offered me a sympathetic eye roll, which at least made me feel like I wasn't being one of those crazy moms incapable of any semblance of objectivity about her precious children. I didn't bother responding to the crazy woman who had behaved as if I had bitten her, which, I would agree, might have justified her nasty response. I congratulated myself on my maturity -- although I must admit my aimless stroll around the lobby kind of shrunk into a smaller radius as Leo and Manny and I ambled back and forth right in front of the two bitches. I wanted to stick out my tongue, but that would have been wrong.

I'm over it, I guess, and I don't think Leo even heard the incident (there are so many delicious smells in that lobby it's almost impossible to focus on anything else). Lord knows he has enough bullshit going on in his life; the last thing poor Leo needs is to be falsely accused of violence.

But the important thing is Leo is still cancer free, and enjoying life. Spring is struggling to arrive, and Leo has already found a few tennis balls that had been buried under snow for months. His tail -- the great barometer of happiness -- stands tall and wags regularly, and he is nowhere near ready to give up his midnight visits to the backyard. Life is good.

Home Alone

Not counting the fourteen days worth of interferon I've lovingly squirted into Leo's gums, he has his third official round of chemo this morning. Of course I'm worried that this will be the time they scan for metastasis and find it, and when I return an hour after I drop him off there will be no colorful bandage wrapped around his leg marking the spot where the chemicals would have been administered.

Yes, even though I watched him take the three steps to our deck the other day in one beautifully executed leap, and even though he gave my leg a few lusty humps yesterday when my friend stopped by to visit and emphatically snapped at Manny when he tried to intercede, and even though his appetite still has no bounds, I am worried. Even though he routinely wakes me twice a night with his obsessive need to visit the backyard, I don't want to even think about letting him go.

Mostly, however, given Leo's many empirical signs of perfectly good health for the time being, I am worried about how to slip out of the house to take him to the hospital without taking Manny with me. Shame on me for laughing at my friend the other day, who is concerned that when her dog goes to doggy boot camp for two weeks he will feel abandoned. That after two weeks of good old fashioned canine discipline and a complete absence of "people food," he will be distraught. "He's a dog," I assured her. "He's not giving this all that much thought."

Am I worried that Manny will likely poop in the house after Leo and I leave? Of course not; worrying about the inevitable is a waste of energy. Am I worried that he will sniff out some dirty underwear -- or, if necessary, pants -- and chew off the crotch? Of course not; same reason. I am worried about his psyche, his feelings of abandonment. Sure, he's a dog with a brain the size of a pea. But he's my dog.

Once a mother, always a mother I suppose. Some other woman's crying baby on an airplane will always inspire in me a slight sympathetic pang, but my crying babies on an airplane, well someone might as well have taken a sledgehammer to my heart. If I could have crawled into their aching ear canals and somehow eased the pain, I would have.

Yesterday, my friend and I cancelled coffee plans on each other, she because her son wanted to accompany her to the grocery store, me because my daughter wanted to spend the afternoon with me either watching reruns or wandering the mall. She could have wanted to sit with me waiting for buds to appear on the trees and I would have reneged on coffee. Our kids hold onto our souls with a grip so powerful we will drop everything for them; all they need to do is ask.

And, sometimes, our dogs. If I were a betting woman, I'd put money on Manny joining me and Leo for the ride to the hospital. Yes, it will make me late for my workout, but when it comes down to a choice between toning my glutes or nurturing Manny's psyche? No contest!

March Madness

There was a huge upset Saturday at my daughter's badminton tournament. That is, if "upset" is to be broadly defined as something unlikely, or, at the very least, unexpected. My husband and I sat together amicably for several hours; not a drop of blood was shed.

When my older daughter called to check on the progress of her sister's matches, she thought she had heard me wrong when I told her dad was right there. "You're sitting with dad???" I could hear disbelief mixed with panic; the last thing she'd want for her little sister is for her parents to have a fist fight in the gym. "Okay, then," she said when I confirmed that she had indeed heard me right. If she has access to anxiety pills, my guess is she popped a few.

Although I'd like to think the brief abandonment of our months long unholy state of acrimony is a harbinger of peaceful times to come, I know that would be unduly optimistic. My son had rightly been horrified last week when he joined us at his sister's first match of the season. Joined us in the sense we were all in the same gym. My son and I sat with all the other parents. My husband chose a seat as far from me as possible; he was practically out the door. Mea culpa, at least in part. I had brought up something his attorney had done that really pissed me off. He didn't react very well.

When my son asked me, later in the week, to stay away from another match, not just because it wasn't worth watching but because dad was planning to go and our unpleasantness was unfair to his sister, I considered myself duly chastised. Apparently, this time I wasn't the only one who received a reprimand. My son can be reluctant, at times, to rock the boat for his own sake, but for his sister's sake he gave his dad an earful.

So there we sat, shoulder to shoulder in folding chairs that we periodically moved to get a better view of whatever court we needed to see. I had, as instructed by my daughter, brought with me a huge bag of popcorn, some animal crackers, and a Gatorade to tide her over for lunch. I felt a bit outdone by the cooler full of homemade baguette sandwiches and gourmet cookies dad had brought, but I overcame my feelings of inadequacy pretty quickly and enjoyed the feast. He was always better at preparing food; I was always good at eating it.

We chatted about things parents chat about, and even some things that regular people chat about. I made him laugh, though he was quick to assure me he no longer found me funny. When we parted, I told him it had been nice chatting with him. He probably thought I was being sarcastic, and he responded in kind. No surprise; no "upset" there.

The March madness will continue, no doubt, giving way soon to a fair share of April foolishness. Maybe our relationship will be like spring in Chicago, marked by false starts and stops, but eventually progressing into a season of clemency.

Bad Dream Catcher

I had a particularly absurd dream last night: I posed nude for my Christmas cards. Absurd. I never send Christmas cards!

One reason I never send Christmas cards is laziness. I can barely motivate myself, even on a good day, to take care of necessary business, so the thought of coming up with a list and addressing all those envelopes and licking all those stamps, well, it boggles my mind (and intimidates the crap out of me). The other reason is fear. The idea of folks displaying the card -- which would no doubt feature a picture of my children and not my potato-esque ass -- for the holidays and then ripping it up terrifies me. I have nightmares thinking about my children being torn to pieces, their one-eyed faces peering up in tall kitchen Hefty bags everywhere through stinky mounds of holiday leftovers.

Yep, pretty much my worst nightmare, until I watched the image on the inside of my eyelids last night of my vampy (yes, when I say "posed," I mean it) nude photo making its way through the post office date stamper and into my friends' and relatives' mailboxes. Let's just say the mail carriers wouldn't be the only ones "going postal" that day.

Sometimes I wonder what it is that precipitates a particularly disturbing dream, especially when, as far as I can recall, I went to bed feeling quite peaceful and content. I had sat with my son, daughter, and obese puggle Manny watching a recording of the week's Glee episode. My son was there simply because we begged him to join, but, if laughter is a reliable indicator, I'm pretty sure he enjoyed the moment as much as his sister and I did. Glee is at once pleasing because of its toe tapping musical performances and hilarious in its grotesque portrayal of high school students and staff. Hmm. Pleasing, hilarious, and grotesque; two out of three perfectly good explanations for the journey my unconscious mind took a few hours later. Could dream analysis possibly be that simple?

There's really nothing else I can point to in a rather uneventful day that might help to explain my nightmare. I had the most wonderful vicarious shopping spree when a customer asked me to bring her anything in the store I liked, and then pretty much bought all of it. I drove home during a rush hour with very little traffic, had a nice dinner with my kids, and worked out some nagging issues with an old friend. Then Glee, a few chocolate chip cookies, and early to bed. Absolutely nothing that might have foreshadowed my horrifying night and the extreme relief I would feel when my alarm went off. Let's just hope the dream was a one-timer, and more pleasant ones -- like my fireman fantasy -- will be on the schedule for the weekend.

I'd like to at least take this opportunity to reassure my friends and family they will not be receiving nude photographs of me in the mail next December. In fact, I'm fairly certain they won't be receiving anything from me at all.

The Privileged View

I went to watch my daughter play badminton yesterday in a galaxy far far away. At a high school where most of the kids are not white, and certainly not accustomed to the kind of competition with which even badminton novices from our neck of deep dark suburbia seem so comfortable.

It's a place where kids don't grow up being shuttled to sports lessons after school; my guess is they don't open their sports duffels -- if they have any -- at the end of the day to find cute little snacks packed for them by mom. For them, playing on a team -- something our children take for granted -- is a privilege. The bleachers set aside for their parents were woefully empty compared to the visitors' bleachers across the gym. A galaxy far far away.

And we all made assumptions. I glanced with suspicion at the two boys loitering in the parking lot when I pulled in, taking my wallet and my lap top with me (something I often don't do) and double checking to be sure I had locked my car. What was it that made it loitering, in my mind, rather than two boys just hanging out after school? By the time I arrived, many of the matches had been completed, and our girls were regaling each other with tales of their frightening trips to the bathroom. Scary. Gross. Even some of the moms offered up their own critiques. The coaches admonished the girls to pee in pairs.

Earlier the same day, I arrived at work, in a place where the natives are as well-heeled as they are where I live, and was horrified to learn of a sexual assault and murder that had occurred in a yoga apparel store in Bethesda, Maryland. Bethesda is a place like where I live; the mall there is a place like where I work. Safe, full of white people who don't take other people's things or commit random acts of violence. We all assume something was amiss; this could not have been a random murder, but instead must have been personal. How else can we feel safe in our galaxies, safe knowing that the danger is far far away?

For a short time, I'm sure the young women who work the closing shift at my store will be looking over their shoulders, afraid to be alone in the dark, wary of strangers. But that will pass; somehow, we will be able to explain away the anomalous violence in Bethesda, and feel safe again in our various corners of deep dark suburbia. But we will continue our vigilance when we find ourselves in universes different from our own. We will continue to expect that something bad will happen, even though, odds are, it probably won't.

And the girls without the shiny new badminton racquets and stiff new court shoes will no doubt continue to feel lucky that they get to spend their afternoons competing in a sport, win or lose.

Please Say Yes!

My cousin's daughter just got engaged, and we are so excited! They live in New York, which means they could very well be shopping at the venerable Kleinfeld's for the wedding dress, which means maybe my daughters and I can go along for the ride. We want to be there when she says "yes to the dress."

My cynicism about the institution of marriage notwithstanding, the prospect of participating in the dress selection has me all in a tizzy; maybe it's because I never really got to enjoy the full experience when it was my turn. I went to a small bridal shop by myself, picked a dress according to affordability, and thought myself too heavy to look decent in anything big, white, and fluffy. Frankly, I can't even remember if the salesperson bothered to take the time to assure me I looked breathtaking.

I have more than made up for my pathetic wedding dress shopping experience over the years, enjoying the company of my mom and various girlfriends and an occasional daughter when I outfitted myself for my children's bar and bat mitzvot. I may not have been a starry eyed twenty-something fantasizing about her fairy tale day, but, each time, as I stepped out of my workout clothes in the dressing room and stepped into a beautiful gown, I was sure I knew how Cinderella must have felt.

When I watch my favorite reality show, Say Yes to the Dress, I try not to judge the brides-to-be too harshly for the inordinate amount of importance they place on this anachronistic frock that they will wear one day for a few hours and then pack away for eternity in a box. The dress might very well be the best thing they ever get out of the marriage. Maybe it's all worth it for one day of bliss and years full of wistful memories.

I never even had my wedding dress cleaned. It went, eventually, from a hanger in my closet to a corner on the floor of my daughter's closet, always ready for an impromptu dress-up session with friends. I have no idea where it finally ended up, and I don't really have any plans to look for it. For me, it would conjure up a scared, insecure young woman who felt disconnected from everyone, even when she mumbled the words "I do."

My cousin's daughter is nothing like the unsure bride I once was, and I know the year of planning this wedding will be filled with joyful memories and lots of genuine excitement. I fully expect that my own daughters will one day enjoy the "wedding experience" in a similar manner, whether they choose to elope or go through the whole damn rigmarole. They are both on their way to being far more sure of themselves than I ever was.

Still, I am at once thrilled for my cousin's daughter and cynical about everything that will go into planning this one day in her life, which will bear little relevance to her life as a married woman -- happy or not. Cynical about everything except the dress. Please invite me; please say "yes!"

The House of String

My oldest childhood friend, Eileen, called my mom yesterday. Eileen had taken her two young daughters to visit her own mom, and one of them did something that reminded her of something she and I used to do long ago when I'd spend hours at her house. She hurried in to tell her ailing mother the story, only to find that she had passed away. So she called my mom to tell her the story instead.

Gloria died as she had lived, quietly, without bothering anyone, and with her youngest daughter never too far away. As a kid, I always preferred hanging out at their house. Gloria would sit with us in the kitchen, feeding us whatever our whimsical hearts desired. Two English muffin bottoms for me, two tops for Eileen. Pretzels. Home made cookies. She was unhurried, never seeming particularly concerned about the whole chicken sitting on the counter waiting to be roasted for dinner. She'd get to it, without much fanfare. She was never too busy to chat with me, even when Eileen had tired of the two of us and escaped to another room.

For years, Eileen and I lived in our very own imaginary world, a world without electronic games or computers, a world uninterrupted by carpools to dance or tennis or karate lessons. Our favorite game was "string house." In the entrance hall to her apartment (we called it the foyer, pronounced foyah), we would run string from the closet door knob to the knob on the front door, hang a makeshift string door over the top, and entertain ourselves in our house of string for hours. Nobody -- not even her dog -- was allowed in. It was our space, flimsy enough to be taken down when we were ready and simple enough to be rebuilt whenever we needed to seek refuge.

Gloria understood the sacredness of our string house. She would float by occasionally, just to see if we needed anything (and, I think, to make sure we didn't set foot in the living room -- her sacred space). We never dared to even put a toe onto the living room carpet, and, as far as Gloria was concerned, our string house was as impenetrable as a fortress; she never even approached the threshold.

Eileen and I have lost touch over the years, and pretty much only talk when there's a birth or a death. But when we talk, as we did this morning, we fall easily into nostalgic chatter about the games we invented when we were young. When I told my son my old friend Eileen's mom had died, he knew exactly which friend Eileen was. "She's the one you used to leg wrestle with, and fart in each other's faces." One and the same, although I don't recall ever sharing with him that highly personal and sentimental tidbit of memorabilia.

Life can be as flimsy as an ordinary string house, but old friendships, no matter how much time passes, can be as sturdy as the invisible fence that seemed to surround ours. As I have for many years, I will miss my afternoons with Eileen and Gloria.

Seating Disorders

Just as my eyes were about to close on the Sunday magazine section, my son, less than an hour off the plane from New York, came in to suggest we go to Starbucks and write together. Well the last thing I felt like doing was dragging myself off the couch, but I would prop my eyelids open with toothpicks if necessary rather than pass up such an offer.

To make the ecstasy of the moment complete, we invited my daughter along to do her homework, and she accepted. On the way to Starbucks, my daughter and I filled my son in on the changes he should expect in our local Starbucks, which now literally percolates with both crowds and coffee at any hour. We explained the problematic seating, which requires random strangers to -- gasp -- share a table when all the loner chairs are taken.

My son launched into a rant about deep dark suburbia (not in those words, of course), having become accustomed to the complete absence of personal space afforded by New York City. He was trying to remember the last time he sat alone, even when he was alone. So we assured him that we, personally, had no objection to sitting with random strangers; it's just that it's not the kind of thing people do around these parts.

The truth is, I have more than a few Starbucks chums. We don't necessarily squish together on a couch, but we greet each other happily and often have satisfying, albeit brief, conversations. Yes, my loyal blog fans who chastised me yesterday about the pointlessness of cyber dating (for me anyway) will not be all that surprised to learn that I have never met anyone on line who measures up to any of my coffee house buddies. It's all somewhat "virtual," if you're thinking in terms of relationships, but there certainly is something a bit more gratifying about connecting with someone in the flesh rather than because of some arbitrary moment caught in a camera lens.

The gentleman I met with last night -- the one who absolutely does not want a relationship and is still in love with his wife -- told me I didn't really look like my picture. I must have appeared horrified, but he explained he meant it in a completely neutral way. Pictures don't tend to capture a person; I decided not to take his comment as either an insult or a compliment. (We had a perfectly nice time by the way; it was lovely being with someone who has as little interest in making any attachments as I do. And being home before eight.)

My kids and I positioned ourselves at one end of a long table, just in case any random strangers needed to sit. A group of four high school boys studying for a test claimed the other end, being careful to leave a respectful space between "us" and "them." Aside from the nasty little habit one of them had of vibrating his leg against the table leg, the experience wasn't all that threatening or unpleasant.

Life in the big city, right here in deep, dark suburbia.

It's a Wonder-Full Life

You never know what you're going to find out there in nature. Yesterday, as Manny and I watched from inside, Leo bolted back and forth past the back door with something in his mouth. Whatever it was, he knew the only thing better than clenching it in his jaw was taunting Manny with it.

And, there's nothing that gets Manny leaping off his fat ass faster than the sight of Leo with something in his mouth. So out he went, jumping all over the much taller, leaner, and agile Leo, trying to grab the prize. Cancer be damned, Leo was enjoying the glorious moment, savoring the delicious opportunity to torment his chubby companion without even making so much as a tooth mark in what appeared to be a bagel.

A bagel? What the hell was a bagel doing in the backyard. I would have expected a bunny or a squirrel or maybe a frozen tennis ball, but a bagel? Could this be why Manny is so fat? Is some good Samaritan passing by our fence and tossing delicacies to quiet my barking dogs? I drop lip glosses and dollar bills and other small objects out of my pockets with astonishing regularity, but I think I'd notice something as large as a bagel. Yep, must be some anonymous donor. Maybe it's the mysterious texter who sent me a message yesterday, telling me something I already knew. I thought about responding, asking why no cream cheese.

Come to think of it, strange things have been happening in the house as well. I could swear a few light bulbs have been replaced, once missing items of clothing have reappeared, and my toilet, which I had just about given up on after countless trips to the Home Depot, inexplicably started flushing with abandon. If it weren't for the fact that, despite my silent prayers, my divorce continues to drag on indefinitely with no end in sight, I'd believe in miracles.

On balance, it's probably a good thing the dogs can't talk, at least not in a language humans can understand. Some mysteries are best left unsolved.

Some Enchanted Very Early Evening

It's Saturday, and I've reneged on my decision to turn down four cyber date offers for this evening. How much ice cream and television can one woman stand?

Luckily, I was sufficiently vague in my polite declining of the invitations that two of the guys reiterated them this morning, just in case. Then, adding to the temptation, there were the simultaneous "Hey sexy," messages from two different gentlemen: one in Hawaii and one in London. I could just spend the evening doing some transoceanic flirting on line in my pj's and curlers. (I wonder if the guy from Hawaii knows the happy Mr. Wong?) Oh, and don't let me forget the very cute guy from Chicago who moaned for the first thirty minutes of our email exchange about how hard it is to meet normal women and then suggested phone sex. Oh my god, not again!

Well, I'm out of crossword puzzles, so I passed on the phone sex, and decided it might be best for my psyche if I actually showered and left the house for a few hours. London and Hawaii can wait. So back to the two serious invitations. One was from a very nice sounding man who is separated (almost divorced), just dipping his toe in the dating waters, and admittedly still in love with his wife. The second was from a studly looking never-married guy a few years younger than I who wants to go out for a nice dinner downtown. Near his place, of course. No contest. I picked the early bird special with the man who's still pathologically attached to his wife and is nowhere near ready to have any relationship beyond friendship and dinner companion. My heart literally skipped a beat.

It's mid-afternoon now, and the time to get ready for my early dinner is fast approaching; as usual, I'm wondering why I agreed to go. But after the day I had yesterday -- filled with deceit and disappointment (and that was before the telephone conversation with my attorney) -- I figure I need a good shower anyway. Ahh, romance.

Altered Egos

Between the two of us, my fourteen year old daughter and I ate two pounds of hamburger for dinner last night. I can't even begin to count the french fries.

My half of the ground beef wasn't all that unusual, at least not to me. Others might consider a five foot three (and a half) inch woman devouring a full pound of hamburgers to be a bit beastly, but those are people who've never dined with me. My delicate little flower of a daughter, though, who up until yesterday had never made it more than halfway through a burger (fast food ones don't count), had my jaw dropping. I couldn't figure out where the massive hunks of beef -- complete with buns -- would fit in her taut belly. Needless to say, I was as proud as your average Neanderthal peacock.

We had both expended a lot of energy in the afternoon. I had endured a tennis match, as usual fighting to stay alive -- both in terms of breath and points -- playing singles against someone at least ten years younger than I. My daughter has started badminton season, and came home, as she has for almost two weeks, from two hours of practice and conditioning after school ready to devour anything that isn't nailed down. It's awesome!

As we sat last night enjoying a meal worthy of truck drivers, I imagined, with a smile, how this might evolve. Before you know it, the two of us will be spending our evenings with a beer in one hand (non-alcoholic for her, of course) and a side of beef on the plate before us on the coffee table as we sit with our legs splayed apart on the couch and channel surf. I imagined us cutting into our steak with a big blade not normally found in kitchens, chomping open-mouthed as we gulp down our brew to help speed up the break down of food molecules. We will then tuck our sweats under our distended bellies and belch and fart to our hearts' content.

Who needs men? It seems to me we are doing just fine creating a male presence in the house when the urge arises. And these quasi-men are like other people's babies -- great fun until they start getting loud and obnoxious, at which point you can return them to their rightful owners (or just banish them, somehow). Talk about having your cake and eating it too.

Unfortunately, I still have to clean up all the pans and dishes the asshole guy left in the sink last night.

WWCD?

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the day when non-Christians everywhere suffer momentary embarrassment when they instinctively attempt to wipe the schmutz off a friend's forehead. As a Jew, I've never really understood how the mark of a dirt cross on your face helps you to contemplate your transgressions, but I suppose it's no more ludicrous than our tradition of feeding people little hot dogs and other tasty treats while they watch a male infant get a piece of his penis lopped off.

I do, however, understand the concept of self-denial, so the onset of Lent often inspires me to relinquish something I will truly miss. This year, I've decided to give up self-deprecating humor, pity parties for one, and my beloved expandable sweat pants. No more trappings of loser-hood for me; for the next forty-something days, I will project a positive mental attitude to both myself and the people around me. Duh; winning!

It doesn't hurt that the news has been flooded this past week with video of the paragon of can-do-ism, Charlie Sheen, flipping the bird at anything and anyone who might conspire to bring him down. Well, except himself, but that's a minor detail. I'm sure he'll come around. Here is a man who has lost his job, his children, and his mind, yet he keeps his head up high and has authored more spectacular quotes than you could ever find in Bartlett's. Duh; inspirational.

Just as Charlie must certainly be struggling with his complete loss of humility and common sense, I will feel quite an emptiness without my comfortable old shoe of negativity. But I will persevere; I will announce to all doubters that I am awesome, and I will believe it. I will not necessarily give up pity parties entirely, but I will certainly invite others in to join me. And my waist will not see a drawstring stretchy waistband until mid April; my skin straining against tight zippers and unrelenting non-elastic fabrics may not help remind me to contemplate my transgressions, but it will certainly remind me there are forms of suffering far worse than what I waste my time bitching about. Duh; perspective.

When I feel myself slipping into moroseness, I will tug on my tight belt loops and lift myself up, and I will rant and rave until everybody out there knows I'm a winner. I will simply ask myself, when the going gets tough, What would Charlie do?

Pass the Kung Pao Kugel

I'm in the midst of a potato brain famine. When Edy's Grand triple cookie fudge sundae ice cream is the only exciting development in my life worth writing about, I know I've hit some lean times. Luckily, my friends have recognized the warning signs of drought, and have been kind enough (or bored enough with my entries) to send me real life ideas from the news, hoping to give me some inspiration.

According to a Gallup poll, the happiest man in America is a Chinese-American Jew from Hawaii. Interesting. I of course wondered immediately whether Mr. Wong (doesn't sound Jewish!), who is sixty-five and appears to lead a rather unremarkable life, has more exciting things going on than the discovery of an orgasmic new ice cream variety. So I pored through the article, looking for hints as to what makes this man so extraordinarily content. I refuse to believe his happiness stems from his very ordinariness, his ability to live his days as your average "everyman" and still smile.

The happiness factors were subtle but compelling. First, the man lives in Hawaii. Duh. Nothing bad ever happens in Hawaii, except for the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and that mess was cleaned up long before Mr. Wong had his bris. As I sit in my kitchen watching the cold rain that just won't quit and fretting about the muddy dog prints on my floor, I long for a trip to Hawaii. I can recall marveling at the nice arrangement the island of Maui seemed to have with the weather gods. Sure, it rained constantly, but in the mountains, not where all the people lay soaking up the sunshine on the sparkling beaches. Who wouldn't be happy to spend his days in soothing dry and cloudless warmth while still being able to gaze at a full rainbow in the distance?

Then, there's Mr. Wong's impressive stature. He's Chinese and Jewish, yet he measures a full five foot ten, well above average height for his somewhat unusual dual heritage. Though my experience is purely anecdotal, I'm willing to bet he could eat peanuts off the heads of a good number of Jewish and Chinese men. To be sure, many men rely on penis length as the primary measure of their worth, but height is certainly up there in the top five (along with number of emails missed while taking a bathroom break and number of conference calls scheduled).

Let's face it, though. The root of Mr. Wong's happiness must indeed lie in his roots. The whole is generally greater than the sum of its parts, and how awesome must it be to be both Jewish and Chinese? Reportedly, he keeps kosher, but I think that just means he eats his stir fried chicken with a rabbinically blessed bird and without MSG. To be sure, there are no pork or seafood dishes for Mr. Wong, and his eggrolls are probably vegetarian, but that's a small price to pay for a culinary existence filled with matzoh balls and moo shu. This is a Jew for whom every day is Christmas; he can eat Chinese food any time, even when all the other restaurants are closed.

I'm going to try to take a page from Mr. Wong's book. My guess is he doesn't enjoy manic highs or suffer manic lows, and he probably doesn't sweat the small stuff. So, even though I feel duped, I will not file a complaint with the FDA regarding the misleading label on Edy's triple cookie fudge sundae ice cream, which claims the container I purchased held twelve servings. I counted only four.

Triple Cookie Fudge Sunday

I cancelled a date last night; I told the guy a friend's mom had died (true), and I had to pay a condolence call (sort of true). By the time I should have been sharing a cocktail with this poor unsuspecting soul who was certain he could make me laugh, I had already paid my condolence call and was contentedly in my sweats watching television and eating a fabulous new flavor of ice cream.

My rule of thumb is one polite excuse; when the guy keeps trying to get me to reschedule for every night this week, I lose interest in being nice. I'm too superstitious to claim things like friends' dying relatives unless there's some truth, and I figure even the most persistent guy will eventually get the hint. But Mr. "I can make you laugh" is relentless in trying to pen in a rain date. Shit.

Maybe I'm setting myself up for failure, but I've decided to set the bar pretty high for anyone seeking to drag me away from my ice cream and my couch for a date. I either have to roll on the floor laughing at something he says, or get one of those inexplicable little head to toe tingles when I look at his picture. The young studs tend to make me cringe rather than tingle, and the ones my age, well, let's just say I have yet to feel so much as a slight itch. Let's face it, if the picture -- presumably of the best face the guy can put forward -- makes my shoulders sag, the in person rendezvous is bound to be a crushing disappointment.

So back to the laughing angle. The self proclaimed comedian I cancelled on last night had offered only a murky picture of himself surrounded by several smiling women. I asked him what he had done to make them all look so happy. So many opportunities for a witty response, but he didn't take the bait. How can I help but be skeptical about his claim that he will make me laugh?

So ice cream and the couch it was, with a little laundry thrown in just so I could feel useful. And ice cream and the couch it will continue to be. A few more months of this and I'll be rolling on the floor, all right, but I doubt it'll be with laughter.

Why the Long Face?

Every once in a while I get a hit on the computer dating site I can't seem to quit no matter how hard I try. Ironic, I suppose. One site won't let me on, and one just won't let me off. Maybe it's meant to be, although I have yet to see any evidence that anyone close to "the one" exists in this particular cyber universe.

To protect my very fragile ego, I try to interpret all comments from potential suitors as complimentary, no matter how odd or ambiguous. Yesterday, some guy sent me an email saying "hmm, you look taller than five foot three." Hmm, I'm not sure what it was about my head shot that clued him in to my modest untruth about my height (on a good day, I'm five foot three and a half). But I decided he must have detected something sexy and lithe about my look, and it wasn't that I have a long, drawn, tired looking face which might suggest a long body to go with it. Self esteem is my middle name.

The good news about this winter is that it's helped my usually long face to puff out a bit. Every day, my cheek bones become more deeply immersed in cheeks made fleshy from cookies and kettle cooked chips. Honestly, I don't know how the Potato Heads managed to stick to their diets this season. The cold and dreariness has dragged on for what seems like forever, and I find myself munching on comfort snacks for hours every day just to pass the time. Even my sweats are starting to feel a bit snug. The good news is I'm not heading for a beach vacation this spring break, so I don't need to face the horrifying prospect of a bathing suit.

But it's March, and just as the temperatures will inevitably rise, my husband's anorexic botox queen attorney will inevitably not cancel a meeting one day, and lord knows when I meet her for the first time I don't want to look like a frump. I've gotten over the narcissist thing, but if she starts calling me a chubby narcissist, I might lose it. I'm going to start adding some physical activity to my daily routine, like dating. Get your minds out of the gutter folks; I am not talking about sex. I am talking about the great amounts of energy I will have to expend just showering, putting on make up, and squeezing my potato ass into jeans. My version of running a marathon.

I think I'll start with the guy who expects that my long face comes with a long body. Might as well push myself with an insurmountable challenge right off the bat. I'm not all that concerned with his reaction, having checked out his picture. Closer to court jester than prince of my dreams.

As the pounds melt away, I'll be able to add other, more rigorous, and far more satisfying forms of exercise, like shopping. Sure beats the crap out of dating.

Do These Pants Make Me Look Fat?

The strangest part of the article about the new 2011 Potato Heads was not that they have become slimmer, although to tell you the truth, I'm not sure the weight loss is all that noticeable. The most puzzling part was the report that child psychology experts are concerned that the new potato physique will put undue pressure on kids to be unrealistically thin.

Are ya kiddin me? The potatoes may have lost a centimeter or two around the belt line, but they've got a long way to go before they start to look more like string beans than spuds. Even so, Hasbro has tried to capitalize on the surprising weight loss by fitting Mr. P with his first pair of pants. Well it's about time; why is everyone all up in arms about a slightly healthier spud when nobody ever said a word about the fact that he's been an exhibitionist all these years. Nobody ever thought to fit him with a much needed trench coat. Where was Mrs. P every morning when the guy got half-dressed? (Not that she's any more modest.)

But back to the weight loss issue, and the potential negative effects it will have on our children, who will no doubt begin cutting down on oreos and television watching just to emulate the Potato Heads. If Barbie and G.I. Joe never had that effect, why would a slightly julienned potato lead to an anorexia epidemic? And what's so bad about cutting back on oreos and television watching.

Frankly, the psychologists should turn their attention to the frighteningly skinny mannequins that grown women are confronted with every day when they shop. In my yoga store, the fact that the legs and torsos of the mannequins are an inhuman looking white and have painful looking screws protruding from them does nothing to stop me from gazing at them with unadulterated envy. They slip into extra smalls in any style of form fitting pant, and somehow there's no redistribution of the pudgy parts. No muffin tops, and not a camel toe among them. Even without undergarments. So unfair.

There are mirrors all over the store, constant reminders of my imperfections as I gaze past my own reflection to the flab free mannequins striking impossible poses behind me. If they had faces, I'd punch them right between the eyes. And of course the bitches wouldn't even bruise.

But hurray for the more realistically slimmed down Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. They are by no means skinny, just a little bit healthier. Okay, the term "couch potato" might lose some of its punch, but kudos to the spudly couple for debunking the myth that carbs make you fat. Maybe people will even rediscover the joys of bread!

Personality Test Disorders

After spending an hour on line answering hundreds of questions about what makes me tick just so I could get a free peak at the eligible charmers awaiting me on a new dating site, all I got was a ten page personality profile. I've hit a new low; I wasn't just rejected by a date, I was rejected by the whole friggin site.

"We're very sorry, but we cannot provide our matching service to you at this time. Our matching service is intended for single people only." Mere seconds after I filled in the final circle of the seemingly endless battery of questions about my personality, that's the message that popped up on the screen of my laptop. In huge, bold letters. Instinctively, I jumped out of my seat (narrowly avoiding sending my panini flying across the room) and draped my body over the screen, lest one of the other ladies lunching at the Nordstrom Cafe see what a total loser was in their midst (as if that wasn't obvious -- I was the only lady lunching alone).

I'm such an idiot. I had considered the possibility that my answers in the Emotional Stability section would do me in, but it never occurred to me to lie about my marital status. Damn them for the trick question. Damn them for not telling me right away that "separated" was an incorrect response. I could have spent that hour doing something more constructive. Like playing solitaire.

Anyway, I was offered the ten page free personality profile, so I thought I'd check it out. Even an acutely self-aware person like me can benefit from a little scientific insight. My evaluation was broken down into five categories: Agreeableness, Openness, Emotional Stability, Conscientiousness, and Extroversion. The first thing I did was gather overwhelming evidence to forward to my husband's botox queen attorney that her sight unseen diagnosis of me as a narcissist was completely without merit. Right there, in the Agreeableness section, it said I am "empathetic and compassionate," even though I truly believe people should solve their own problems if they are able. Not a narcissistic bone in my body. Ha!

I skipped over the Openness section; for pete's sake, I write a daily blog and strip myself bare for all the world (the world being my universe of fifteen official followers and a few other anonymous fans) to see. It's a reality show without the live video, and trust me, nobody wants to see that! I'm willing to bet I scored pretty high on openness, although I did notice as I flipped past the section that, for people who like things to remain safe and familiar, my odd and wide open rants might cause some discomfort. Fuck 'em, I say. Let 'em squirm.

Much to my surprise and delight, despite what I thought were honest and therefore incriminating answers in the third section, I am, apparently, a paragon of emotional stability. I have "a rich emotional life;" okay, that's one way to look at it. I deal with whatever comes up in a manner which is "perceptive and flexible." I "seldom get in over my head" -- LOL -- and nowhere do the words "roller coaster" appear in my description. Here's my favorite: my outstanding coping mechanisms have turned me into "something of an emotional mentor!" Man, I'm good. I think I'm gonna have cards printed up.

I kind of liked the Conscientiousness section, because it put a nice spin on my inability to focus on anything for more than three seconds, and credited me with an admirable dose of spontaneity. Sure, I can buckle down if necessary (I think I may have stretched the truth a bit on those questions) but it's great that I can "let the spirit move me" off task on occasion. If, by "on occasion," they mean constantly, then I am the goddess of conscientiousness. What I have come to think of as a complete absence of focus is actually a delightful outlook on life to which others can aspire. Again, I am something of a mentor. I was beginning to see why the site rejected me -- too much competition for all the other gals to handle.

Finally, my extroversion. I am, according to my very sound, scientific personality profile, lots of fun to be around. I guess that means being a manic depressive, whining, crying bitch is more of a good thing than I had realized. I'm inspired by all the positive feedback, so I'm going to redo the questionnaire -- with a new email address so they don't recognize me -- and fill in the "divorced" circle so I can gain admission to the new dating site. I am apparently quite the catch, and what's wrong with a little white lie if I can make so many men so happy.

Going Green

Today, my daughter is taking off for a week long vacation in Paris and Rome, and I'm turning all shades of green with envy. Sure I want her to have a good time, but damn it, I want to go too.

I've been to both cities, and would jump at the chance to revisit either one. Right now, I'd jump at the chance to go anywhere. (And making the trek to Evanston tomorrow to see my therapist does not count.) Although Rome is the one city out of all the places I've been to that I love the most, my fondest memories are of my week last year in Florence. It's the people, not the places, that make for the best experiences, and last year I took my two younger children with me to visit their sister, who was "studying" abroad. No spouse to put a damper on my adventure; just a rare and cherished week of unencumbered and unplanned time with my three offspring.

Sometimes I think it didn't matter that we were in a place far, far away, that the trip would have been equally special had we gone to, say, Des Moines. Sightseeing was only a part of our agenda, although we certainly did a lot of wandering. I suppose window shopping in the malls of Iowa and biking through the flat cornfields probably wouldn't hold a candle to browsing on the Ponte Vecchio and cycling through Tuscany with a few breaks for pasta, wine, and gelato, but the conversations we had and the time we spent together would have been priceless anywhere.

This year, for the first time since I became a mother, I am scheduled to be alone for our school's spring break. As much as it kills me, I have to let my younger daughter's father take a turn with her, and they are off to London for a week. I am a big baby, though, when it comes to spending spring break with my children, so I will be heading to New York and D.C. to pester my older two. They act like they don't mind (a visit from mom is probably not high on their bucket lists) and I am just going to accept their welcoming words at face value.

I'm working hard on the envy issue; green isn't really my color. My kids are being good sports about my neediness, and I'm going to pay it forward and give my own mom some good quality attention when I head out east. Who knows? Maybe I'll even get some TLC in return!

Time Travels

As I waited in the high school parking lot yesterday to retrieve my daughter and her friends from badminton tryouts, I was certain, several times, that my son was approaching my car. He happened to call me as I sat enjoying the tricks my mind was playing on me; the traffic noise in the background confirmed that he was still in New York, and not one of the hunched, hooded, faceless teenage boys shuffling out of the high school gym from tennis tryouts.

I shared my bit of time travel with my son, and he got it. He said he could imagine that sitting in that same spot in the high school lot where I used to wait for him would conjure up all sorts of vivid memories. I was quick to assure him they were good ones, and he understood that too, despite the difficulties he faced during those high school years. Back then he would have grunted impatiently at my sentimentality; these days, he's not afraid to admit he takes his own sentimental journeys from time to tome.

Some days seems interminable, but time is passing way too quickly. With my older daughter graduating from college this year and my son, as always, following closely on her heels (at least in terms of timing), it seems that my youngest daughter will zip through four years of high school in less than a blink of an eye. Seventeen years ago this month we moved with our two young children to our brand new house in deep dark suburbia; I can still remember placing their matching Aladdin bathmats on the floor in their new bathroom, helping them stake their claim to their new home. My own personal version of landing on the moon.

Those bathmats are long gone, and those two children are now occasional visitors in the not so new house. That bathroom now services just one teenager, who has claimed it as her own with an array of lotions and potions that spreads across both sinks. She no longer has to avoid the toilet she shared for years with her brother by trekking down the hall for less distasteful bits of porcelain seating. Toilet issues notwithstanding, she misses her siblings even more than I do. Maybe not so much more as differently.

I love the people her siblings have become, though they seem a bit out of place when they return to the house they grew up in. Yesterday, in the parking lot, I wanted to approach the mothers of the boys and tell them to savor the impatient grunting, because soon those slouching, hooded, faceless (and somewhat unpleasant) creatures would be gone, at least physically. One day, they will not look like gang bangers, and they will morph into young men who will suddenly realize their parents are people in their own right. They will still grunt but less often, and they will be the source of some of the most surprising and wonderful conversations.

All three of my children are works in progress, and though I always miss where they've been, I love watching where they go. I suppose I'm a work in progress, too; maybe I should remind myself to enjoy the ride.