What Happens in May Stays in May (God Willing)

Forget about old-fashioned armies of ants. The big black ones that have invaded my house are soldiers in a new kind of guerrilla warfare designed to make me go stark raving mad. It is still May, after all.

They appear mysteriously, one fat black ant at a time, as if being shot out of some time release capsule, each one being ordered out on a search and rescue mission when the one that preceded it doesn't return. They seem to prefer the kitchen, but just when I was being lulled into a false sense of security from what seemed to be a successful mission on my part with a can of Raid, I went upstairs only to be greeted by one of the big fat suckers on my bathroom mirror. Splat. I decided to leave the shadowy outline of my ant killing flip flop there as a warning.

My daughters are getting a bit tired of my screeching, but my warrior battle cries just seem to get more and more shrill with each ant. They won't hurt you, my PhD friend who couldn't even get a job at Whole Foods assured me as we sat outside to get away from the insects. Neither will the four distinct piles of poop I later discovered in a hidden corner of the family room (one gift from Manny, I assume, for each day I was gone), but I still don't really enjoy having them in my house. Ah, the lusty month of May.

I'm summoning up my positive mental attitude as May draws to a close. I've decided these time release guerrilla ants must be what they call "June bugs," and they're just coming early so June will be a better month for me. The mind can play tricks on you, and sometimes it's just a good idea to let it.

Mayhem

As May 2011 draws to a close, I say good riddance. When the month opened, I had two living, seeing dogs and a mother who had not yet been broken in several places. This year, April showers brought nothing but May showers, and lingering dark cloud that just wouldn't quit.

As I lay in bed at four o'clock this morning contemplating the moth buzzing around my ceiling fan lights, I was surprised to hear Manny stir. He generally likes to sleep in. He felt his way to the edge of the bed, leapt gingerly to the floor, and began to sniff around. I prayed I was dreaming when I heard the sound of running water. I prayed that maybe Manny was compensating for his lost eyesight by growing opposable thumbs and figuring out how to turn on the faucet in the bathroom sink. I prayed my eyes were deceiving me when I opened them to see Manny in the corner of my bedroom with his leg lifted, peeing like there was no tomorrow.

It's the meds, I'm pretty sure (which was small consolation as I tried to soak several gallons of urine out of my bedroom carpet with an old Aladdin towel). It seems a bit unfair that the drugs are having no impact on Manny's blindness but are in full working order when it comes to their side effects. I hate to admit it, but I've been home less than twelve hours and am already thinking that sitting in a hospital room for four days straight with my deaf mother who loves to chat about nonsense and order me around is not such a bad way to spend a holiday weekend.

I had almost become convinced that there is no God, or, if there is one, she's pissed at me, until I opened the fridge to look for some orange juice and found myself nose to cap with two bottles of "Skinny Girl Margaritas" instead. Hallelujah!! I have not been forsaken after all!

It's almost seven in the morning here, which certainly means it's five o'clock somewhere, so I think a toast is in order. On this Memorial Day, here's to all those who have given their lives for our country, and here's to the unofficial start of summer, and with it, the demise of May.

Making Tracks

There are third world countries with more Starbucks than there are in Brooklyn. No welcoming green signs anywhere in sight, so I had to survive the forty-five minute subway ride into Manhattan without adequate chemical fortification. Torture.

Other than that (and the guy wearing the Kum & Go tee shirt who sat next to me on the platform as I awaited the train's arrival), my Sunday morning adventure on the "F" train was quite pleasant. Even (or especially) the gritty Brooklyn streets have a certain charm in the early hours of a balmy Sunday. It's a place without manicured lawns, without white picket fences, without pairs of well heeled women in spandex walking to nowhere. It's a place where garbage bags are strewn in front of doorways, where yards -- if they exist at all -- are no bigger than a postage stamp, where someone out running is probably being chased. But on Sunday mornings there's a certain quiet that transcends the traffic and the incessant yelling and even the thunderous roar of the "F" train as it approaches the elevated, graffiti filled platform on 18th Avenue. Much of the city is still asleep, and its perpetual motion has been temporarily reduced to a soothing whir.

On the train, I sat across from a young guy sleeping something off, two lesbians (the close cropped hair was my first clue; the passionate impromptu kiss sealed the deal), and an Asian woman clutching a cane with a duct taped handle. Not your average suburban crew. Well, except for the young guy sleeping something off, which is, I'm sure, happening in suburban households everywhere.

They all seemed oblivious when I snapped their picture, or, if not oblivious, at least indifferent. I imagine that, on a train in deep dark suburbia, my cell phone might very well have been confiscated by a pimply faced police-boy with a little notepad and a water gun in his holster. I wondered where they were all going this early on a Sunday, why the lesbians had left their Subaru at home. I wondered if they wondered where I was going, with my designer purse and my carry-on suitcase and my laptop. Given their reaction to my picture snapping, probably not.

As much as I enjoy driving in New York, I had to leave the car in my mom's garage this morning so I can just catch a cab from the hospital to the airport later this afternoon. After spending a good hour last night trying to navigate my way out of Chinatown (where I dropped my son at a friend's apartment) and back into Brooklyn through the maze of entrance and exit ramps for various unfamiliar bridges, I was actually glad for the break.

It was nice to just sit and watch, to know that the honking horns were not directed at me, to see what other New Yorkers do on warm weekend mornings. I'll let you know when I figure it out.

A Me Grows in Brooklyn

It’s always fascinating to visit the homes of great authors, and I hope you will all have an opportunity to do so one day. In the meantime, you guys will have to settle for a grand, virtual tour of where it all began for me. Listen, you and I both know that if you had anything better to do, you wouldn’t be reading this crap.

So welcome to 800 Ocean Parkway, Brooklyn, New York, circa 2011, which, for all practical purposes is no different from the way it was circa 1959 when Mickey and Seymour Ocean brought me home.

Mickey was certain, at the time, that I could not possibly be her baby, as I was a bit chubby and kind of homely, but when I began to resemble my older brother even she had to accept that it was highly unlikely a baby switch had occurred two years in a row. But I digress.

A tree most certainly does grow in Brooklyn, and so does grass, on which, theoretically, children could run free and play if the building management didn’t prohibit it. So we played on the cracked sidewalk and sometimes in the traffic, until Brian from next door got hit by a car and we decided that wasn’t such a good idea.

Here’s the elevator, which I show you not so you’ll think I grew up in a cinder block prison (that's a metaphor for another time), but so that you can see, for the first time, I’m guessing, a real life Shabbos elevator. It’s kind of like a Shabbos Goy except it doesn’t drink. Anyway, from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, the Shabbos elevator is programmed to stop automatically on every floor so that the Orthodox Jews in the building can take the elevator but pretend that they are obeying the eleventh Commandment (Thou shalt not ride in an elevator on the Sabbath unless somebody else pushes the buttons). I kid you not.

To take you on a complete tour of the apartment (pronounced apawtment) I grew up in would be tedious, so I thought I’d just focus on the part (the pawt) that had the greatest influence on who I eventually became, which would be the Lilliputian kitchen. I attribute my lifelong “fat” complex to a childhood marked by a dollhouse sized kitchen with dollhouse sized furnishings and foodstuffs. No wonder I always felt a bit like an Amazon. I’m sure it didn’t help that the cheerful framed picture over the table contained a whimsical list of calorie counts for various common foods.

Anyway, here’s the teeny table where my brother and I sat with our knees in our chests and ate our one hundred eighty calories of cereal every morning.

The teeny thing in the middle is a jar of mayonnaise – barely enough to last two days in a Jewish household, one hour tops in a Gentile home. It is highly representative of other jars in the teeny refrigerator.

Then there’s the miniature Mr. Coffee (a relic), which stands next to the microwave, which isn’t necessarily teeny and isn’t even that much of a relic; actually, it’s the only post-1960’s appliance in the house.

It is used solely, as you can see, to house food products, which used to be the job of the old gas oven. Don’t ask. It’s my mother’s idea of modernization.

Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing anything large or modern in Shakespeare’s old house. We great authors have a lot in common.

Long and Winding Roads

Last night, as I somehow (and somewhat miraculously) merged safely onto the last ramp leading to the final leg of my journey from New York Hospital in Manhattan to my mother's apartment in Brooklyn, I wondered how I had actually gotten there. The meandering and severely rutted tangle of highways and expressways and side streets is as familiar to me as an old shoe (an old shoe? really?), but if someone asked me to lay out the route I'd be at a loss.

Mom looks a lot better than she did the last time I saw her, when she was still wearing her coffee splattered St. John suit and her face was twisted in such pain that, in hindsight, we all should have known there was more to it than just a fractured shoulder. Badly bruised and broken, she couldn't even conjure up one of her fake smiles, and believe me, a fake smile for my mother is as automatic as the drive is for me from Manhattan to Brooklyn. A few days in a hospital gown (I don't believe it's St. John, although the top gown that she uses as a cape and the gown flowing underneath it are perfectly color coordinated, which is important to her), have done her some good. She is in decent spirits and looks like as much of a queen as anyone can look in that setting.

The staff finds her endearing and amusing. Of course they do -- she's not their mother! She is a stellar and obedient patient; she's very competitive, and is determined to do well on every blood test. She was thrilled to hear from the occupational therapist that she will graduate early from acute rehab, even though my brother and I would like to see her taken care of by these people until she is completely healed. Her phi beta kappa in bone repair makes us uneasy; the thought of an eighty year old woman (a rather uncoordinated one under the best of circumstances) with a broken shoulder, a broken pelvis, and broken ribs being sent off into the world on her own is, for us, a bit frightening.

Still, it's strange to think of my mother as a hospital patient. I will embark on the mysterious drive up to Manhattan soon, and, when I see her, I will no doubt wonder how both of us ended up there.

A Dirty Job

Just when I thought I was the biggest loser on the planet, my brilliant and talented friend called to tell me her job application had been rejected by Whole Foods. And she's even a vegetarian!

It was probably wrong of me to laugh at her, but sometimes it just feels good to know that somebody is at least as pathetic as you are. My friend has been putting her PhD to good use, cleaning up at a yoga studio when she's not busy manning the desk or teaching a class. Whole Foods was to be her next rung on the ladder of post-menopausal success; no mops, no brooms, no toilet brushes, just a cushy job at the register.

As it happens, I received a call yesterday from the attorney I worked with way back when, before kids and marital problems (at least serious ones) and dogs and car crashes on the way to college graduations. He wanted to know if I would be interested in doing some legal work. I'm giving it some thought, but I'm not quite sure I feel like stepping down a rung on my career ladder. Writing briefs hardly requires the kind of skill necessary to master a cash register in a yoga clothing store, much less dismantle a mannequin to change her clothes.

Soaring through the glass ceiling does have its price, though. Retail is tough on the feet, especially when you're fifty-one years old and are accustomed to spending most of your days moving from one seat to another (when you're not napping). But that's no reason to put the breaks on my skyrocketing career; I've spent a lifetime shying away from challenges for fear of failure, and I'm determined to stop doing that.

Maybe I'll take on a little legal work as kind of a mindless side job, but I'm staying on track. I'm going to master returns and tax modifications and post voids if it kills me. Who knows -- I might even get an acceptance letter from Whole Foods one day.

The Unseeing Eye Dog

As far as I know, the doctors have not located any more broken bones in my mother's body, but that doesn't mean the bad news has stopped rolling in. Manny, my obese puggle, who has been under the care of a canine eye specialist for three weeks, has suddenly begun to bump into walls and finds it hard to locate a treat even when it is dangled in front of his nose. Good for his diet, I suppose, but, as the highly trained veterinary ophthalmologist observed, "that's not a very good thing."

Well, the news about Manny isn't all bad. Odds are he doesn't have a brain tumor; he might very well go completely blind, but he'll live. Tests showed that he appears to have some retinal deterioration disease that generally affects older dogs of the female variety. But Manny, the dog who weighs twice as much as your average puggle, has always been one to ignore conventions, so I can't say I'm surprised he's acquired this strange disease at the tender age of five.

Things could be a lot worse. I write this as I watch the morning news coverage of deadly tornadoes in Missouri, Arkansas, and Oklahoma. I've never even come close to living in any of those places. And even though Manny keeps bumping into walls and other hard objects, he doesn't seem to be in pain and his blackened flattened snout won't show the bruises. He'll still be as handsome as ever.

I will take it on faith that Manny will be in good hands for a few days while I go tend to my broken mother in New York. He's getting better about sitting still for all the eye drops, and the gargantuan pills mean gargantuan globs of peanut butter, which always make Manny smile. And my mother, though broken, is filled with a determination to heal and an inner strength not found in your average octogenarian. Or even your average thirty year old.

Life is good. It could definitely be a lot worse.

Sticks and Stones (and Car Crashes)

I am hoping things really do happen in threes and only in threes, because the real doctors in New York have determined that Grandma Potato Head has a fractured pelvis and some broken ribs (I'm counting the ribs as one "thing") in addition to her fractured shoulder. I don't know whether her bad luck stemmed from her location in the ill-fated taxi or her stature -- she's somewhat of a fingerling potato -- but being snapped in three places when you're eighty years old seems more than sufficient.

Not since my mother had a hysterectomy about thirty years ago has she been bedridden. The adorable EMT in Virginia marveled at her vital signs, which are as solid as those of an average thirty year old. My mother prides herself on maintaining her good health, which she monitors and nurtures as if her life depends on it. Oh wait, it does.

But shit happens, and it never seems fair, particularly when it happens to you or a loved one. Sometimes it takes a car crash to remind us all of how fleeting life is, and how things can change in a heartbeat. My mother, now temporarily immobilized, has been admitted to the hospital, and, once she starts to heal, faces months of rehab. She is strong and healthy, but she is eighty, and I am worried that precious time has been snatched away from her. I've been known to blame her for a lot of things, but I'm fairly certain that this time none of it is her fault.

I spoke to some of her closest friends yesterday to update them, and, no matter how bitterly she complains about them, I could tell they were all devastated. I suppose it hits close to home when one of their number falls. I am sure my mother will chastise me for encouraging them all to visit her in the hospital, but I am also pretty sure she will appreciate the company. It's not like she can hear anything they say, so what's the big deal?

I'm flying out Thursday, to do what little I can to cheer her up and help restore some order to her life, you know, to pack all the cold cream jars of her daily existence in exactly the right spot. Her routines have been shattered (must I count that as a fourth bad thing?), and there aren't any pain killers that can help her with that.

An Imperfect Storm

Maybe I misunderstood the announcement. When our flight from Atlanta was finally poised for takeoff after a considerable delay, the pilot identified himself over the public address system and informed us he would not be flying the plane. As if this were somehow the most natural thing in the world.

I thought for a moment it was a joke about automatic pilot, and couldn't help but envision the blow up guy from Airplane smoking a cigarette after a little impromptu romp in the cockpit. But no, there was apparently a real life human pilot sitting right next to him in the cockpit, a guy who is accustomed to traveling through treacherous skies after a lengthy stint in Afghanistan. Was this supposed to be comforting?

The skies over the Midwest had become a war zone, and our flight plan, with an air force fighter pilot at the helm, would take us through the "holes" in the storm -- an aviator's version of running between the rain drops. And streaks of lightning. And hail. And angry winds. The airport in Atlanta suddenly didn't seem like such a bad place to spend the night.

Sometimes you just have to have faith. I'm not sure who was at the controls as my family plowed its way through this past weekend, but somehow we ducked severe turbulence and jumped over a few puddles and made it to Sunday, still standing and still smiling. Car accidents and ticketing snafus aside, we had a glorious time celebrating my daughter and her friends as they received their very expensive tickets into real life. Our family is nothing if not resilient; we've been battered and bruised, but my children will be certain, after this weekend, that no matter what storms we have to weather, we will always be there for each other.

Stumbling blindly into this first of what will hopefully be many family celebrations, none of us had any idea where or how we would land or who would be flying the plane. But each of us did our part; we put one foot in front of the other, and dodged what could have been some very stormy weather.

Graduation Crashers

The first thought that ran through my head when the car rammed into the side of our taxi was that I'd have to show up at my daughter's college graduation with coffee stains all over me and my dress. The fact that my precious designer purse on the floor in front of me seemed to be drenched was even more horrifying. Damn, why did I have to get that second cup?

Time seems to pass either too slowly or too quickly when something bad suddenly happens, so I don't know how long it was before I turned to check on the three in the back seat. Probably only a moment. My mother, sitting right behind me, was clearly in pain, rubbing her shoulder and whimpering. My mother-in-law, sitting in the middle, was rubbing the back of her head. My daughter, who had been sitting on the side where the impact occurred, seemed fine, in a wide-eyed, stunned sort of way. She had seen the car coming toward her and was affected less by the crash than the slow motion picture that kept running through her head.

I eventually came to my senses and went to help the three of them out of the car. My daughter, clearly traumatized, called her dad, who came running over to the scene, followed closely by my brother and my son. The guys had chosen to walk; we had left in our taxi only minutes earlier, and had not gotten very far.

Well, in short order, the adorable Virginia EMT's arrived and I was really wishing I didn't look like such a fright, but they took good care of my mother and were very solicitous and I tried really hard to push my fireman fantasies out of my brain so I could focus on the crisis at hand. To make a long story short, I shipped the rest of the crew off in another taxi so they could still have time to snag some decent seats for graduation, and my brother and I rode in the ambulance with my mom, who was less upset about her aching shoulder than the fact they made her ride in a stretcher. She has a few pride issues. Don't we all.

The nice handsome firemen were very sympathetic to our situation -- graduation, remember graduation? -- and managed to get authorization for a visit to the District of Columbia, even though we were in Virginia. So off we went, my mother and my brother heading into the Georgetown Hospital Emergency Room, me sprinting off to the other side of campus. Good thing I wore my flip flops. I got there in time to see my oldest child walk in her graduation processional. The gods of motherhood were with me.

Apparently, the emergency room personnel were as tuned into the graduation issue as the EMT's had been, and raced through their examination and x-rays and paperwork so they could ship my brother and my mother off in a security van in time to see my daughter walk on stage and receive her diploma. The gods of grandmotherhood and unclehood were paying attention as well.

I won't go into the details of how I got a DC cop to order a taxi driver who had been called for another party to take me and my mom and brother back to our hotel, but I will always remember him fondly. I will also remember fondly the look on the face of the other very nice lady trying to grab the very same taxi when I told her, very politely, I thought, it was not her turn.

My brother took my mother back to New York City so that her fractured shoulder and aching right leg can be examined by "real" doctors. My mother-in-law initially claimed her brain seemed fuzzy, which led my husband to conclude that she had not been seriously hurt. She actually does seem as fine as ever. I packed my mother's suitcase for her -- under very close supervision, lest I put the cold cream in the wrong spot or fold her St. John suit incorrectly. The physical injuries had clearly not affected her obsessive need for things to be ordered and the same as they have always been.

I am worried about my mother, not only because she is hurt, but because her physical injuries are, to say the least, inconsistent with her obsessive need for things to be ordered and the same as they have always been. I am also worried about my cupcake order for brunch today; the confirmation page was in my purse, and is badly stained with coffee. My track record hasn't been stellar in the advance purchase department this weekend, and I was counting on the cupcakes for a bit of redemption.

A Bedtime Story

Kudos to my mother for coming up with the most inappropriate comment on the first day of our first-since-filing-for-divorce extended family outing. If there's one thing I can say about her, it's that she does not disappoint. Ever.

After getting the necessary business of pointing out to me everything I've ever done wrong out of the way, she got down to the necessary business of quizzing me on everything about the weekend -- no doubt looking to highlight anything I might do wrong in the near future or that might go wrong because, frankly, I deserve it. So she dove right into the sleeping arrangements, none of which interested her, of course, except for where my soon-to-be-ex spouse and I were bedding down for the next few nights.

I answered her questions as clearly and as loudly as I could, hoping to stave off any confusion or, god forbid, follow-up questions. Yeah right. When I explained -- as curtly as possible, which is extremely curtly, since that's how I routinely deal with my mother -- that I was sharing a room with our daughter and he was sharing a room with our son -- her face scrunched immediately into the dreaded "I don't really need clarification but here's a chance to rile my ungrateful daughter up" look.

"You mean you and he are not sleeping together?" She seemed incredulous, although I'm pretty sure she is aware of our current situation.

"No mom, we are not." I was proud of myself for rejecting my initial, knee jerk response, which, naturally, would have been "what the fuck is wrong with you???" After all, it's rude to answer a question with a question.

"Well why not?" I was rendered speechless. Well, for a few moments, until I took advantage of her deafness to rattle off every expletive I could think of.

But this is new territory for all of us, and sometimes it's just tough to navigate. Maybe I'm being too harsh. Yeah right.

Flight Risks

I'm a bit forgetful these days. I go upstairs to retrieve reading glasses and come downstairs completely baffled about why I made the trip and why my hands are empty. I stare into the refrigerator wondering what it was I craved, until I finally realize I was looking for my shoes. Aging can be a bitch.

Don't tell anyone, but my dementia seems to have reached a new level. Apparently, I forgot to book my flight to Washington for my daughter's graduation. Yes, we arrived at the airport yesterday to discover that my husband and my son indeed had seats, but my daughter and I were nowhere to be found. Well, we were standing right there, but you know what I mean.

The ticket agent tapped away furiously at the keys on the mysterious computer in front of her, and for the first time ever I was pretty certain it wasn't just gibberish -- she was seriously looking for our reservations. If only I had the email confirmation with me, but alas, all I had with me was the confirmation of my cupcake order for Sunday's brunch. Hmm, come to think of it, I don't remember seeing an email confirmation for my flights.

Luckily, for a mere small fortune, we were able to snag seats on the flight, made it through security without any of us being molested, and set to work looking for more modestly priced flights home. The good news is we found some. Unfortunately, we have to fly through Atlanta (we might as well have a layover in Mars), but we should arrive home in time for my daughter to start her homework at midnight.

I am guarding my cupcake confirmation with my life. Forgetting to book flights is one thing, but brunch without the cupcakes would really be a disaster.

Commencement Exercises

I played tennis with my son the other day. It was his idea. It's been two years since he last picked up a racquet, which certainly must have made tennis with his old mom a bit more tolerable. We kept playing, even after the bell signaling the end of our hour had sounded.

The last time I hit tennis balls with my son he was a petulant high school kid, seething with anger at anything I said or did and perfectly capable of making an outing on the tennis court a referendum on my bad parenting. This time, it was as if I had stepped out there with a peer; a far more skilled albeit rusty peer, but a friendly companion who was perfectly capable of having a good time with his old mom. Weird.

Last night, I went on an impromptu shopping trip with my youngest daughter. As we entered the mall, she put her arm around me and told me how lucky she felt to be part of our often inappropriate and obviously flawed family. Only a day earlier she had treated me as if I were unworthy of calling myself a human, and yet here she was telling me she envied kids who had to meet our family for the first time. She had just met her "boyfriend's" family and apparently, though they are perfectly polite, they don't engage in things like silly laughter and they don't allow the kids to wear caps at the dinner table (the dinner table? Wow!) and they require their kids' friends to address them as "Mr. and Mrs." She chattered away contentedly as I dragged her to the "Intimates" department so I could locate some steel reinforced undergarments that might help me squeeze into my dress for Friday night. Weird.

Today, I leave with my two younger children and my husband to fly to D.C. for our oldest daughter's college graduation (imagine the security they're going to need on that flight). Yesterday, when we chatted on the phone, my daughter and I made a pact to not let anything or anybody -- particularly anybody of the male persuasion -- ruin one minute of what should be a proud and momentous weekend for us both. She mentioned later how much I've helped her to get through some trying times. Weird.

We're all going through some commencement exercises this weekend. My oldest is officially entering the world of reality, or at least some version thereof. My son is following close on her heels, still safely ensconced in the unreality of college but able to appreciate simple fun with his mom. My youngest is snapping out of her bitter and aggressive teenage funks more quickly, and is happily reflecting on how blessed she is to be a part of a family that can be, sometimes, rather overtly fucked up. And my husband and I, well, we're getting along and, as far as I know, neither one of us has an ice pick stashed in a carry-on.

Let the new era begin.

Arnold the Pig

Has anybody ever seen Arnold Ziffel, the pet pig from the 1960's sitcom Green Acres, and Arnold Schwarzenegger together in the same room? I think not. Hmm.

Both Arnolds are versatile men of disguises, boasting countless incarnations in their long careers. Arnold the Pig (and here I am referring to Ziffel) carried a lunch box in his snout to school and rose above his porcine genetics and his virtual inability to grasp the English language to become a popular and beloved figure, able to pretty much do as he pleased no matter how improbable. Like Ziffel, Schwarzenegger carried his lunch box in his snout to school (well, to the Governor's Mansion), rising above his somewhat superhuman genetics and his own virtual inability to grasp the English language to become a popular and beloved figure, able to pretty much do as he pleased no matter how improbable. Ziffel and Schwarzenegger one and the same? You tell me. Do the math.

This morning's news was filled with stories of men behaving badly. The former bodybuilder/actor/governor, as it turns out, was also the father of two. Two families, that is. Which would be totally fine had he not been married to one woman while pretending not to be the father of the other woman's child. The IMF chief went from evenings at the posh Sofitel in New York City to an evening in a cramped cell at the dreaded Rikers Island prison, accused of sexually assaulting a hotel maid. Then there's "the Donald" of course, deciding to relinquish his threatened bid for the presidency of the greatest nation on earth, choosing instead to focus on the much more important work of Celebrity Apprentice. I suppose he's not so much a man behaving badly as a man behaving like an arrogant buffoon. Ya gotta love "the Donald."

To be fair, women behave badly too. I've certainly been known to get into my share of trouble. And there are few buffoons more arrogant than Sarah Palin; let's give credit where credit is due. But Arnold the Pig (and here I refer to the ex-governor) was holding on to a pretty big and juicy secret for ten years while he held himself out to be a rather upstanding citizen-in-chief, and that's something you just don't see women getting away with too often. Ya gotta love Arnold.

When all is said and done, I very much doubt Arnold will have to spend the rest of his days with a big scarlet "A" emblazoned on his massive chest. He will lay low until the dust settles, and then he will just grab his lunch box in his snout and trot off to whatever lucrative opportunity is next on his list. In the immortal words of The Terminator, he'll "be back."

Birth Rights

Sunday, a young woman spent about an hour and a half in my yoga store frantically searching for clothing she didn't really need. It was a rare day off from her two year old, she explained, and she was treating herself to a shopping spree and she was, as far as I could tell, going to enjoy it and buy stuff if it killed her.

She seemed way too young to have a baby, but that's beside the point. About halfway through her spree she took a break from all the fun to call her husband (apparently, no real babysitters were available), and, from the look on her face, I was certain the baby was dead. "He gave her cookies when she got up from her nap!" she explained, stricken. I refrained from asking her what kind, even though I was starting to fantasize about the large chocolate chip number awaiting me in my purse.

After work, I went out to dinner with my two youngest children -- the ones who regularly ate cookies for breakfast, the ones who were routinely wrapped in towels after their baths that had not been washed in extra special baby friendly detergent, the ones I entrusted with my husband or babysitters on work release programs on more than a few occasions just so I could enjoy a spree. In spite of it all, though, I got the distinct feeling, chatting with the two of them last night, that they, like their older sister, would eventually graduate from college and maybe even get a job and become productive members of society.

I worried over everything with my first. When she was still using a pacifier at the ripe old age of one, my pediatrician had to reassure me that when she one day went off to college the only plastic she would have with her was a credit card. I was skeptical (both about college and the credit card), but I let it go. When my son was sucking his fingers so vigorously at the age of two he managed to dislodge an entire fingernail I didn't even bother calling the doctor. I was probably too busy shopping to worry about whether the nail would grow back. I checked last night; it did.

Once, on an out of town visit to my parents with my oldest daughter, I lifted her up and banged her head on a chandelier. I spent the next half hour trying to bang my own head against the same offending light fixture to determine the extent of possible brain damage (a pointless exercise as my brain was clearly beyond repair). My pediatrician advised me to sit down, shut up, and have a glass of wine. I have followed that advice many times since then, through scrapes and bruises and gashes and, yes, even a run-in with the police. It works.

When the young woman finally left -- distraught that she had only managed to buy two items -- I reassured her that her baby would be okay, that there are worse things than cookies for breakfast. And I suggested that next time she wanted to take a break, she should leave the kid with a real babysitter and she and her husband should hop in the sack and try to make baby number two, the one that will live on all things bad and probably be better off.

Jarring Discoveries

For a moment I thought Manny had been playing with fire. The other day I returned home to find what looked to be a half burned out honey colored candle sitting on my bedroom floor. Stopped dead in my tracks, I wondered where Manny had found the glass encased wax and, more disturbingly, what he had been doing with it.

To say Manny has been "acting out" over the course of the past week would be a gross understatement. He refuses to go out for a walk, insisting on staying close to home, I assume, just in case Leo shows up. He sniffs incessantly, picking up the scent of his big brother and mentor everywhere, even on the patch of grass near the street where Leo loved to go pee, just to torment me as I watched the traffic whiz by. As far as Manny is concerned, Leo's disappearance is my fault. I left with him last Sunday -- bringing in reinforcements to lift him since Leo obviously didn't want to go -- and I returned empty handed, except for his collar. Manny is determined to make me pay.

The king of snuggling is refusing to snuggle; the dog who would whimper with joy when I arrived home after a few hours just remains on his chair when I walk in, his good eye half open as he silently sneers at my arrival. No longer do I pull up to the garage to see his silly scrunched face at the window, his fat torso trembling with uncontrollable joy as he prepares to greet me at the door. Nothing. Unconditional disdain.

I've been trying to allow him to work through his anger, trying not to react. So Manny ups the ante, and does things like leave what appear to be half burnt out candles in the middle of my bedroom floor. Outlandish theories went through my head. Baffled, I hypothesized he had created some makeshift ancient shrine to Leo; I could almost imagine him barking in tongues as he chanted some indecipherable tribute to his lost best friend.

I approached the odd shrine with trepidation, lifting it up gingerly as I expected the heat of the glass to burn my shaking fingers. Shrine, my ass. It was a half empty jar of peanut butter, the label peeled off, the lid nowhere in sight. The peanut butter that remained was smashed flat, as if, say, by the flattened snout and expert tongue of a mischievous puggle. After an extensive search, I found the lid on my bed, a small portion of it neatly chewed off (I still can't figure out how the wretched little creature managed to dislodge it from the jar) and a large peanut butter stain on my bedding, just for good measure.

Manny sat downstairs doing his best innocent dog imitation, which may have worked had I not noticed a small glob of peanut butter stuck in his left nostril. In a way, I'm glad Manny got up off his perch to do some damage, to make some noise. He may be playing with fire, but sometimes that's what you have to do when you've been burned. Leo would be proud.

The Morning After

I've grown accustomed to spending Saturday evenings by myself in front of the television, but sometimes the good times get even better. Like on days when a friend drops off a box full of bakery fresh chocolate treats, knowing that the week has been tough. Life is good.

Now I realize some people might think it's a little pathetic to sit around all night in sweats while most self-respecting grown-ups are out eating civilized dinners and not sharing their fare with a dog, but what do they know? Here on my dog-hair-infested couch there are no crowds to fight, there is no idle conversation to engage in, I don't have to suck in my stomach, and, most significantly, I do not have to share my dessert.

Lest anyone think I'm just sitting around watching my ass spread, don't be silly! How can I watch my ass spread while I'm watching reruns? I get plenty of exercise; I left the bakery box in the other room so I had to get up every once in a while to fetch my next course. And no, my mind is not turning to mush; I am constantly analyzing the pros and cons of brownies versus cupcakes, with nuts versus without (the jury is still out on the cupcake/brownie issue, but no nuts is the clear winner in what will always be, for me, an open and shut case).

Sure, my social skills may be getting a bit rusty, but they were never very good to begin with. Anyway, Manny seems content with my company and my daughter wants to be with me quite frequently on Saturday evenings,calls me regularly -- whenever she needs a ride. I must have some appeal.

I'll no doubt awake on Sunday morning with a bit of a sugar hangover, but that's nothing a super-sized Starbucks coffee can't cure. Naturally, I'll vow never to eat another morsel of chocolate again, but my resolve will wane as the day wears on.

And all bets are off if any other friends decide to drop off a care package or two.

Martyrs and Garters

Well knock me over with a feather -- they found lots of porn at bin Laden's secret compound! And, get this: it's not the first time al-Qaida operatives have been caught red handed (or, to be sure, sticky handed) with libraries full of Internet filth. I guess even the toughest and bravest and most pious of men can't hold out for the scores of virgins who await their arrival in heaven.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. All that chatter about missiles and blowing people to smithereens and gratuitous mass destruction would no doubt get anyone's motor running. Heck, I'm even getting horny just thinking about it. Still, I must avert the mind's eye at the mere thought of what's going on under those saintly robes.

It's weird to think that monsters like Osama were actually born into human families, and even have lots of human relatives. My daughter goes to school with one of his nieces; I wonder if eccentric old Uncle bin appears in any of the family photos pinned to the bulletin board in her room. There's no indication that the girl has any terrorist leanings, but I wonder if she mourned the untimely and rather violent passing of her famous relative.

I had a weird uncle, back in the day. He wasn't a blood relative, which gives me great comfort, but that sixth sense that young children have made me certain he was bad news. I would cower at the mere sight of him. "Tell Sam to go home," I would cry when he entered our home, much to the embarrassment of my parents. They didn't like him all that much either, but he was family for goodness sake. As creepy as I knew he was, I had to suck it up and choke down my matzoh balls and brisket as if there wasn't really a psychopath in our midst.

The weird thing about all this, though, is that when I found out several years ago that he had died of a brain tumor, I was shocked and even a little bit sad. Shocked mostly because I didn't think he had much of a brain, and sad because yet another snippet of my past was gone. His wife -- my beloved aunt -- had been dead for many years by then, but somehow happy memories of holidays spent with the two of them flooded my brain. The passage of time can certainly wreak havoc with your sanity.

But back to Uncle bin. The Koran thumping fanatic liked porn, which sort of makes him seem almost normal. Did Uncle bin give rides on his knee to the kids in the compound? Did he beg one wife or another for sex when she wasn't in the mood? Did he go on chocolate binges? Did he sometimes wile away the hours watching NCIS reruns?

Maybe it's just me, but the thought of the century's most villainous creature masturbating to the beat of Ismat Does Islamabad humanizes him a bit. Icky, yes, but hey, you can't pick your relatives.

Heaven Can Weight

Imagine going into The Gap and looking for men's' jeans with a thirty-two inch waist and a four inch inseam. It's no wonder my obese puggle, Manny, can't find a thing to wear.

Neither can I, for that matter. I have to squeeze into something black tie-ish by next week, and, well, like Manny, I seem to carry my excess weight around the middle. And, as you can see from the picture, my inseam is not much longer than the height of a big fat shoe.

So we made a pact, Manny and I, to take regular walks and to eat sensibly. Or so I thought. This morning, I came downstairs to find a mutilated and quite empty bag of popcorn on the floor underneath the table on which my daughter had left it last night. Except for a few stray kernels marking a trail to Manny's favorite binging spot on the couch, I would never have believed he could betray me so early in our deal.

Frankly, I don't believe he was working alone. First of all, Manny is way too fat to have leapt up high enough to retrieve the bag of popcorn off the kitchen table. Second of all, there was a full bag of faux bacon dog treats right next to the popcorn, and there is no way Manny would have chosen to munch on low calorie "Skinny Pop" when a veritable jackpot lay a mere two inches to the left. No way.

Since Leo's passing several days ago, there have been several occasions on which I am certain he has come for a visit -- just to check on us. I've heard his toenails clicking on the wood floors downstairs. I've heard him barking in the yard in the middle of the night. I've even tripped on him several times when climbing onto the landing that was his favorite resting spot. It doesn't surprise me at all, then, that last night he visited with Manny, his partner in crime, the original criminal mastermind, and retrieved some treats for him off the table. A nice gesture, complete with a predictable bit of passive aggression in his choice of "Skinny Pop" over delectable bacon treats.

I'm happy Leo is still very much with us, even if it means Manny's diet may have to be put on hold. Maybe Leo will even snarf a few of my french fries when I'm not looking so I can fit into my party dress next week. Now that's what I'd call unconditional love.

Another Beautiful Day

When I set off in my car this morning, U-2's Beautiful Day was playing on the radio. Fitting. And beautiful it is, to the extent that muggy with a threat of thunderstorms can be beautiful, which, to those of us who have been freezing our asses off all spring, it can.

It was a beautiful day in Chicago thirteen years ago when I flew back from New York City in the wee hours of the morning, having just paid my final visit to my dying father. The sky was sapphire blue, with not a cloud in sight, and the warm, soothing temperatures belied the bitter chill that ran through my body as I tried, rather unsuccessfully, to convince myself I would see my father alive again.

When two of my father's best buddies died this past year, I took solace in the notion they would all be together "up there," playing golf, perhaps, certainly kibbitzing to their hearts' content. And, three days ago, when I helped send Leo up, I took solace in the notion that my dad and Leo would finally be able to meet, maybe even share a nosh and then a good nap. Two of the kindest souls I've ever known. They would hit it off.

Both Leo and my dad waited not only until they were ready to die, but until I was ready to let them go. I won't bore anyone again with the tale of Leo's final tail wag, his way of winking at me to let me know it was okay. When I left my dad on the morning of May 11th, 1998, he lay peacefully in his bed, and offered up what would be, for me, his final smile. I arrived home, played with my youngest daughter (then just shy of two years old), took my older children out of school for lunch, went for a run, dismissed the babysitter, and sat down to call my parents.

It was as if my father had waited for my call, not so much so I could talk to him one last time but more so he could be sure I was okay. He had given me some time to regroup, to get my ducks in a row (okay, my ducks have never been in a row), and hung on until I called. He passed away while I was on the phone, my mother at his side, me telling him I loved him in his ear. He knew I would have regretted not being there at the end, and so he waited.

When I was growing up, my father would walk in the door every evening at six o'clock, without fail. I would always run to him, asking him what presents he had brought for me. It was a running joke; usually, he was empty handed, but his arrival was the only present I needed. On the day he died, he waited for me, and that was the best gift of all.

The Silver Anniversary

Today is my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. As if this week hasn't been filled with enough grief.

Twenty-five years ago, I had no idea what I wanted or what I was doing. I lived life hoping to figure out what I wanted by ruling out what I did not want. I did not want to live anymore as a subject in the kingdom of my mother, so I moved. Physically, that is; I remained a loyal subject for years. I did not want to work my ass off in a big law firm, so I left that dirty work to my soon-to-be husband. I loved him; at least I thought I did. And I did not want to risk the loneliness and uncertainty of giving life on my own a shot.

It was a beautiful day in Chicago twenty-five years ago, just as it promises to be today. That's pretty much all I remember. My wedding day, mostly a blur, seemed to have had very little to do with me or with us. It was, at least as I saw it, about pleasing my family. It was their first trip to Chicago, the faraway place to which I had escaped less than a year earlier. It was, at least as I saw it, a day to get through as I repeatedly sought silent penance for doing this to my parents -- for marrying a Gentile and living in a place only reasonable accessible to them by air. It was a day filled with little things going wrong; I was as ill prepared to plan a wedding as anyone, and nobody had stepped in to help. What I lived for, that day, was the honeymoon. I had given precious little thought to the lifetime together that lay ahead.

The honeymoon turned out to be as inauspicious as the wedding day itself. I spent a good part of it sitting on the toilet and puking my guts up into the little bathroom garbage pail. It was as if my mother had placed a call to Montezuma to exact revenge on her behalf. We cut our trip short, scurrying back to the apartment we already shared, to begin the life we had already, in theory, begun.

Sure, we had our ups and downs, like all married couples, but through it all (with some glaring exceptions), we remained best friends and close confidantes. We knew each other better than anyone ever did or ever could -- certainly better than we knew ourselves. Still do. And we were often better together than we were as individuals, able to finish each other's thoughts and pick up where the other left off. We could actually be quite entertaining, when we wanted to be.

My mother, who has come a long way since that day twenty-five years ago, just emailed me to encourage me to do something nice for myself today. I assured her I would. No parties, to be sure, but I will celebrate all that was good, all that is good, and all that promises to be good in the future. Maybe I'll even buy myself a silver trinket. After all, we technically made it to the twenty-fifty, so someone should honor the tradition.

Twenty-five years ago I had no idea what I wanted or what I was doing. Plus ca change....

Goodbye Loyal Friend

Less than a week ago, thinking I would be putting Leo down the following morning, I wrote a post that I never published. Instead, having realized it wasn't quite yet time to let Leo go, I wrote about my change of heart. I knew full well it was only a matter of days -- and very few days, at that -- but I trusted Leo to give me a sign when he was ready.

We enjoyed five more days of Leo's smile. On day two, he joined me and Manny for a six block walk. On day three, still excited about the prospect of a walk, he joined us again. That time, he barely made it around the corner. On day four, he made it to the front stoop, plopping down to watch the world go by as Manny and I did a few laps around the front lawn.

His last hurrah occurred at about four in the morning on Mother's Day, when he alerted me with a single bark -- as he always has -- that he wished to take care of some things in the backyard. And take care of things he did: he barked at the traffic through the fence, he wandered around, sniffing to make sure all was as it should be, and, exhausted, he settled in for a brief nap on the deck. He came in when I called him, determined to walk proudly to his water bowl before he settled down with a loud thud on the family room floor, which is where he remained for the rest of the day.

He didn't bother to get up when Manny and I went for a walk. He turned his nose up at all food offerings. He tried to move a few times, but would collapse quickly on his shaky hind legs. His breathing was even but slightly labored, and his pale gums were a telltale sign of a ruptured tumor somewhere within his failing body. I imagine Leo felt like shit, but he was a Lab. He reserved any strength he had to wag his heavy tail when we would approach. The last thing Leo wanted was for any of us to feel bad.

My kind and physically strong neighbor and her son lifted Leo into the car for me, and off we went for his final journey. I laughed through my tears as the nice hospital aide presented me with all sorts of surreal decisions: cremation alone or in a group, a plain wood box or a metal urn for his ashes, did I want a clay paw print? I went with wood, oak rather than cherry, and I'm embarrassed to admit I said yes to the paw print. I saved a few pennies and went with group cremation, thinking Leo wouldn't mind the company. (There are partitions, so most of the ashes I get will probably belong to Leo.)

When I entered the room to be with Leo for his final moments, he thumped his tail, giving me one final smile. I was able to tell him how much we all loved him, and he died peacefully and with grace, just as he had lived. It was time.

In Loving Memory

Leo died peacefully this evening. We will miss him terribly.

The Wheel World

On my first Mother's Day, we took our three week old daughter to the zoo. My husband took a picture of me holding her in front of a sign that said "Small Mammals." We always had odd ways of amusing ourselves.

He told me yesterday that he spent some time with a divorcing couple, and they were nowhere near as funny as we are. Yes, we are hilarious. Just ask us. I've given some thought lately to why our marriage failed. Obviously, I've given some thought to it before, but now that the anger has abated and we can be in the same room without risk of bloodshed, I see things through a different lens. Not clearer, necessarily. Just different. For better or for worse.

Not to diminish his nastiness and emotional detachment in any way, or, for that matter, plenty of mutual disrespect and indecency, I'm beginning to realize much of my unhappiness had to do with me. Dissatisfaction with myself -- my job, my accomplishments (or lack thereof), the realization I would never be as thin as I would like. All that really important stuff. Come to think of it, if I were living with someone like that, I'd be nasty and emotionally detached as well.

The good news is he's happily involved with someone who actually seems to have a good head on her shoulders and maybe even likes herself. Yipes, she even seems to like him! I'm slowly learning to give myself a break and pursue the things that give me pleasure, and no, that does not necessarily include dating or even battery operated toys. If anything positive comes out of all this mess, it's that we have both learned from our mistakes, and we will probably do it better the next time around.

But back to Mother's Day. I know it's a Hallmark holiday, but it's a sensible one, and almost as important as my birthday. I am a mom and I still have a mom, so there is much to celebrate.

My small mammals have grown and matured, and they are, all three of them, a credit to the species. The tiny mammal I held that day twenty-two years ago is on the threshold of life, about to graduate from college and navigate her way through the large mammal kingdom. Welcome to the rat race, little one.

Rude Awakenings

My youngest daughter's good friend lost her dad yesterday. A heart attack, no warning, gone.

We are all at a loss; nobody knows how to process the news. He had seemed healthy, young, and strong when I shared a laugh with him a few days ago. Two nights ago, when I dropped his daughter off after drivers ed, I marveled, as I always do when I see her, at how beautiful and genuine her smile is. She was particularly radiant because she had just passed the test for her learner's permit and was officially on the road to, well, being on the road. Probably with her dad beside her. My daughter can't stop wondering how her friend feels about the way she said goodbye to him in the morning. Did she tell her dad she loved him? I'm pretty certain it didn't matter to him -- some things don't need to be said -- but it will always matter to her.

I suppose I'll reap some benefits from all this for a little while. I've already received a few gratuitous hugs and I love you's, and I expect my teenager will at least attempt to cut back on the grunting when I do things that annoy her, like breathe. But life will get back to normal soon, and I will just make a point of reassuring her that I love her no matter how bitchy she gets, and that I know, deep down beneath the scorn, she loves me back.

Loss of a loved one is bad enough; an untimely and shocking loss is unbearable. It reminds us all that nothing lasts forever, and we need to cherish what we have -- at least occasionally, when we're not too busy. The good news is that the pain won't last forever either, at least not in its current raw and stinging form. My daughter's friend's beautiful, contagious smile will return, in due time. But life, for her, her mom, and her sister, will never be quite the same.

Our thoughts are with them.

Un-Settlement Talks

Yesterday, I played one of my shittiest tennis match ever. I started out strong -- could almost taste a win as I moved methodically through the first few games. I was even feeling sorry for my opponent. It was, needless to say, a bit premature.

As she began to warm up and respond with some good shots of her own, I fell into my nasty old habit of playing not to lose. I was willing to settle for winning ugly, which might have made some sense had I continued to win. But I got complacent and tentative and refused to take risks, and I began to lose. Badly. The sharpness with which I had gone out onto the court disappeared, and my game turned into complete slop. I was not happy; not because I lost, but because I lost ugly.

There's a life lesson in all this somewhere, which is a good thing since I have to come up with some sage advice for my daughter and her friends when they graduate from college in a few weeks. Seriously; one of the moms is preparing cards with all the pearls of wisdom offered up by the parents. Up until yesterday, I had nothing. I was going to steal the advice my friend Cherry gave her daughter at her bat mitzvah, which was to always wear comfortable shoes. But stealing is bad, and, anyway, I'd like to offer up some advice that my daughter might actually follow.

I'm reluctant to use my tennis game as a source for profound advice, though. As much as I'd like to tell all my children that they should always play to win, that sounds a bit cut throat. Sure, playing not to lose is often a losing proposition, but the last thing I want to tell my daughter is that she should live her life as a cool, calculating, bloodless competitor.

So I think I'm going to go with "never settle." Sometimes, that will involve playing to win, but I want her to focus on her own life, her own happiness. Never settling doesn't mean you have to bring someone else down in the process. I just want to know that she will take care of herself, that she won't be afraid to take an occasional leap of faith every now and then if it will help lead her to something better than "good enough."

Ever since I changed my mind about putting Leo down to avoid some disaster that might or might not happen, I've watched Leo pull himself up by his bootstraps and not settle. He doesn't necessarily have the strength to play to win, but he senses his time here is limited, and he is going to make the best of it. Last night, he held out for two slices of pizza and three peanut butter sandwiches for dinner. It don't get any better than that! Then, we took a long walk, and every time he appeared ready to go down a little nap he revved himself up into something almost resembling a trot.

Leo is still smiling, and watching him get the most out of life makes me smile. He's not willing to settle, and if he has to go down, he's going to go down swinging. As long as he plays, he wins, and so do those of us who love him.

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Planet Fat

Distorted body images were the order of the day yesterday. One after another, customers entered the yoga apparel store and immediately complained about some particular aspect of their physique. At my wits end when a very thin and fit woman referred to herself as fat, I confessed that I was waiting for one person – just one -- to come in and not complain about her body. The delusional but wise thin woman told me I’d be waiting a long time.

As it turns out, I didn’t have to wait all that long, because a man eventually arrived, armed with a list furnished by his wife of items to purchase. I imagined she was home gazing in the mirror in disgust while he braved the racks of body hugging spandex on her behalf. There he stood, right in front of the mirror that, for me, is a non-stop horror flick, and he didn’t even glance at his reflection. He wasn’t turning blue from holding his breath and sucking in his stomach. He wasn’t self-consciously pawing at his love handles. Mysterious creature.

I’ve begun to feel like a bit of a therapist, which is ironic since I’m about as guilty as the next woman at being overly harsh about myself. Sometimes, I’m actually surprised when body woes don’t naturally lead into discussions of general worthlessness as a human being. Why not go the whole nine yards? Why be so shallow about the flaws that appear in the mirror? Don’t these women know that ugliness is way more than skin deep?

Determined to prove that I could “man up” and see something pleasing in the mirror, I vowed to try on the adorable dress that had just arrived in the shipment of new product. I was so taken with the dress I could barely focus on anything else; the line of customers hoping to be rung up lengthened, and I just continued to lovingly hang the new dresses and drool. I hid one in my size in every color, lest some greedy shopper even think about grabbing one. I closed my eyes, I fantasized, I saw myself looking like a tanned gazelle in my new summer frock.

Ah, but reality bites, and when the moment of truth arrived and I stood in front of the fitting room mirror, I was horrified. Sure, the fact that I was wearing running shoes didn’t help matters, but the dress, on me, looked nothing like it did on the hanger. I looked frumpy. I looked fat. I looked short. And, lest you think I’m shallow like the rest of them, I looked like a completely worthless human being.

But enough about me. It still pisses me off when women who have no reason to be critical about their appearance are critical about their appearance. What the heck is wrong with these people?

Ready. Or Not.

Yesterday, when I brought Leo in for his final round of chemo, I had a feeling the news would be bad. There's lethargic and there's LETHARGIC, and the sound of Leo dropping to the floor over the last few days after a rigorous ten foot stroll to his water bowl echoes in my head and makes my stomach churn.

The news was bad -- his cancer has returned with a vengeance and his liver is jam packed with bloody tumors. In the interests of full disclosure to the patient, I suppose, the oncologist brought Leo with her into the little room reserved for bad news as she explained my options. Suffering, rupture, extreme lethargy (worse, still, than LETHARGY), very little time -- those were the words ringing in my ears as I decided it was time to put Leo down. He was ready, I thought. I was ready, I thought.

Back home, after getting Leo settled back in his favorite resting spot at the top of the stairs, I went out for a drive. I didn't want him to see me crying. At some point, with tears clouding my brain, I made a u-turn in what I thought would be a futile attempt to avoid a line of unmoving traffic. As it turned out, the decision was a good one, and the road block that had caused the back up was literally lifted as I arrived back at the corner. A sign, I thought, that I should trust my instincts, and that my decision to put Leo down was the right one.

Not so much. Later in the afternoon, when I arrived home from running some errands, Leo greeted me at the door with his tail wagging and his wizened snout pressing firmly against my bag of groceries. He practically inhaled a large chunk of French bread, then literally skipped to the back door. We went outside, he ran for his tennis ball, and we played fetch. Okay, so he needed to rest between trips, but we played fetch. Even Manny seemed too shocked to try to steal the ball. Hmm.

I called the vet to explain I was not ready, mostly because Leo did not seem ready. From the beginning, I knew in my heart that Leo would let me know when it's time, and, yesterday, after hearing his imminent death sentence, Leo let me know, in no uncertain terms, that it was not yet time. There was still half a quiche in the refrigerator, waiting to be devoured. Who knows? Tomorrow there could be burgers!

When I woke this morning and checked on Leo, he interrupted his slumber briefly to thump his tail. I realized I had misinterpreted the whole traffic dilemma. It wasn't about making a right decision; it was about making the u-turn. Sometimes, it's okay to change your mind.

Wisteria Lane, Pakistan

Osama is dead, and Obama has told us that the world is a safer place. Really? Obviously he hasn't heard that my youngest daughter is starting driver's ed tonight.

Now I'm not really sure how the killing of a cowardly sociopath who has spent God knows how many months and years holed up in a comfy mansion in the middle of deep dark middle class suburban Pakistan has somehow made anyone safer, but then again I'm so wrapped up in the fear of having my daughter on the road that I'm probably not seeing things clearly. And even if I take a stand and think about the greater good (for a change) and never allow her to wield her power behind the wheel, the streets up here are decidedly still not safe as long as there are other teens enjoying their delusions of immortality in their fancy new cars. But Obama says an Osama-less world is a safer world, and Obama is a really smart and important guy, so he must know something I don't know about all the other gazillions of humanity-hating terrorists out there. Maybe their collective will to kill died when their hero got tossed into the sea.

Osama's neighbors may well have been blissfully unaware of the monster in their midst, but I'm a little bit skeptical. There must be at least one or two Pakistani suburbanites who kind of figured he was in there, and if the gossip mill there is anything like it is here, I'm guessing a few more folks got wind of their celebrity guest. Sure, my own neighborhood is full of petty white collar criminals and other miscreants, and I look the other way. But then again, I don't think any of them masterminded the slaughter of thousands of innocent people, so I don't feel all that guilty about keeping my mouth shut.

The first World Trade Center terrorists plotted their destruction from a little house around the corner from where I grew up. I walk by the little house occasionally when I return home for a visit. Other than some Arabic writing over the front door, there is no sign that anything bigger than morning prayers could have happened in there. Those guys are long gone, but I can't help but wonder about the current tenants. I'm glad we're chipping away at terrorism, one monster at a time, but let's face it, there are plenty more where those guys came from. And there are plenty of folks out there who are content to sit idly by while the real lunatics do their bidding.

I believe the world is safer, not because Osama is dead but because we have lots of top secret government agents and local law enforcers being vigilant about terrorism. My life hasn't changed as a result of the long overdue killing of Osama. I will proceed as usual, maybe fastening my seat belt just a little bit tighter when my daughter gets her permit.

Ding Dong, He's Dead

The blog will be taking a day of silence in remembrance of all those who perished on 9/11 and those who have given their lives since then in pursuit of freedom, generally, and the bastard, in particular.

Optical Illusions

Note to self: never look in the mirror only minutes after watching footage of a beautiful young woman marrying her prince. All I can say is I pity the hapless bride who had chosen the same weekend for her wedding.

Every woman should enjoy the feeling of being princess for a day, because odds are it's a once in a lifetime proposition. I'd imagine it gets old by the second or third time around. Kate will probably feel like a princess for longer than the rest of us do; if everyone continued to call me Princess Jill I'd probably live life feeling royal. But alas, given the moniker ascribed to me more often than not since my wedding day, I tend to live life feeling like a royal bitch.

As my friend so eloquently put it in a voicemail message after watching the nuptials, everything was "so fucking perfect it was disgusting." Indeed it was. But aren't all weddings that way? If only marriages were. For those of us who make it past the seven year itch, perfection is the stuff of fairy tales. And if you manage to plod along, pushing enough shit under the rug to make it to the twenty year oozing sore, perfection returns -- albeit under the guise of perfectly awful. Ironic, huh?

Well, I think we all know what happens when you let an oozing sore fester. And, so it was with my marriage, which became as numb and dead as a gangrenous limb. Which makes the pseudo perfection of the wedding day or the rockiness of the seven year itch or even the oozing twenty year sore seem like wonderful, distant memories that are impossible to recapture. Especially after you make the decision to amputate.

Back to the mirror, but not for a few days at least. There's nothing like the indelible image in your brain of a real life beautiful perfect princess to make you feel like a haggard old crone. And sometimes it's tough to know what's real, and what's an illusion.