The Spa-Ha Moment

Sometimes the connection is immediate; other times, it takes a while. As I waited -- and waited -- this morning for my Boingo wifi finder to do its thing, I couldn't help but think how life imitates technology. Or maybe it's the other way around.

Last night the spa had grown quiet. The Groupon guests with the one-night "cheap seats" (six to a bathroom -- ew!) had departed, and we were down to a cozy group of nine. We had all crossed each others paths over the course of the weekend -- at meals, at exercise classes, at the popcorn bowl where we gathered in the evening acting as if we hadn't been fed in months. But, like my wifi connection, we were elusive. To each other, and maybe even to ourselves.

Inevitably, Boingo, Presto, a network is found, the browser is launched. And so it was last night, as we nine holdouts arrived at that "aha moment," the moment when we became much more to each other than the three sisters, the work colleagues, the faithful friends with whom we love to escape every now and again. With one of the guests leading us, we journeyed together through a "women's writing workshop," penning brief versions of our stories and sharing them. Boingo, Presto. It suddenly became clear to all of us why we had come.

Our stories were different, our stories were very much the same. We are, all of us, at different stages of life, facing different challenges. We are, all of us, in pain but determined, and our laughter, in spite of it all, is genuine. We might forget each others names, but we will always remember each others stories.

We sat for awhile in companionable silence, lost in our own thoughts. We listened to the sounds of a summer evening in the middle of nowhere: the chirping crickets, the whispering breeze, the patter of rain on the roof. Okay, it wasn't really rain; it was an upstairs toilet, but the idea of summer rain is just so damn romantic.

Yep, sometimes the connection is immediate; other times it takes a while. But it's always out there. You just have to be patient.

Going Bananas

According to the detailed spa menu sitting on our table last night, dessert was only thirty-eight calories. Frankly, that seemed like a lot for the "frozen banana treat," which tasted like sawdust mixed with banana mashed by someones feet.

I'm still trying to figure out how they got the banana concoction to look like ice cream (such a tease), but the caloric info should have been sufficient to tip me off to the ruse. Some people will do anything for a "sweet" though, and I was amazed at how many of my fellow spa guests seemed to savor every bite of what I thought could be put to better use as bug repellent.

As you drive into the parking lot of the little spa in central Illinois, the first thing you see is a sign warning against bringing junk food of any kind onto the premises. I tucked my can of chocolate covered cashews deep within my shoulder bag, spilled out the remains of my McDonald's diet coke, and bravely made my way down the meandering path to the check-in desk. Feeling the reassuring outline through my bag of my stash of contraband treats, I was able to feign excitement at the array of raw veggies, fresh fruit, and pitchers of what appeared to be chilled urine samples on the table in the foyer.

It is six thirty in the morning now, and I am readying myself for a day of intense physical exertion and starvation. I am already dressed in my standard issue spa shorts and tee shirt, have popped my morning steroid pill and a few advils, and have shoveled in a few chocolate covered cashews to tide me over until breakfast. Unfortunately, my morning massage will require me to miss the cardio kickboxing class, but my afternoon citrus wrap will cause me to miss a snack, so we'll just call it even.

My guess is that after today's grueling activities even I will find dessert appealing. I still have a few cashews left, just in case.

Gray Areas

I took my daughter shopping yesterday to help outfit her for her first job in the real world, which begins in a few weeks. "And so begins the closet of boring," she remarked as we gathered together the tailored pieces in varying shades of dull gray.

The transformation was remarkable. The giggling little girl who walked into the store with me suddenly looked serious, like someone from whom even the best and brightest would seek advice. This could not possibly be the kid who, moments earlier, was rolling on the floor laughing as we spoke to each other in cartoonish voices and warped language; this could not possibly be the kid who was just wearing baggy gym clothes and and impulsively ordering tickets for us to attend a hokey country music concert.

Then I glanced at her toes. Yes, she was most assuredly still the child I adore, the girl who helps to keep me laughing when life doesn't seem all that funny. Her newly polished red toenails gleamed, reminding me of the pedicures we had just enjoyed (I went with bright blue), not to mention the plates full of tamales for lunch at a local Mexican joint. We had also tossed in a visit to the drug store, where we purchased six bottles of whimsically colored nail polish, just in case we find ourselves bored with our fingertips before the next trip to the salon.

Yes, her closet may be about to acquire a growing section of gray -- a sharp and, at first glance, disturbing contrast to the bright tones of her conventional wardrobe. The playful pigments and styles she prefers may indeed be squeezed into a smaller space, but they will always be there, lively reminders of who she really is and will continue to be.

The unforgiving waistbands of structured skirts may occasionally curtail her enjoyment of a plateful of lunchtime tamales, but I would venture to say there isn't a gray suit out there that will ever rein in her free spirit. As tailored as she might appear, in my mind she will always be the laughing girl with the bright red toes.

Too Much Information

My husband once told me that an expert is just somebody from out of town.

I read yesterday that experts have speculated the recent rise in suicide rates among middle aged woman may be attributed to depression, substance abuse, and sleep issues. Being from in town and all, I would have guessed it was a result of euphoria, clean living, and ten solid hours of sleep a night. Thank goodness for experts who can clear that kind of shit up for the rest of us.

Let's face it. Nobody likes a know-it-all. Just as we wouldn't expect a brain surgeon to know how to fix a heart valve, we shouldn't really expect experts in other facets of our lives to know anything about, well, anything else. We pay them top dollar to focus on one thing and one thing only. Take a favorite attorney I know, who charges lots of money for her expertise and people pay it so she must be really good at what she does. But when a judge quipped recently that she was acting like John Boehner, her response was "Who's that?" Bad enough that she's never heard the name, but, honestly, why not just nod and smile politely and fake it?

In all fairness, though, the names of politicians shouldn't matter to most of us, who have far better things to do in our busy and important lives than sit around reading newspapers or, worse still, watching silly news shows. It's not as if anything those guys do affects us.

But I digress. I'm a little concerned about this increase in suicide rates among middle aged women. I just hope depression, substance abuse (is chocolate a substance?), and sleeplessness don't guarantee that a woman of a certain age will off herself, because I could very well be toast. Just in case, though, I'm going to stay away from news reports of any kind, because I'm pretty sure an expert would tell me the news is a major contributing factor to depression, substance abuse, and sleeplessness.

Get out of town!

Some Enchanted Morning

An acquaintance asked me this morning how things are going with my divorce. I told him that nothing has changed, that things are largely out of my control. He told me I should get a hobby. Interesting advice.

At first, I got defensive. "I have plenty of hobbies," I insisted, a hint of a whine creeping into my voice.

He looked skeptical. "Why don't you train for a marathon or something?"

Or something. My body parts ache way too much to even consider the marathon, but he certainly got me to thinking. Maybe sitting on my ass eating bonbons and waiting for my life to pass out of limbo and into abject poverty and despair isn't the best hobby after all. Maybe this guy has a point.

But what's a fifty-one year old pre-menopausal woman to do? I could write a blog, but I already do that, and that's really less of a hobby than an obsession. I could take up sky diving, but I'd like my new hobby to be something a bit more challenging, something that gets the heart pounding a bit harder than it would from merely jumping out of a plane or sitting around waiting for a divorce to be finalized.

Thank goodness for Google. Within seconds, I was directed to an article about hobbies for women, a piece offering twenty-seven potential pastimes guaranteed to make me more interesting and charismatic, to take me out of my comfort zone. Honey, if this is a comfort zone, take me away.

Cooking and singing were the first two suggestions on the list. I have tried both, with little success. Jogging? Been there, done that. Yoga? Wow -- why haven't I thought of that? Candle making? Are ya kiddin me? I fast forwarded through the article, desperately seeking something that might spark my interest.

There it was, item number eleven: belly dancing. According to the hobby maven, this would help bring me "closer to my inner goddess," and "increase my feminine radiance and beauty." Best of all, it might "enchant and captivate men." Sold!

I decided to try out my new hobby at home, before wasting money on lessons. I rolled down the waistband of my sweats, tucked my torn tee shirt into my bra, turned on some music, and prepared to enchant Manny. What does it mean when a blind dog covers his eyes with his paws?

Maybe I'll train for that marathon after all.

Lukewarm Greetings

The morning had started off well. Manny slept in, giving me a little extra time to catch up on beauty sleep. No violent thunder storms had kept me up all night, and there were no obvious signs of further damage to the infrastructure of my house. I did not wake to any horrendous emails from camp about unspeakable tragedies at camp or phone calls about my mother's latest trip to the emergency room, and I am still feeling relieved from having spoken to my daughter yesterday. She is incredibly sad, but intact.

Manny and I took a relaxing walk in the early morning sunshine, and he, as is typical these days, made me proud by not barking at runners and walkers and other dogs passing by. There are a few benefits to having a blind dog. He didn't even give me the guilts when I packed up my stuff and headed to the car without him, and, though I am well aware of his propensity for spiteful behavior, I am no longer worried that I will return to piles of poop and lakes of pee on the floor.

Yep, things were looking pretty good for a Monday. Until I arrived at Starbucks, where the "B" team was running the show (and, when I say "B" team, I'm being generous). The incurably inept young man at the register was struggling to figure out how to put money on a gift card while his colleagues behind the bar seemed oblivious to the long line of customers forming. I felt a pang of momentary optimism when one of the young women came and took my order, particularly since I had my exact change ready and would, theoretically, not have to wait for the register to become free.

But the timely arrival of my grande coffee was not meant to be, as the young man struggling with the gift card sought assistance from the young woman who had been pouring my coffee. There sat my filled cup, all ready to work its magic on my sleepy bones, while the young woman tried to help the incurably inept young man. I could see it, sitting there on the counter, a thin wisp of steam escaping from the sipping hole in the lid. But the two barristas were oblivious to my plight, refusing to glance my way to notice how my blood was beginning to boil.

I waved my two dollars and eleven cents in front of their blank faces, I even announced that I was about to tender it. Nothing. The gift card continued to elude filling, and my tantalizing brew continued to steam, out of reach, as I percolated. And things had been looking so promising.

No matter how much you prepare, nobody is ever ready for the extreme hardships life tosses our way.

Life Outside the Box

Next weekend, I will be heading south with my good friend Jenny for our second annual minimal frills spa adventure in the wilds of central Illinois.

Not surprisingly, over the course of the past year, we have failed to keep in touch with the eight or nine new best friends we acquired there. Still, though, I know we met them all for a reason, and I think about their stories and the stories we created together often. We were a motley crew, a bunch of mismatched folks who viewed each other, at first, with suspicion. We made assumptions about each other and ourselves, and were all quite surprised at how wrong we were about the pertinence of our differences.

This week, I had a surprise house guest. A surprise not only because I had no idea beforehand that I would be hosting somebody, but also because I had never met the person. And, a surprise because I had such a fabulous two days with her, I actually felt a bit lost when she left.

We have already kept in touch in the twenty-four hours since her departure, and I am hopeful that this woman's startling entry into my life will turn into something more lasting than a somewhat intangible memory. The odds are in our favor. Our daughters are great friends, we both have out-of-control potty mouths, we both love avocado and goat cheese, and we both wear a size 9 shoe. The commonalities are endless.

We come from completely different backgrounds, we look completely different (except for our haircuts and our feet), and we have chosen completely different career paths (in the sense that she actually chose one). We both come from the New York area, though her experience is colored by life in the South, mine by life in the Midwest.

But we have both tried, in our adult lives, to claw our way out of the boxes in which we are expected to reside and behave, much to the dismay and embarrassment, sometimes, of our friends and relatives. Our children shake their heads at us, but seem to love us no matter what. A woman who can raise a well-adjusted daughter even after demonstrating to her and a few friends on a dill pickle how to give a good blow job deserves some credit. I can only aspire to such inappropriateness, although my kids would certainly applaud me (sheepishly) for coming close.

My new friend has returned, safe and sound, to her world, leaving me to my own devices, yet again, in mine. Thankfully, I have a generous handful of good friends here, friends who claw their way out of their own boxes and enrich my days and catch me when I start to fall. And, no doubt, Jenny and I will meet eight or nine new best friends next weekend, folks we might never see again but who will most assuredly have entered our lives for a reason.

If It Ain't Broke, You Need to Look More Closely

I think I may have a broken foot. But let's focus on what I do know. I definitely have a broken garage door.

As I lay in bed last night listening to the terrifying storms that lingered for what seemed like forever over my neighborhood, my imagination went wild with thoughts of my house being torn apart by the fierce winds and high voltage. Every crash of thunder brought with it a different horrifying scenario; I braced myself for the tree that would inevitably puncture my roof and crush me and Manny as we huddled together in my bed.

Needless to say, I was a bit incredulous when I moved slowly through all the rooms in the house this morning and found no puddles, no tree branches; all the slats in the backyard fence -- except the ones still askew from the tree that fell on them during the last storm -- seemed to be in place. Just an average morning in paradise. Hmm.

I was almost relieved when I got to the garage and realized I could not open the door. Aha -- the disaster du jour! I tried every button. I even went to the basement and checked all the fuses, though it seemed unlikely that the one responsible for the garage door would be the only one to have flipped. Frustrated as I was, I felt comforted that the crisis of the day had revealed itself, and, in the grand scheme of things, it was pretty minor.

Fear not; nothing will ever keep me from my morning Starbucks. I pulled and I pushed and I stood precariously on a kitchen stool in a futile effort to get the door to go up and stay up. Desperate times call for desperate measures; I stood a rake up on a cooler and propped the door open just high enough for me to squeeze my car out. Almost as brilliant, I must say, as my successful deciphering of the three remotes in the family room the other day to finally get a picture on the T.V. Jill Ocean, mechanical genius, master improviser, Mrs. Fixit. I am going to be of great use to myself when I finally move into that double wide.

I'm still pretty sure my foot is broken, but in the triage of my daily life, that seems like something that can wait until tomorrow.

Imperfect Vision

As I sat in Starbucks this morning complaining to my old friend about having to return to my mother's apartment to pick up some last minute lint before my flight, a horrendous email arrived from my daughter's camp. A fifteen year old boy had drowned.

It's nearly impossible to process news like that. I thought about my daughter, who is fifteen, and wondered how she and her friends are coping. I thought about the other campers, the counselors, the young lifeguards who were on the scene and, despite rigorous training, could not save him. I thought about the camp director as she had to compose the ghastly email.

And I thought about the boy's parents, who were probably somewhere near where I stood Monday, smiling and waving under an umbrella, blowing kisses as the buses departed for camp. I scrolled through my mental Rolodex, wondering if I know these people whose lives have just been shattered. But I realized that, whether I know them or not, I know them. I am just a heartbeat away from where they now find themselves, living every parent's worst nightmare. They are in my head and in my heart, a constant, painful reminder of how fragile life is.

As much as we like to think tragedies such as this will bestow upon us some sort of perspective, we are human, after all. Our thoughts inevitably return to our own little problems, for some of us more quickly than others. My mother was appropriately horrified by the news, but within a half hour she was complaining about her current condition (which, mind you, is not all that bad), moaning that the accident that put her here was totally unnecessary. Apparently, she would have preferred an accident that should have happened.

I'm a bit envious that normalcy returned so swiftly to her. As I write this, she is tapping her foot behind me, telling me the location of every piece of lint I need to pick up before I leave. Come to think of it, I'm getting annoyed, as I always do. Perspective is as elusive for me as it is for the next guy.

My mother may have 20/20 vision, but sometimes she, like the rest of us humans, doesn't always see things that clearly.

The Cawwwnah Grocery Stawww

“Ohhhh. Havawwwdi.” I had to repeat my order three times before the clerk behind the counter understood what I needed.

A visit to Brooklyn is not complete without a harrowing expedition to ShopRite, and a visit to ShopRite is not complete without an infuriating forty-five minute stint at the deli counter.

The deli counter at the ShopRite on McDonald Avenue in Brooklyn is a place where life virtually stands still, where throngs of good natured people with abrasive accents that make them sound angry no matter how broadly they smile watch, unfazed, while the young clerks slice and package in slow motion to a dissonant chorus of requests for foreign sounding delicacies like havawwwdi cheese and a quawwwtah pound of koshah turkey and a patatah knish. It makes navigating the parking lot full of cars moving backwards and forwards and, I’m almost certain, sideways, seem pleasant.

Exhausted and in a bit of pain from when I literally fell out of the taxi that took us from the hospital to my mother’s apawtment building and twisted my foot and skinned my knee, I returned to my post as lint-lifting slave. The best thing about visiting mom is the ten hours of comatose sleep I inevitably enjoy after a day of handling emergencies such as a picture frame that has mysteriously been moved an inch to the right or a gently used paper towel that needs to be disposed of – immediately -- in the incinerator room.

Today, after I drive mom to her most important therapy appointment (with the hairdresser), I will be heading to Broadway to see a show since she doesn’t want to waste her ticket. I have no idea what I’m seeing, but I’m willing to bet the matinee crowd will just be a better dressed version of my new friends at the ShopRite deli counter. And yes, I think it’s fair to call them my friends; I spent way more time with these people than your average twenty-something spends with any of her Facebook pals.

Time for breakfast (some havawwwdi on a bagel). Gawwwgeous. Just gawwwgeous.

When it Rains....

I would have killed for a close up view of some sloppy plumber butt last night.

It took me a while to muster up the nerve to venture into the basement and look for clues as to why my shower was freezing cold. As I approached the utility room, the noise sounded vaguely familiar, kind of like Niagara Falls. Yes, the hot water heater was spewing water from its every pore, creating an impressive puddle in the middle of the -- mercifully -- empty floor.

With some telephonic encouragement from a builder friend, I managed to shut off the valve and stop the flow. Things weren't so bad. I could rush to the health club in the morning to take a shower and still be home in time for my taxi to the airport so I can spend a relaxing few days visiting my mother. With hot water in her pipes, even she's starting to look good.

Having temporarily stemmed the tide, I went up to my bedroom, where I fully intended to enjoy a solid night's sleep. Manny has been boarded already (the dog lady is very strict about not doing drop-offs or pick-ups on Tuesday, so I gleefully brought him to her on Monday evening) and I was looking forward to a slumber uninterrupted by the sound of my blind dog peeing somewhere in the house. Naturally, I thought I was hallucinating when I heard the sound of running water in my bathroom, Manny's urinal of choice from the night before.

I listened for a while, and finally realized the tinkling sound was quite real, and not even Manny could keep his leg raised that long. Yes, the shower, which was now only capable of spritzing freezing cold water, was dripping. Not the kind of slow "drip drip" that, albeit annoying, can wait until morning, but a deluge that had already managed to soak the bathmat outside the shower stall.

I tried everything. I kicked the faucet repeatedly. I twisted the shower head every which way as icy water dripped all the way up my arm to my armpit and then down the front of my tee shirt. I screwed and unscrewed hardware and looked on line for instructions, only to find out that I was not, under any circumstances, supposed to use something called plumber's dope. Frankly, I don't know what's so bad about the plumber's dope, but I certainly was willing to take the risk and smoke some.

With the help of another friend, I located the water shut off valve and managed to officially rid the pipes in my house of all flowing liquid. No biggie; I was already counting on the health club for my shower, so I would just pee and brush my teeth there as well. I was low on toilet paper anyway.

Like I said, some good old fashioned plumber butt would have been a welcome sight.

Hog Heaven

A friend of mine went to a pig roast today. I settled for pasta and frozen vegetables at home. Call me crazy, but when I look at my food, I don't want it looking back.

Sometimes, humans do the darnedest things. Say, for example, taking a pig just barely out of diapers, killing it, then skewering it over a flame so everyone can watch its grinning face get burned to a crisp while its innards, presumably, melt like butter off the bone. People actually find this appetizing, and will devour the tender pork, oblivious to the pig's blind stare.

I was thinking about this bit of barbarism as I sat on my front stoop with Manny last night, listening to the trees scream their summer chorus. We could barely hear ourselves think, but that did nothing to mar the companionable silence we enjoyed, as we do on many Sunday evenings out on the front stoop.

Summer is full of simple pleasures, pig roasts notwithstanding. Yesterday, after retrieving my younger daughter at camp so she could come home for the weekend and, as far as I could tell, take a decent shower and have her laundry done, both daughters and I spent the afternoon stuffing ourselves with ice cream and fudge and french fries and laughing about the most stupid things. Bliss. Sheer bliss.

By evening, we each went our own way, which is how I ended up on the stoop with Manny. Sure, I could have gone to the pig roast, but I would have felt as uncomfortable as, well, a Jew at a pig roast, so I opted for a lazy evening with Manny and a few more nibbles of fudge.

We listened quietly as the crickets screeched, and thought to ourselves how lucky we are to be able to enjoy summer at dusk. He may be blind, and I may be a tad bit lonesome on occasion, but things could be a lot worse. Just ask the pig.

Power Outages

If fancy Manhattan orthopedists were really the supreme beings my mom thinks they are, wouldn't the prominent doctor who gave her the go ahead to run marathons have anticipated that her spine was about to break in two? So much for blind faith.

Yes, just as the mayhem of May seemed to really be behind us and mom was happily going about her business on two legs, she was struck down again, this time by a compression fracture in her spine. Whether it resulted from the strain of her accident related breaks or eighty years of normal wear and tear on her bones, it just plain sucks.

The gods (with a small "g") on the Upper East Side are scrambling to ascertain the source and remedy the problem; hopefully, they will be able to restore power to my mother faster than Commonwealth Edison has been able to restore power to deep dark suburbia. It's been five days since the latest devastating storm hit, and many folks remain without lights, without air conditioning, and, most tragically, without the use of their favorite health club.

As if I didn't have enough problems, the doors of my trusty old gym have been closed all week. Even in the wee hours of the morning, when the air outside is still cool and heat stroke is probably not that much of a concern, they won't make an exception and let the diehards in to get a quick fix. A little stretch, a few quick lifts -- what would be the harm?

Apparently, Commonwealth Edison does not grasp the situation. Desperate, endorphin starved faces are pressed against the glass doors of the dark health club each morning, and the electric company looks the other way as it misguidedly prioritizes its work on the grid. For some reason, places like doctors offices are deemed more deserving of immediate attention. And this isn't even the Upper East Side of Manhattan!

Where, mercifully, there is power, so the supreme beings there can get to work figuring out how to fix my mother. Again.

Rules of the Road

Four way stop signs need to come with instructions. Especially when they are placed mere yards from a railroad crossing with a three way stop, where cars routinely turn in front of other cars appearing over the slight blind spot of the tracks even though that means the person behind the person trying to turn becomes a sitting duck for the next train speeding through.

How many people do you know who approach a four way stop and are immediately conscious of the order in which the other three stoppers arrived. Add in the complications of right and left turns and a four way stop sign becomes an invitation to a free for all. Sometimes I think the best policy is to close your eyes and go, and hope for the best. An occasional leap of faith is a good thing, right?

Life is full of four way stop signs, crossroads that leave the already indecisive among us stymied. It's not so much about where to go -- we all have some idea of what we want and where to get it -- but when. How quickly do we take our foot of the brake and move forward? Some forge ahead, without worrying too much about the consequences. But most of us spend a lot of time waiting for a sign, a sign far less ambiguous than a four way stop, often in vain.

I sometimes envy my mother, whose "black and white" view of the world allows her to receive instructions and signs with great clarity. Sure, she may be one of those folks who wait too long at the corner (she doesn't care; she can't hear all the honking), but she has unshakable confidence in her authority figures, and she knows exactly when to pull the trigger.

Last week, when I visited her, I told her I was sure she could ditch the cumbersome walker she's been dragging around for weeks and put the full pressure of her hundred pound frame on her bad leg. The official doctor visit was still a week away, though, and she steadfastly refused to take the plunge and set her foot down, even for a moment. She was feeling absolutely no pain, mind you, but, alas, like I said, the official doctor visit (i.e. the audience with God) was still a week away.

I knew I should have stuck with pre-med. The other day, the very prominent Manhattan orthopedist in charge of monitoring the progress of my mother's elderly bones pronounced her fit to walk on both legs. Shocking. Even the physical therapist's cautionary words, that she should not ditch the walker completely yet, fell on deaf ears. Okay, well everything you say to my mother falls on deaf ears, but you know what I mean. God had spoken, and by golly, you do what God tells you to no matter how tired you get or how much you start to ache.

So mom is now hopping around like a bunny, exercising her atrophied left leg with reckless abandon. Sure, it hurts like hell by the end of the day, but the very prominent Manhattan doctor said it was okay. When you're stuck at an intersection with mere mortals (like your daughter, who gave up on medical school after her second organic chemistry exam) urging you on, you hold your ground. But when God speaks, you listen.

Brains Down the Drain

Yesterday, my entire kitchen counter seemed to shake as I dumped several Rubbermaid containers of old leftovers down the disposal. I can only imagine the tremors that resulted from the penis some angry woman in Los Angeles recently disposed of in her sink.

How angry does one have to be, I wonder, to lop off her husband's member as he comes to from a poison induced stupor, realizing he has been tied to the bed and his soon-to-be-ex wife is wielding a sharp knife in the vicinity of his crotch. I bet alimony started to look pretty good, in retrospect. Whatever he did to deserve this, I'd venture to say they are, at this point, more than even. At least they'll save on matrimonial attorneys' fees, since she'll be spending a good portion of the immediate future in jail.

If you have a close friend, as I do, who never misses a sordid news article, you'd realize, as I have, that men can be even more of a danger to their own penises than your average scorned woman who's gone off the deep end can be. Take, for example, the guy who cut off his own penis to spite his religious parents for not allowing him to marry the woman he loved. Or the genius who attached a dumbbell ring to his own penis in an effort to elongate it. It got bigger all right, swelling around the heavy metal weight to five times its normal size and, for good measure, turning black. No, I refuse to go there.

The biggest problem with the penis mutilation epidemic, I think, is the brain drain. Months ago, I wrote a post which I think contained pretty strong scientific evidence that mens' thinking centers are located in their penises. Under the best of circumstances, the synapses don't fire all that well, but is cutting it off (in essence, performing a lobotomy) really the answer? Forget about wondering how these guys will pee, or have sex; I'm worried about the frightening drop in IQ. How low can it go?

The guy in Los Angeles has nobody but himself to blame. What idiot allows the woman who is divorcing him to cook him dinner, and then, when it tastes funny, goes to bed and allows himself to fall asleep in her presence. It seems to me the loss of that brain is no great loss at all.

Dumbbell.

Paradise Lost, Paradise Gained

I fell in love with Chicago twenty-seven summers ago, and moved out here a year later.

It's hard not to fall in love with Chicago in the summertime, with the lake glistening bright blue against the backdrop of skyscrapers towering over sandy beaches crowded with folks playing hooky. In summer, it is impossible to imagine the frigid, wind whipped wasteland our city becomes in January, impossible to imagine that this urban paradise can be anything but a playground for kids of all ages.

Especially for twenty-somethings. As I strolled along the lake with my daughter yesterday in her new downtown neighborhood, I was reminded of how, when I was introduced to this place at twenty-four, it seemed as if everyone in the world was twenty-four, give or take a few years. That hasn't changed. The lakefront of Chicago's Gold Coast is still packed solid with people of that certain age, when the world is full of possibility but you're too young to see it. It doesn't take a genius, though, or even someone made wiser by age, to appreciate the moment that is summer in the second city, a moment that passes swiftly but is powerful enough to last twenty-seven years and beyond.

Over the years, as I have migrated northward, distancing myself ever further from the magical urban neighborhoods by the lake, I have often forgotten how beautiful this place can be. It's my daughter's turn now, and she seems to get how lucky she is. She seems well aware that this unencumbered phase of her life will be fleeting, and she is poised to take advantage of all Chicago has to offer. Even in winter. Sure, the lazy days at the pool in her building will become a distant memory, and runs along the beach will be temporarily forgotten, but who can beat not even having to step outside to go to Whole Foods? Winter in Chicago can be just as magical as summer, if you make the right living arrangements.

At the risk of being a royal pain in the ass, I will visit my daughter downtown often. I will enjoy the memories -- of being twenty-something at the beach, of being thirty-something with two young children in tow for a walk along the lake, of being a person lucky enough to have found a city like this. And I will enjoy watching my daughter enjoy it as she passes through the different phases of her life, creating her own memories of the city by the lake.

Woman's Best Friend

They say that dogs often take on the personalities of their owners, and I have no reason to doubt that. Take the dog around the corner, the one with absolutely no impulse control and a nasty habit of eating any morsel of food left on a counter, no matter how gross. A virtual chip off the old blockhead who owns her (and I say that with the utmost respect and affection for both of them, just in case they decide to read this).

Manny has certainly acquired some of my personality traits. Like me, he sleeps on his side, with only one pillow. Like me, he can't resist a good nosh, and will bite the fingers off of anyone who tries to get between him and his snack. And, like me, he prefers superficial, hasty butt sniffs (his version of cocktail party conversation) to deep personal entanglements, and is always happy to exchange pleasantries as long as the encounter is brief.

What worries me, these days, is that owners might take on the personalities of their dogs. This occurred to me as I lay sprawled on one end of the couch the other night while Manny lay sprawled on the other, our toes touching as he nibbled on a bone and I shoveled in a few peanut butter Snickers bars (which, if you haven't tried them, are a must for your next shopping trip). The television blared in the background, but, for me as much as for him, it was just white noise, inoffensive accompaniment to the real joys at the tips of our tongues. I won't admit to passing as much gas as he did, but I'm sure he'd point an accusing paw in my direction if asked. Frighteningly, we both stretched and shifted positions at the same time. Woof, he whispered. Oy, I whispered back.

Needless to say, when the orthopedist suggested I take prednizone for a week to help ease my lower back pain, I was horrified. "Thanks, but I'll pass," I told him. He seemed puzzled. Recalling Manny's brief experience with the same drug, I explained that I was not willing to suffer the humiliation that goes along with peeing and pooping all over the house and doubling my body weight within a week. Hmm. He still seemed puzzled. And he went to medical school and everything.

Sure, I know someone rational might tell me I'm not a dog, and my reaction to prednizone would not necessarily be the same as Manny's was. But the way things have been going lately, I'm taking no chances. A doctor friend assured me that the worst thing that would happen to me from the steroids would be a poorly timed surge in energy that would have me cleaning the house in the middle of the night. Frankly, that sounds even worse than peeing and pooping all over the place and getting fat.

My back still hurts, but no meds for this chick. I'm just going to join Manny on the floor for a little nap.

A Moving Day

Bread, salt, sugar? Or is it bread, a broom, sugar, and candles? Or maybe bread, salt, sugar, and wine?

There are a variety of theories out there as to what one should bring as a gift to a new Jewish home, and just as many theories as to why. Bread seems to be on every list, some say as a symbol of abundance and freedom from hunger. Others say it's what Russian royalty expected when they paid a visit. Whatever. Everyone loves bread. Salt, for flavor, and sugar for sweetness. Makes sense. Wine -- who cares why? Wine always makes sense.

The broom and candles came to me in an edict from my mother, who has commanded me from the mountain (okay, well, the apawtment) to bring these traditional Jewish housewarming gifts to my daughter when she moves into her new apartment today. Not surprisingly, mom offered no biblical explanation for the items, not even a reason steeped in tradition. It's just what one does, so I had better do it, and I will, because I do not want to be struck by lightning or, worse still, be badgered incessantly.

But what does one bring to the mom, the woman left behind as she launches her oldest child into the "real world?" A box of tissues? A photo album? A cleaning crew to help with the hurricane-like aftermath of the move? I'll need all of those things.

And wine. Definitely wine.

Laws of the Land

A Florida man recently admitted he knew it was wrong to try to have sex with the family dog, according to a report.

Maybe it's the humidity. In the same week, somewhere in Florida, an elderly man was arrested for riding through town, half naked, on a tricycle. He didn't actually admit he knew it was wrong, but he did admit he was too bombed to know he was half naked. Seems like a reasonable defense to me. And, oh yes, a mother who appears to have murdered her own baby was convicted of lying and sentenced to a week in prison.

Legislators in the Sunshine State have their work cut out for them. They are already off to a flying start, enacting "Caylee's Law," which would make it a felony for a parent or legal guardian to delay reporting a missing child. I think it's already a felony to kill your own child, but that gets kind of hard to prove, so I suppose prosecutors will appreciate being able to hang their hats on a good, old-fashioned technicality. And I bet parents all over Florida will think twice now about neglecting to report the disappearance of a toddler. Thank goodness we have laws.

Maybe it's not the humidity. Right here in Chicago, we have laws criminalizing behavior that most normal folks would not engage in even if it weren't deemed felonious. There is a law on the books, for example, which forbids eating in a place that is on fire. Also, it is illegal to give a dog whiskey, or to fish while sitting on a giraffe's neck. Well there go my weekend plans.

If there's one thing you can say about Americans, it's that we react swiftly. When a would-be terrorist tries to smuggle explosives onto an airplane in his shoe, we require everyone to remove their shoes before boarding. It's gonna be ugly when someone manages to sneak in something a bit more potent than baby powder in her thong. When some guy, somewhere, decides to perch on a giraffe's neck to catch some fish, well, there goes the fun for the rest of us. And when one young mother forgets to report her daughter missing for thirty-one days and the little girl ends up dead, mothers everywhere suddenly have to drop everything they're doing the minute a child disappears and tell the police. Like we don't have enough on our plates.

Should there be a law on the books in Florida making it illegal to party for a month and get happy tattoos and have blood in your trunk and information on your computer about death by chloroform while, as it turns out, your daughter lies dead in a nearby swamp? The jury's still out on that one.

I'll Have What She's Having

I'm starting to rethink my morning routine. My grande coffee at Starbucks is enjoyable, to be sure, but there just might be some more useful alternatives out there.

Yesterday morning, as I sat in the terminal at LaGuardia awaiting my flight back home to Chicago, I watched an orthodox Jewish gentleman perform the ancient (and somewhat baffling) ritual of Tefillin. Right there in the gate area crowded with business travelers and regular folks returning from brief Independence Day holidays, a middle aged bearded man in a black suit rolled up his left sleeve, exposing a pale arm that I'm guessing rarely sees the light of day (and, most likely, has never lifted a dumbbell or a kettle bell). He lovingly removed two black boxes with straps attached to them from a zippered case, and wrapped one around his exposed arm, the other around his head.

I stared, thinking it odd that in this day and age, some guys take biblical commandments so literally. Somewhere in Deuteronomy, men are instructed to bind certain covenants as a "sign on your hand and let them serve as a frontlet between your eyes." (No, I didn't know that off the top of my head; Google is more than an investigative service for potential blind dates.) Anyway, someone back in the day had no concept of "figures of speech," and decided that the only way to keep something as a frontlet between one's eyes was to tie it up there in a big black box even if it makes you look like a space alien.

Well, nobody bothered the strange looking man in the prayer shawl, although I bet if he had been wearing a turban things might have been a bit different. He rocked back and forth and chanted his prayers, as unfazed by his audience as airport security was by him. All I know is whatever he did and said seemed to work. We boarded early and swiftly, the flight was smooth and uneventful, and we landed safely in Chicago forty minutes ahead of schedule. I doubt my cup of coffee was responsible for all that good fortune.

Later in the day, I ran into an old tennis buddy at the gym, a fellow almost-divorcee, who

reported happily that she had been dating Mr. Right for about three months. She feels absolutely certain her good fortune resulted from some prayer she began to recite every morning just before the man of her dreams literally fell into her lap. It's a prayer to all the superior beings out there -- why leave any stones unturned -- whether you believe in them or not. All I can tell you is she looks great, her happiness and her fulfillment seeping out of every pore. Okay, maybe it was sweat, but she sure was glowing, and, again, I'm willing to wager it wasn't just a morning cup of coffee.

Forget about other worldly, mystical powers; my daily dawn Starbucks doesn't even manage to keep me awake past ten o-clock in the morning. But that's beside the point. I need to learn to expand my horizons. My gender precludes me from reaping the benefits of the whole Tefillin thing, but there's nothing stopping me from reciting some prayer to various and sundry gods and goddesses and supreme beings -- especially if it's written in English.

I'm glistening just thinking about my new morning routine. And when Mr. Perfect falls from the sky, I'll be ready.

Carpet Bombing

Mom is still waxing nostalgic about the parade of home health aides.

"Ugh," she snorted last night as she handed me a single, tarnished teaspoon so I could toss the salad in a cereal bowl. "You wouldn't believe how they operated in my kitchen." No, I probably wouldn't, given my mother's aversion to utensils, cookware, or food with any kind of flavor.

I listened intently as she retold the general story of "those slobs" who broke or soiled everything in the apawtment. I feigned sympathy, and when her attention turned to draining the hot pot of spaghetti by holding it with a rubber glove (her version of a pot holder) over a miniature strainer in the sink, I got down to the more important business of protecting myself from certain death.

I located the carpet stain remover I had purchased (thankfully) the other day, unrolled a thick wad of paper towels, and scurried into the living room where I had just knocked over my glass of bright pink Dr. Brown's black cherry soda on her white carpet. Knowing I would at least get a warning signal from the sound of her walker crashing against the cabinets as she squeezed her way out of the galley kitchen, I sprayed and blotted and sprayed and blotted with reckless abandon until the footprint sized stain had faded to a wet, pale pink. And I prayed.

Soon she would be returning to her chair, and naturally the spill was right there at its base, only inches away from the Louis Vuitton satchel she keeps right there on the floor so she can have immediate access to whatever the heck she keeps in there. "This pocketbook has been a lifesaver," she told me only a few hours earlier. I was still trying to figure out what she meant by that, but I was also thinking that damn purse could be my lifesaver if I just plunked it down on top of the spill. But this is a woman whose happiness depends on knowing everything is exactly where it should be -- meaning either where it always has been or where she has decided to put it. Not a centimeter off. I was screwed.

She must have assumed I was excited about seeing the fireworks from the balcony, so anxious was I for the sun to set and the light to dim in the living room. She eventually made her way back to the chair, so I considered sitting right there on the floor and waiting for her to settle in so I could rub her feet until it gets dark. Damn summer solstice.

I should have left well enough alone. Last night, she didn't notice a thing. This morning, it was all I could see, so I attacked the stain again with reckless abandon and, naturally, it looks even worse. If there's no post tomorrow, at least you'll know why.

A Toast to the Posts

What better way to celebrate Independence Day than with a full set of new bedding? That was how it all began, one year ago, my blogging journey. Some people buy fireworks, some people gather with friends to overeat and drink, the only reminder of why they are doing this a cupcake with red, white, and blue frosting. I chose to commemorate the occasion solo, unceremoniously tossing my sixteen-year-old bedding in the garbage, lovingly replacing it with soft, plush, and well-priced (when you’re going through a divorce you have to factor that in) bedding that looks, feels, and smells nothing like its predecessor. No history – bad or good.

When I first conjured up "A Narcissist's Tale," I was angry, bitter, and maybe a bit lonely. I've learned a lot over the course of a year, and the anger and bitterness have abated. Sure, I'm still lonely on occasion, but who isn't? As I reflect on the past twelve months, I am amazed at what has happened, and what has not. I've had one dog die, one go blind. I've watched my oldest daughter graduate from college; I've watched my son thrive and really hit his stride at a school he enjoys in a city he loves; I've watched my youngest daughter blossom as she made a seamless transition to the wonderful (and at times slightly scary) world of high school. I've been on countless disastrous dates and a handful of tolerable ones, and I've rediscovered strong friendships with people who really matter.

I have not yet made it out of the unsettling and unsettled limbo-land of marital dissolution, and sometimes feel no closer to closure than I was a year ago. But in two days, I will finally meet the woman, my husband's attorney, who had him convinced that I -- like all the other wives of her clients -- am a narcissistic bitch who ruined his life and is therefore entitled to nothing but heartache (statutory guidelines notwithstanding). We laugh about it now -- sort of; at least that's progress.

In that first blog post, I spoke of how Manny used his strong sense of smell to adjust himself to my new bedding. Little did I know, back then, that his strong sense of smell would become virtually indispensable as his eyes failed him. Little did I know, back then, that we'd be just a twosome this summer, without Leo joining us at the foot of the bed. We've both suffered loss, but we've persevered. Manny's tail is elevated again, curled up in its familiar habitual smile. If I had a tail, I think, on balance, I'd be wagging it more than I did a year ago. I hope so, anyway.

This July 4th, I'm not quite solo, and I have no plans to purchase anything that might signify my independence. I'll be spending much of it with my mother as she re-declares her own independence, gradually taking care of herself, without assistance, the way she did before the car crash six weeks ago. I'll be spending some of the day with my son, whose smile and sheer passion for life (and irrepressible cynicism) can lighten up my world better than any fireworks show. Tomorrow, my daughter will pick me up at the airport, and we'll spend the next few days preparing for her new found independence as she moves into her own apartment.

No fireworks, no overeating and overdrinking, and no new bedding this year. And no more tales of narcissism -- no matter how tongue in cheek -- with me in the title role. Just an eagle, flying solo, but not, by any stretch of the imagination, alone.

Command Performances

For some reason, after only an hour with my mom, every other word out of my mouth is some version of @#$%&. My son pointed this out to me after we made sure she was settled in for the night and escaped to have dessert and coffee somewhere sane.

Upon my arrival late in the afternoon, I spent a good hour taking orders and helping her to clean up the horrendous messes that had been made by a series of home health aides, the last of whom she had fired in time for my visit. By messes, I refer primarily to the putting away of items in wrong places. The tin foil, for example, was on the left side of the bottom shelf, and not on the top shelf in the center, where it has been stored for over fifty years.

Once I had picked up all the lint from the carpet (at least the ones Miss Bossy Pants could see with her extraordinary, superhuman vision, now enhanced even further by her loss of hearing), I went off to the local grocery store to do her shopping. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to navigate a grocery store in a not-yet-gentrified Brooklyn neighborhood, but my back was thankful for the break from lint lifting.

I arrived home with the items, including the Resolve carpet cleaner (which she examined with about as much confusion and skepticism as the box of tampons I had tossed in for myself). I am convinced the home health aides exacted revenge on their dictatorial hostess by gratuitously spreading dropperfuls of brownish liquid all over her white carpet. (Apparently, they are trained not to beat the crap out of their elderly charges, but the anger has to go somewhere.)

Anyway, before I got down to the business of stain removal – I spent at least an hour on the floor targeting spots while my mother hobbled around looking for more and shouting “what about this one over here?” -- I had to unpack the groceries under her strict supervision.

“Oh,” she moaned. “I never buy such a large milk,” she complained as she pulled the half gallon container out of the bag. “I forgot you buy in bulk.” @#$%&!!!

“No, the cheese goes on the right side!” @#$%&!!!

“Mom. Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit rigid?”

Mom is deaf, and I could tell by the way she screwed up her face she didn’t get what I said. I tried to be clearer. “You’re so @#$%& rigid!!! Still, no luck.

“R-I-G-I-D. Rigid.”

“R-I-G-I-C? Rigic?”

What the @#$%&? “Mom!!! ‘D,” not ‘C.’ RIGID! UNBENDING! TOTALLY @#$%& INFLEXIBLE!”

“Oh, ‘T’ not ‘C.’ R-I-G-I-T.” A moment of confusion, then, eureka! “Oh, R-I-G-H-T! Right. I’m right.” She seemed a bit puzzled that I, of all people, would be telling her she is right, but she was thrilled I had finally seen the light.

“Of course I'm right. Now, what about the spots near the dining room?”

@#$%&!!!

Heart Murmurs

Just when I thought I had heard everything, an email appeared in my cyber dating inbox that nearly took my breath away.

You better look for a Cardiologist because my heart stopped when I saw you, it began. Not sure whether the guy meant that in a good way or whether he had been so horrified by my picture he had suffered a coronary, I read on. I better call FedEx now, because you are the total Package. As you can imagine, my cold little heart started to do a few flutter kicks of its own when I read that bit.

Naturally, I didn't respond (though I did bask in the glow of the bullshit for a few hours), but the latest email got me to wondering why nobody pleases me. I mean, if the perfectly nice looking gentleman who tells me I'm "the total package" can't rock my boat, who the heck is ever going to be able to help me set sail? I should think it don't get any better than calls to a cardiologist and FedEx, all in the same paragraph.

My old widowed friend (we'll just call him Mr. G) gave me some insight into men last week when we went out to dinner. Mr. G has been around awhile, long enough to know that men are creatures who cannot generally be trusted but also long enough to retain a certain politeness and gallantry that younger men (and by that I mean the under-eighty set) do not possess.

There are only two kinds of men who leave their wives, he explained. First, there are the ones who are secure in the knowledge that some specific other woman is out there waiting for them to untie the marriage knot, willing to catch her philanderer in her loving arms so that his life never has to fall to pieces. Then, there are the others, the losers who didn't cheat, who wanted to stay, but got kicked out anyway. That is, the ones on the dating sites, in the bars, desperately on the prowl for someone who is herself so desperate she will fall for the most incredible lines.

Slim pickins, I should think, when you look at it that way. In all fairness, Mr. G was being a bit simplistic. There are plenty of middle aged men who have never been married, never even attempted to be beholden to anyone but themselves, and plenty of widows in their seventies and eighties who have not yet hooked up with their wives' best friends. The pool may be a cesspool, but it's certainly larger than Mr. G would suggest.

Oh, Mr. G. If only I were a few years older, I'd be putty in your hands. But I wouldn't want to give anyone a heart attack. Especially you.

Gardening for Dummies

I'm thinking maybe the cruelest months have passed.

July has been ushered in with a grand stroke of good fortune, in the form of a large chunk of my backyard tree laying lifeless beneath my family room window. The fallen tree branch doesn't appear to have taken any roof tiles with it, and there was nobody -- human or canine, at any rate -- in the yard when it fell. There don't appear to be any broken windows, and the bulk of the large tree remains robust and standing.

But here's the best part. Just the other day, my neighbor had pointed out that chunk of tree, which, as she had noticed from the vantage point of her own backyard, was dangling rather precariously over my house. I promised her (and myself) that I would get right down to business and contact a tree cutting and removal service before the dying branches snapped off and ended up in my bedroom. No need, as it turns out. The ominous skies that sent us packing last night just as the concert at Ravinia was about to start may have destroyed our fun, but that was back in June. Unbeknownst to us, as we scurried out of the park to avoid being struck by lightning, the storm was actually performing some charity work for me back home.

The list of repairs that need doing in my house before I make a killing on it and move into the snazziest double-wide in town has been growing, and last night I went to bed with my heart racing a bit as I made mental notes of all the phone calls I would have to make today. Naturally, the tree thing had made it to the top of the to-do list. After all, my track record on the good luck front has not been stellar over the last two months, and it didn't seem too far fetched to assume that it was only a matter of time -- very little time, no doubt -- that my backyard foliage would become a wrecking ball.

It looks like the stars have realigned themselves, though, now that May and June are ancient history. July promises only good things: the anniversary of my blog (an anniversary I plan to actually celebrate), a shortened to-do list, and nothing but sky, now, hanging over my house. Blue sky, with no dead tree branches or serious dark clouds. Who knows? Maybe my daughter's toilet will fix itself. And maybe, when I arrive in New York tomorrow to help my broken mother, she will be in a good mood and running sprints. Stranger things have happened.

That tree branch might just be the bearer of good tidings. And, I have to believe, good tidings can come to those who wait.