What Price Beauty?

Back in the spring, my older daughter came home and surprised me with a gift, a spa package at Elizabeth Arden. I was thrilled. Of course, it could have been a piece of gum and I would have been thrilled, tickled by the idea that she had thought of doing something nice for me for no apparent reason at all.

The extravagant spa certificate has sat for months on my dresser, still wrapped in its enticing little red box with the white ribbon. I'd promised my daughter I would set aside time one day to enjoy all the services at once, and not just squeeze them in piecemeal. We agreed that I could make substitutions, as long as I treated myself to the special pleasure of an uninterrupted day (or half day) at the spa.

The most enticing service in the package, at the time I received it, was the massage. I had recently injured my back, and was struggling each day to limit my Advil intake to one small bottle a day. A few months down the road though, my back is fine, and I decided to forego an hour of some stranger's hands all over my body (isn't that what dating is for?) and focus on my face.

And so it was, under terrifyingly bright lights, that my spa technician -- one of the nicest ladies on the planet -- stared at my clogged pores and my wrinkles and my waning elasticity and put together a creative combination of facial treatments that would start to reverse the aging process. She even tossed in some freebies, careful to make sure whatever she did would be covered by my gift certificate. The old me would have objected; the new me accepted everything she offered. I rationalized my greediness; I have, after all, been a good tipper for years.

She cleansed, she scrubbed, she massaged, she peeled. Then there was the mysterious microdermabrasion, during which she guided some bizarre electronic implement of torture over my face, assuring me it would help to stimulate and glue the cells of my cracking cheeks back together. A promise like that is nothing to sneeze at, so I gritted my teeth and endured the excruciating pain. A trip to the dentist was starting to look appealing.

She finished me off with a collagen mask (the room was dark and I was pinned to the table with a three hundred pound warmed blanket, so I couldn't see myself, but I'm pretty sure I looked like the guy from Phantom of the Opera), and a gratuitous dose of eye cream, which made my eyes feel irritated and swollen for the rest of the day. I was sent off with a jar of miracle cream which would continue to glue together the cells on my cracking cheeks (at thirty per cent off, who could resist) and stumbled home to admire my new youthful face in my bathroom mirror. Yipes! I was as shiny as a new penny.

Oh, but shiny sounds so negative. I've chosen to think of it more as a healthy glow. And, with my new elastic face, its fissures and fault lines closing up before my very eyes, I'm thinking I'm more than ready to get out there and date, find that super nice guy who will find me so irresistible that all he'll want to do is give me that massage I passed up. Talk about getting the most bang for your buck!

The "IT" Girl

When I retrieved my daughter from "poms" practice at the high school late yesterday afternoon, she told me she had been too stressed to eat all day. Boy, was I glad I happened to have gotten dinner ready before I picked her up.

But I was distraught. When your kid tells you she's stressed, and you're someone who thinks everything is your fault, it can be devastating. I immediately rejected the idea that she might be stressed for the same reasons other fifteen year olds are stressed this time of year, with September approaching and the lazy, carefree days of summer becoming an increasingly distant memory.

So I pressed her, and, naturally, she offered up a laundry list of stresses that would cause any teenager to break out, but she included the vague "what's going on with you and dad." I heard nothing else. Talk about stress; I could feel more of my teeth starting to crack.

My therapist told me last week that I'm good at problem solving. I immediately put those skills to work. "Well you can erase that from your list of stresses. You don't need to worry about what's going on with me and dad." Pretty clever, huh? Like telling someone not to think about the pink elephant in the room.

We dropped it, to the extent I can drop anything, which means for about a nano-second. "Anything in particular bothering you?" I thought I had been so careful. No bad-mouthing, no details, no finger pointing. Same on his end.

"I just don't want to hear about it."

Oh. My therapist has also told me that kids, no matter how old they are -- even if they're married with kids of their own -- don't want to hear about mom and dad's problems. Any of it. Last week, I arrived home quite late for dinner twice because of court appearances and meetings with my attorneys downtown. I suppose I could have told her I had been at a party, but I had already been stupidly honest about the day's destination, so that wasn't an option. Both of those days, I came home drained, exhausted, and maybe just a little anxious. Knowing she already knew I had been dealing with divorce "stuff," I assured her that things were going well and dad and I were working hard to get it all done. I realize now that no news might have been more preferable, in her mind, to good news. I should have kept my mouth shut.

"Fair enough," I responded. When she says she doesn't want to hear about "it," she is by no means referring to any gory details. She is just referring to "IT." Its very existence. I get it.

I apologized to her for adding in any way to her stress, and she seemed to accept my apology. And she seemed relieved that she had said something to me, that from here on in, she wouldn't have to hear anything about IT. I could see her face lightening, her entire body relaxing, as if a great burden had been lifted. For one more day, at least, I feel confident that I will not be sued for "bad mothering," as some poor soul in Chicago recently was for failing to buy her kids good birthday presents or to put checks or cash in their birthday cards.

Just to be sure, I stopped on the way home from teaching yoga last night and bought her an oreo McFlurry. I even waited to ask for a taste until I knew she was done. We smiled, we chatted for a while, and everything, for a brief moment, seemed right with our world.

Time Shares and Time Shared

I finally had the chance -- or maybe it was the nerve -- to sit down and flip through the overstuffed blue binder my friend's daughter had given me on Saturday morning, minutes before she left for her first day at college.

The binder itself reminded me of my friend: haphazard, scattered, and filled with warmth and humor and dreams and honesty and hints of thoughts kept to itself so as not to make anyone else uncomfortable. I have a similar binder somewhere, the one we were given on our first day at a writing class together in Milwaukee, a three-hour weekly class bookended by two hour and a half car rides. During the class, I had to share my friend with others; I liked the rides to and from the best, when I had her all to myself.

Barb was an immediate hit with the folks from Milwaukee, who, as creative as they all were, were somewhat unaccustomed to her special brand of brilliance -- a unique blend of self deprecating humor, insightful amusement, introspection, and more than a touch of lunacy. Within three minutes, she was everyone's pet. I was both proud to have brought her into the fold and, I admit, a bit jealous to have suddenly become simply the person responsible for bringing everyone such a magical gift.

As competent and gifted as she was, even the smallest things in life could be tough for Barb to navigate. Having struggled for years with multiple sclerosis, she was, at the time of our writing class, also struggling with breast cancer and all the special things that entailed -- overinflated and itchy implants, side effects from various medications, and, most unsettling, the constant fear of metastasis. Fears aside, she was always hopeful; she had no idea, at the time, how limited her days would be.

I flipped through the binder this morning, and found a piece she had written to share with the class. It was about a Hawaiian vacation she and her husband had taken recently to celebrate her fiftieth birthday. The descriptions were hilarious, and, to someone who knew her and her husband quite well, frightening credible. Somewhere on page two, after she alluded to the annual personal documentary of her life that "flickers on the screen of [her] closed eyelids" each year around the time of her birthday, she put on the brakes.

On the threshold of revealing some of the "indescribable joys and unthinkable sadness" of the decade that had just passed, she panicked, unable to put them in writing. Instead, she inserted a brief explanation of what she had hoped to be able to write, but could not:

(THIS HERE IS THE PART WHERE I WRITE REAL GOOD STUFF ABOUT AGING, ILLNESS & ATTEMPTS AT PERSONAL GROWTH AND SEGUE SEAMLESSLY TO THE REST OF THE STORY.)

And, as promised, she segued seamlessly to the rest of the Hawaii story, focusing on her brave and stumbling foray into the unknown world of snorkels and the ocean floor. A fearsome trip into a mysterious new place. Hmm.

I wish she could have seen her daughter on Saturday, looking all grown up and yet like a small child, at once nervous and excited as she packed up her last items and headed to a mysterious new place. She would have been so proud.

It's Just an Expression

A friend was demonstrating last night how he is physically incapable of smiling. His mouth is too compact, he explained, and it turns down at the edges.

I wasn't buying it. I've known this man for over seventeen years, and I am absolutely certain I have seen a full range of facial expressions, from deep scowls to broad smiles. But his presentation last night was convincing. He would begin with his mouth in the neutral position, and, upon my command, attempt a smile. He had a point. His lips didn't stretch very far, and he looked like my grandmother used to look when someone would snap a picture of her and tell her to say cheese. Jaw tight, teeth peeking through the small gap in the lips but looking as if they just wanted to go back inside and hide.

This was discouraging to me, to think that my friend of so many years was not possessed of a genuine smile, especially when I can't remember receiving anything that didn't appear to be a warm smiling greeting from him (well, except for the times he was clearly scowling and not very happy to see me). Have I been misreading him all this time?

Hogwash! It's not about the mouth, stupid (I say, speaking to myself, of course). If anyone has seen a baby smile, it makes sense. Babies do the whole body smile, shaking their limbs, jiggling their bellies, crinkling their eyes, stretching their chubby faces into the oddest contortions. Happiness simply radiates from every pore, but if you look at their mouths, they're not necessarily turned up at all. Most of the time, it just looks like they're trying to take a crap. But the feeling is so genuine, all we see is the upturned curve of the lips and the rows of bright teeth, even though your average baby has neither.

For some reason, we were talking about Batman during the whole smile discussion, and the wildly upturned lips of the evil and dastardly Joker sprung to mind. Then I began thinking about the dancing teenage girls at the high school football game the other night, their toothy smiles as gorgeous and technically correct as anything, that is until the music died and it was time to return to their parents in the stands and issue the next carpooling orders.

Like I said, it's not about the mouth, stupid.

Well That Just Stinks!

There are few moments more disheartening than the one in which you realize the skunk smell is not just outside.

I've been down this road before, always at about two in the morning, always on a night when the absolute last thing I needed to be doing was waiting downstairs for the sky to start lightening and, ultimately, for the PetSmart grooming department to open. Note to self: next time Manny wants to pee in the middle of the night, let him do it on the carpet.

I started by doing what I could with what was available. I dragged Manny into the downstairs bathroom and found my emergency stash of tomato juice. After a few rinses, I couldn't decide which was worse: the skunk odor or the smell of old, warm tomato juice from a can. I'm convinced they're quite similar; no more Bloody Marys for me any time soon.

Anyone who's ever experienced the unparalleled delights of a skunked dog knows that the stench becomes so embedded in your nostrils you become certain that you yourself have been sprayed. No matter how many vanilla candles you light, no matter how many times you stick your nose near your dog's fur and think maybe it's not that bad, you're stuck with the odor for quite a while.

After the tomato juice bath, I went on line to refresh my memory as to the necessary ingredients for a plain old household deskunking concoction. Naturally, I was missing one. So, off I went to Walgreens, happy for the break from the smell of my house until one of the nasty little critters had the gall to cross the road right in front of me. I told him to move on if he knew what was good for him; next time, I'd turn the little stinker into a rug. Luckily, it was almost three in the morning by then, so I'm guessing nobody heard me yelling at a skunk. People are already wondering about me around here.

When I arrived at the checkout in Walgreens, the nice lady at the register told me I was the third person in the past hour who had appeared on an emergency skunk run. Hopefully I don't smell as bad as the stench in my nostrils would have me believe, and it was simply the cans of air freshener and the two bottles of hydrogen peroxide that clued her in.

Manny is now whimpering at the back door, desperate to go back out and play with his new friend -- the one with the really cool tricks up his sleeve. I am trying to curl up in my desk chair and catch a little nap without carrying any of the contamination to the upstairs rooms.

Naturally, I'm looking at the bright side. I had gone to bed trying to figure out which of the thousands of things I had to do in the morning before leaving town I would get done. Now I know the answer is none of them. I will simply be counting the minutes, waiting for the doors to open at PetSmart.

Transitions

It's in the natural order of things to lose a parent. Especially once we've already navigated our way through a good chunk of life, and are fully capable of living day to day without them.

My friend's dad passed away last night. I wrote about him -- and my own father -- in this space about a week ago. In the days since, my friend has traveled back and forth to Cleveland, trying her best to comfort and gain comfort from her mother and her siblings. And hoping, no doubt, to be there at the right moment, to be there holding her dad's hand when the time came. That last part didn't work out so well; she was off by a day or two. It bothers her, even though she knows it shouldn't.

I will never forget the fog I entered the moment my father died. I, like my friend, had traveled back and forth out of town, hoping to be there at the right moment. My timing was off by mere hours. I had flown back to Chicago from New York that morning, knowing I could not stay away from my young children indefinitely while I waited for the mysteries of nature to take their course, and thinking I'd still be able to see him one more time. That afternoon, he died while my mother held his hand with one of hers and, with the other, held the phone to his ear so I could tell him how much I loved him. Dumb luck that I had chosen that moment to call.

Great comforter that I am, I jumped in the car at midnight to go give my friend a hug. An I get it hug, a welcome to the club hug. "Open the fucking gate," was what I texted when I arrived at her house, annoyed that she thought it was somehow more important for her to try to get some sleep than deal with the crazed pain in the ass waiting in her driveway. But she, and another friend, had forced themselves upon me the day my father died, and it was important for me to return the favor, no matter how outrageous the hour.

We sat together briefly, talking about the inexplicable pain of losing a parent. The feeling that your roots have somehow been snipped, that your legs have been cut off at the knees. It may not be as tragic as the death of a younger person, but it is devastatingly sad and you feel like a piece of you is actually gone; you wonder how you can continue to get through life without the person who brought you here in the first place. Inevitably, you manage, but, for a long time, you feel like a lost child, no matter how old you are.

My friend will learn, as the rest of us in "the club" have, that they never really leave you. They're parents, for goodness sake. They are always available for a good chat, even if all they can do is listen.

The Measuring of a Man (and a Woman)

In my next life, I'm going to be a bailiff in family court. It's cheaper than going to the movies, and a whole lot more entertaining.

As I told my attorney when I left his office after round two with the judge yesterday, I would love to see him go to trial -- just as long as its not on my case. The pretrial was more than enough for me. There are few experiences in my life that have been anywhere near as icky as sitting on a cold, hard bench listening while people who barely know me try to convince someone else who barely knows me what my life -- at least my financial life -- should look like. What he should pay for, what I should be doing or not doing, where we should all be living, how much I should reasonably spend on food and clothing for my fifteen year old daughter. Guess I shouldn't have blown my wad on all those bras the other day.

It was my soon to be ex who finally seemed to get visibly fed up with all the line item nickel and diming. While our attorneys went at each other, he silently walked over to my side of the courtroom and we chatted amicably about how we would work out the minute details of a temporary support agreement. We probably could have ducked out for a cup of coffee, maybe even a quick nosh, and returned, unnoticed, before anyone turned around and realized the shocking violation of protocol and seating arrangements.

The judge looked like a proud parent, so happy that we were acting like two human beings in our fifties who have raised three children together and shared, well, a whole bunch of other stuff along the way (and I refer, here, not to tangible marital assets but rather to a quarter century of laughter and tears and accomplishments and disappointments, the good stuff and the bad stuff, the stuff that life is made of).

Maybe the matrimonial bar is onto something. Maybe its members know that the only way to get the litigants to get things done is to make them spectators at their own horror show. The Marital Dissolution Follies. Having your life reduced to a balance sheet, discussed by virtual strangers as if the whole thing was one arms length business transaction, well it really makes you think. Sure, getting back together is not a viable alternative, but there's gotta be a better takeaway than some stupid, arbitrary number (which, not surprisingly, seems to always fall right smack in the middle of where the two sides started).

We've both done some shitty things. People change, people grow apart, and, yes, people hurt the ones they're supposed to love. But he's the Irish Catholic guy who went ballistic when they forgot to deliver the chopped liver for our son's bris. He's the guy who delivered a eulogy at my father's funeral when I couldn't speak. And, as the judge pointed out, we have somehow managed to raise three wonderful, thriving children. Yes, we're both bitter and have managed to hate each other with such passion in the past few years it's surprising we can be in a room together. It's complicated. But how do you measure any of that with a simple arithmetic equation, a regular old balance sheet, prepared by someone else, no less.

As if the experience wasn't sufficiently surreal and nauseating, we ended the pretrial with the court reporter asking each of us -- just as a formality -- to raise our right hands and swear everything we had said in court that day was the truth. "I do," we both said in unison. Isn't that the simple phrase that got us into the mess we're now trying desperately to get out of? My soon to be ex and I avoided looking at each other, for fear of cracking up (at least on my end). I decided yelling mazel tov and breaking into a hora would not be appropriate. Sometimes I can be really good at reading situations.

I'd like to think that maybe it's not so interesting after all, day in and day out, for the bailiff. The guy who no doubt makes a lot less money than a lot of the folks entering his courtroom, and who can't figure out for the life of him what these people are all bitching about. Entertaining? Possibly. But I'm guessing it's just sad.

Solid Underpinnings

Sometimes, it's just all about the bra.

Yesterday, my daughter and I went shopping for some new ones so that she could start her sophomore year in high school in style. She tried to convince me to get myself a few -- maybe something a little less faded and stretched out than my usual fare. Ooh, they were pretty and soft, and they came in so many tantalizing colors. But I resisted. Some things just have to be left, well, hanging while I sort through the rest of my budgetary woes.

My mother has always understood the importance of a good bra, and, unlike me, doesn't wear hers until they take on a life all their own. When I emailed her to find out whether she had survived (or even noticed) the earthquake that rattled some New York City windows, she was dismissive. Sure, she had heard some noises (probably the nonfunctional hearing aid that often beeps incessantly in her ear) and did see a dresser drawer fly open, but she really didn't feel any shaking. Of course, when we were in a car accident in May during which she broke her pelvis, her shoulder, and some ribs, she didn't notice we were actually hit; she thought we had just swerved. Alrighty, then.

Diminished powers of observation aside, my mother is one shrewd cookie. When there's a disaster of any kind, or the threat of one, my mom is prepared. She has always kept some fancy nightgowns packed and ready in case she needs to be rushed to the hospital. She always carries an umbrella. She takes two sets of car keys with her (so that, as far as I can tell, she can lock both of them in the car together.) And, yesterday, knowing full well there could be aftershocks, she had a foolproof disaster plan in place. "I usually take my bra off when I'm in for the day," she emailed. "I'm keeping it on -- ya never know!!"

Damn straight! For the sake of my mother's vanity, and, let's face it, for the sake of all the other folks in the neighborhood, taking that bra off was way too risky. The sight of a braless eighty year old woman in a St. John suit could scar one for life.

I sure wished I was wearing a brand spanking new bra this evening when I ran into someone I had dated not long ago. But no, there I was in the zit cream aisle of Walgreens, lettuce from my salad still in my teeth, my hair so greasy you could fry an egg on it, my frayed bra barely holding my boobs more than an inch off the floor. Bet he's sorry he let me get away.

From here on in, no matter how lousy a mood I'm in, I'm gonna put myself together, even if it's only for a trip to Walgreens. Like my mom says, "ya never know!!"

Reconstituting the Meat

I read an article the other day that referred to the matrimonial law system as a "psychological meat grinder." Could not have said it better myself.

Ironically, as our judge pointed out several times yesterday, it is a system designed to protect everyone -- not just the litigants, but their children -- and, theoretically, help folks in the midst of divorce move on as quickly as possible and put the pieces of their lives back together. Yet here we are, twenty months into a filing, still nowhere (although, when we return to court Wednesday without even so much as a temporary arrangement, I am certain anybody (ahem) who misunderstood the judge's statements will be sorely disappointed by her recommendations).

Illinois, like many states, has "no fault" divorce. It doesn't matter who had an affair, who was emotionally abusive, who was an alcoholic, who was a deserter. Everybody is entitled to extract him or herself from an unholy state of matrimony. But then there is the whole concept of equitable division of property, and here's where the court can take into account (if the parties fail to, on their own) questions of fairness and individual wrongdoing. Who was the primary breadwinner, what was the family's living standard, how will minor children best be protected. If there are financial problems, were they unavoidable or the fault of one party, and who should pay the price?

It's all very well intentioned, actually, but the judge, unfortunately, cannot force a deal, cannot stop the parties from forging ahead to a trial, paying astronomical fees that will further deplete the marital estate. I, personally, am taking it on faith that my husband, like me, wants to move on, and that our lawyers are sufficiently ethical to stop throwing good money away. Only time will tell.

Experts have long debated whether divorce causes lasting psychological damage to children. In my case, at least, I think not. My kids would all agree that, as much as they love both their mother and their father, they love us best when we are apart.

It's the psychological meat grinder that causes the damage. The sniping where there was none before, the fear of getting lost in the shuffle, or the nervous anticipation of being uprooted. My kids -- even the "emancipated" or soon to be emancipated ones -- want out of the meat grinder, but are even more powerless than I am to stop what has become a runaway train.

All I can do is keep my fingers crossed. My husband and I are on the same page as far as our children are concerned. Neither one of us wishes them to suffer. The system, and the law, agrees. In theory. Sometimes you just have to pull the plug on the grinder.

Grasping for Air

Sometimes, if you ignore something long enough, it will go away. Sometimes, that's not the case.

The last time I tried to ride the death defying road bike my husband purchased for me on behalf of the kids for Mother's Day, I noticed the tires seemed a bit soft. So I dug out the compressor in the box gathering dust in the garage, and set to work fattening things up a bit. I sifted through all the various attachments, some of which looked as if they should be thrust into places with a bit more give than your average bike tire tube stem. (I was going to call it the thingy, but I looked it up so I could sound intelligent.)

I plugged the little machine into my car cigarette lighter (which seemed to make no sense but I couldn't locate a normal looking plug) and let it rip. The noise was deafening, sending Manny running back into the house, and adding to my already mounting headache. With all that racket, I figured, something must be happening, although the little needle on what I assumed to be a pressure gauge wiggled from the vibrations but appeared to go nowhere. Hmm.

Here's where the self-delusion part comes in. I ignored the seeming lack of movement of the pressure needle. I ignored the fact that my tires still seemed on the soft side, convincing myself I was simply being prudent to not overfill them. And I got away with it, finished my hour long ride without mishap. Even my back is beginning to adjust to the puzzlingly uncomfortable lean.

Yesterday morning, I decided it was time for another ride. Hmm, the tires still felt a bit on the soft side, but they had served me well days earlier, and there was no way I was starting that whole routine again with the compressor and the strange looking attachments and the car cigarette lighter. For pete's sake, I had just done that. So off I went.

Pedaling seemed a bit on the tedious side, but heck, I haven't been sleeping and I'm clearly out of shape. I shifted the gear down, and forged ahead. At least I was already on the return portion of my loop when I discovered something was amiss. That I couldn't blame the bone jarring bouncing and grinding on my lack of fitness, or even on potholes or pebbles or cracks. The road was as smooth as, well, a baby's behind, having just recently been repaved. I was riding on pure frame.

At least it was a nice day for a walk, although bike shoes are not exactly the most comfortable things to wear for a prolonged hike. I called my son, who had to drag himself out of bed (it wasn't even noon yet), locate the compressor, and come rescue me. They say two heads are better than one, and as prone as I was to imagine the tires were actually getting plumper, my son gave one of them a big squeeze and looked at me as if I had completely lost my mind. Yes, two heads are definitely better than one, particularly when one is seriously malfunctioning.

The bike is safely in the hands of the bike store professionals now, and I won't even have to be tempted by it until Tuesday, when I pick it up. It was a Mother's Day gift, damn it, and no matter how terrified I still am of being clipped in and not being able to unclip, of not being able to reach the brakes in time, of throwing my back out again from the unnatural body position it requires, I'm going to keep riding that thing as long as the weather permits. Unlike the true diehards, I will give myself a pass when the thermometer dips below seventy, so there is an end in sight to my suffering.

I suppose things don't go away if you ignore them. Although you can always delude yourself, at least for a while.

Pumping It Up

My daughter heads off today for a week long orientation before she starts her first real job in the real world. Naturally, we went shoe shopping to get her ready. Most unnaturally, we bypassed the tables full of funky sandals and leopard skin wedges and overpriced ballet slippers and settled instead around the much more serious minded displays of pumps.

I don't remember ever getting too excited about my pumps, the perennially uncomfortable bits of leather I could not wait to slip out of after a long day at work. My toes still bear the scars of the too tight vamps; I still shiver at the thought of having to ever again wear a pair.

But it's not the eighties anymore, and, as far as I can tell, these are not mommy's pumps. The nondescript black leather footwear has been relegated to the discount tables, replaced by some alien looking hot and slutty variations. Make no mistake; these are anything but CFM's. They are, rather, DFWM's (don't fuck with me's). Our daughters will wear these with poise and dignity, and the only person to whom they might cause any pain is the guy in whose crotch they land, the guy who dares to piss them off.

My daughter will pack her new pumps tomorrow, along with a few new suits that, mercifully, do not make her look like a little gray mouse trying to look like a man in a suit. Times have changed, but not completely. She is nervous, I know, and no matter how confident she appears in her new uniform and with her brand new credit card in her purse, she will feel a bit shaky, a bit off balance. She is as qualified as the next twenty-two year old to "consult" on complex business issues (and by that, I mean not at all), but it will take her at least a few weeks to realize that everybody else does not know more than she does.

I gave up my pumps and little gray mouse suits long ago, and don't really miss them. But I am excited for her, and, I admit, a bit envious; for the clothes she gets to wear, for the expense accounts she gets to run up, and, most of all, for the shoes.

Go kick some ass, my love.

Sour Pickles

"Your smile and eyes are mesmerizing. Is your inner self as well?" I could have sworn I'd cancelled all cyber dating accounts, but maybe some messages just transcend the rather pedestrian concept of membership.

I looked in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, my smile is reluctant -- in part because of circumstances, in part because of cracking teeth. It don't get any more mesmerizing than that. My online photos are deceiving. Yes, they're fairly recent, but they were taken light years before my divorce became a hideous nightmare with no end in sight. Within a few months, my eyes and smile will be so fucking mesmerizing people will find it difficult not to stare.

But this knight in shining armor had asked about my inner self. "Totally," I responded. Why not?

His next email was almost instantaneous. "Well then I want to take you for a walk on the beach you'll never forget. You definitely won't want to write about it in your blog!."

I blinked a few times, almost certain that when my eyes achieved some focus I would see psychedelic flowers painted on my wall and Jim Lange of the Dating Game standing by my side, leering at Bachelor Number 1's suggestive response and urging me on to play the game, to pursue the innuendo. Oh, Bachelor Number 1. You bet your ass I'm gonna write about it in my blog. A girl has to get her jollies somehow!

But where are my manners? The guy had been decent enough to ask about my inner self. My heart's been twisted, my brain is addled, and every muscle in my body feels sore. There must be something in there that might capture somebody's attention though. Surely the remnants of the deep fried pickles I had for lunch would be somewhat spellbinding.

I'll probably pass on the beach walk. It's not that I couldn't use some new blog material; it's just that I don't have the energy. The guy is probably better off fantasizing about a barefoot stroll with the chick in the pictures, and I'm probably better off popping a few sleeping pills and visiting the dentist.

On the Road Again

My blind puggle, Manny, still bumps into the furniture and walls that have been in the same place for the five years during which he has lived with us, but his uncanny sense of smell is an infallible GPS system when it comes to finding the dog park.

They say that the loss of one sense results in enhanced acuteness in the remaining ones, and so it is not surprising that Manny has dragged me on the mile long hike to the dog park for three days in a row without so much as making a wrong turn. (Okay, it's a straight shot, and there are no turns, so maybe I'm exaggerating his genius just a bit.) At least it's relaxing for me once we get there; no need to make my arm sore tossing a saliva drenched tennis ball to a dog who cannot see.

Like Manny, my mother has lost one of her more essential senses -- in her case, hearing. And she has done her bit to support the theory of enhanced acuteness in the remaining ones, able to locate microscopic bits of white lint on white carpet from miles away. I think she can even see through walls when it comes to that kind of thing.

But she is eighty, recovering from a variety of broken bones, and totally deaf, and is insisting on getting back behind the wheel of her car. My brother and I, though mortified, have become accustomed to her stubborn refusal to give up her car keys. Others, however, are shocked that crazy Miss Daisy is still on the road, driving herself to get her hair done while she drives the rest of us nuts. Where is Morgan Freeman when you need him?

My brother feels it's time to stop her, so I decided I'd help support him -- a united front against my mother is always a good idea -- and did some serious research. Based upon my cursory Google investigation, I discovered not only that there is no state in our country that requires a hearing test for license renewal, but also that studies have shown that even the most dire hearing impairments do not increase ones risk of having a traffic mishap. Indeed, without the ability to carry on a conversation while driving or the compulsion to constantly flip radio stations, someone like my mother is arguably more focused and attentive behind the wheel than your average Joe with all his faculties. Not the kind of findings my brother and I were hoping for. At least we've convinced her to confine herself to local driving, the kind she could do with her eyes closed and her hands tied behind her back (oy, God forbid).

Who knows. Maybe my mother will start to compensate for her lack of hearing as impressively as Manny has compensated for his lost sight. The other night, when I took Manny in the back yard to pee, he began to stalk a loud and, I must say, obnoxious cricket that was bouncing off the walls by my back door. I was sure the cricket's wings would give him an edge over an obese dog, but alas, suddenly, silence. I looked over to see Manny licking his chops, his self-satisfied tail curled way up. Somebody was in his happy place, and it definitely wasn't the cricket.

The next day, I was walking Manny as my brother and I debated on the phone what to do about my mother and her driving. Could we, in good conscience, let the DMV's lack of concern with hearing and a handful of online articles convince us to trust our mother's judgment on the issue? I did notice, in my extensive research, that Pakistan prohibits driving while deaf, but, let's face it, Pakistan is a bit on the nutty side these days; following Pakistan's advice on public safety issues would be like asking your average Hollywood couple for the secrets to a long marriage.

Meanwhile, Manny stopped to poop. Right there, at the end of his, um, business, was a fully formed cricket, hard evidence of the enhanced abilities developed by an individual who is impaired. Frankly, I was too grossed out to pick up the poop (please don't report me), but I couldn't help feeling a bit proud of Manny's accomplishments.

We've agreed to let mom keep the keys for now, and she's agreed to only drive within a rather limited local radius. Maybe I'll go visit soon so she can further hone her sense of sight as she directs me toward virtually invisible specks on the carpet. Invisible, of course, unless you're deaf. Or just a little bit nutty.

The Gentle Men's Club

My friend's father is dying. She keeps thinking she should be ready, but that's just silly. We are never ready.

I lost my own father more than thirteen years ago and I still grieve -- for all the conversations I wish we could have had, for all the joys we could have shared. In some ways, I am thankful that he doesn't have to witness what I am going through now, but I know he would have been a great source of strength and solace for me. He was a gentleman -- a true gentle man -- and though he would not have understood much of what has happened in the past couple of years, he would have supported me, without so much as one I told you so.

I met my friend's father for the first time not long after my father passed away. It was the day of his oldest daughter's funeral. It was, no doubt, the worst day of his life, yet he was welcoming and gracious, so appreciative that I had flown into town. He was so much like my own father I found myself a bit off balance. The pain I felt for this man -- this gentle man -- was overwhelming. I couldn't imagine watching my father suffer such an unspeakable loss.

Over the years, I have been lucky enough to share happier occasions with my friend's dad. Grandchildren's bar mitzvahs, star turns by his youngest Chicago grandson in local plays, and plain old relaxing visits. He and my father would have been about the same age, and I've often wondered how my dad would have fared had cancer not ravaged him when he was still so full of life.

The last time I saw my friend's father, a few months ago, he gave me a warm hug, flashed the genuine smile he has never lost, and told me to enjoy the rest of my life. It made me gasp. I told him I would see him again soon.

I am glad for my friend that she was able to enjoy her father for this long, but I grieve for her imminent loss. When men like her dad -- and mine -- are taken from us, no matter how old they are, it's always too soon.

The Luck Stops Here

In the vault. For now.

Spiraling Upward

Today I officially kick off my second season of helping high school seniors compose essays for their college applications. Last year, I had one paying (and very satisfied) customer; this year, I hope to double that. Or just raise my prices, I suppose.

I'm a little off balance today. My son has borrowed my laptop, and I have been reduced to penning the day's blog into a plain old notebook, the kind with a thick stack of lined paper bound together with a plastic spiral. At least the surroundings are familiar (Starbucks) and the company is as well (I'm only inches away from the fire chief, who initially didn't seem to recognize me without my usual equipment). But I'm fidgety -- can't seem to get myself comfortable on the couch without my trusty companion with the perfectly calibrated keyboard and the slightly smudged screen.

My old fashioned notebook has its benefits, though. There is nothing better than randomly flipping pages, serendipitously coming upon old bits of wisdom that might otherwise have long been forgotten or, worse still, moved to the trash bin. It's why I've resisted electronic books; no computer generated page turning imagery can possibly simulate the satisfying feeling of flipping haphazardly through some dog-eared bits of paper.

My spiral notebook has already afforded me several unexpected gems -- essays I've written for nobody, plans for yoga classes I've probably never taught, blog posts I've never published. And all the false starts -- pages with only two words written on them, words that seemed to hold such promise until the dreaded "block" set in. Words I most assuredly would have deleted on my laptop.

My favorite discovery was an entry that, though brief, seems to say so much: "Dear Putz." I can only guess as to who was to be the recipient of the letter that was never written, but I have my theories. Frankly, I compose a "Dear Putz" letter in my head almost daily; there is certainly no shortage of material.

When I brainstorm with my high school senior this afternoon, trying to get him to dig deep for some "out of the box" ideas for his personal essays, I will no doubt offer up a writing prompt or two from my own mental files. Or even from my trash bin. "Dear Putz" might very well make it to the lesson plan.

It's a Toss Up

A little girl came into the yoga store yesterday with her mom and sisters, and, when she thought nobody was looking, she went to a pile of purple tee shirts and methodically tossed each one on the floor.

Her secret would have been safe with me, but her older sister saw as well, and immediately reported the incident to mom. I gathered up the pile quickly, hoping mom wouldn't get the full picture of the little bit of chaos her daughter had created, and, when she appeared mortified, I assured her it was no big deal. After all, it's not as if she tried boxing with a headless mannequin, as a little boy had the other day.

Frankly, I admired the little girl. Wouldn't we all like to take piles of extraneous bullshit and dismantle them, diffuse them so they no longer affect us? I'd give anything for a little purple tee shirt toss, especially if I could walk away and let someone else clean up the mess. For a change.

I was tired last night, after a day in retail, a trip to the airport, and way too many emails from my attorney keeping me apprised of ongoing and upcoming events in the never ending divorce nightmare. My house looked as if it had withstood a tee shirt toss on a grand scale. My older daughter was visiting with her two friends from Italy; my younger daughter was battling a bit of the flu, going from couch to couch and leaving trails of socks and shoes and blankets in her wake. My son had come in from New York a few days early, making me wonder where my house guests were going to sleep.

For dinner, we picked up deep dish pizza, which I referred to as dough with tomato sauce, cheese, pepperoni and peppers on top, because there's no way you could pass this stuff off to two guys from Rome as pizza. Everybody pitched in, not wanting me to have to deal with the sudden onslaught of people and things on my own. But I really didn't mind the chaos. It was a welcome mess, allowing me, for the moment, to toss the extraneous purple tee shirts out of my mind and enjoy the simple, unexpected pleasure of food, wine, and youthful energy.

The little girl left the store in her mom's arms, and we winked at each other. Her mom was smiling and pleasant (and overly apologetic), this woman with two beautiful, healthy daughters and one beautiful daughter who sat motionless and lost in her own unexpressed thoughts, confined to a wheel chair with what I assume is some congenital and incurable disease. I can't get this young mom out of my head. Talk about someone who has had to learn how to sift through piles of shit, figure out what can be tossed and what's important.

She's already taught her little one some valuable lessons.

Loads of Love

No matter how many loads of camp laundry I get through, I will never feel I have done enough for my children. More than enough laundry, for sure; just never enough to help them sail smoothly through their days.

I am not much of a housekeeper. I'm on load number seven, somewhat of an accomplishment, but loads one through six still remain piled, like a craggy rainbow colored mountain, on top of the folding table. I'll get to it. Eventually.

Yesterday, a day after my youngest returned from camp, her body just seemed to collapse as the effects of several sleepless nights and exhausting days helping to lead her "Color Days" team to victory suddenly took their toll. Her skin is burning from two much sun, her back is aching from way too much adrenaline-inspired heavy lifting, and her voice is weak from too many shouts of encouragement and congratulations. The giddy teenager who stepped off the bus proudly carrying all the souvenirs of her team's victory is, temporarily, out of commission.

It's when the kids are down that I sometimes recall I'm not so inadequate after all. I am reminded that I certainly don't need to mark off loads of laundry on my bedpost to memorialize my own, often unsung, accomplishments as a mother. They are the things that take no effort, the "tasks" that come as naturally to me as laundry does not.

She didn't want to get out of bed, probably couldn't if she tried. So I went and got her some of her favorite soup, and delivered it to her bedside. Even at fifteen, a girl needs some mommy time. And so it was that I found myself spoon feeding tortilla soup to my daughter, her head lifting a few inches further off the pillow with each tiny offering. We chatted about everything and about nothing -- another "task" that seems to come as naturally to me as laundry does not.

She reminded me of a day, more than three years ago, when she came out of school so upset with a teacher she could not bear to get on the bus. She remembered vividly how she called me, and I showed up to pick her up, and we went somewhere (the details are fuzzy) to just sit and shoot the shit and ignore homework and anything else we had to do. "It's just the kind of thing you do for me, mom," she said. Well of course it is. Maybe it's my job, but it's a labor of love more than anything.

When she had eaten enough soup and was ready to get out of bed and join her friends on Facebook (and, yes, dispose of me), I went back downstairs to work on load number seven. For years, I have kept a picture my daughter drew when she was in nursery school taped to the laundry room door. It is a picture of a little girl lying in bed, her mom by her side. The caption (written by the teacher) says: I love my mom because she brings me hot chocolate in bed. I used to think, "that's it?" But I suppose on some level I always knew that was nothing to sneeze at. There's a reason I've kept that drawing up all these years.

Tonight, I will have a full house. My older daughter will be staying over, and my son will be arriving from New York to spend some time at home before the fall semester starts. I wish I could line them up, the three of them, and feed them spoonfuls of soup and wisdom and comfort and assure them all that everything will be okay. But I can't, and I'll try not to beat myself up about it.

At the very least, I'm going to give myself a break from the laundry.

The One That Got Away

My friend's son recently saw a lobster crossing the street. Right here in Wilmette, Illinois, about as far from an ocean as one can get. Fresh Lake Michigan lobster? I'm skeptical.

The sight stopped the young man in his tracks; mesmerized, he watched the black sea creature claw its way down the pavement, a veritable fish out of water determined to find its way. And then, the sickening crunch. The poor guy had almost gotten away, had no doubt fallen off the back of a restaurant truck filled with his brethren, all headed to a horrific death of being plunged, live, into a pot of boiling water. At least he had a taste of freedom, probably had no idea what hit him.

Lobster salad, right there on a street in Wilmette. Not the kind of lobster salad that's been sold for years by the venerable Zabar's in New York City, a lobster salad that, oops, contains no lobster at all. Wild fresh water crayfish salad is what the stuff really is, the stuff for which they've been charging $16.95 a pound. A distant cousin of Maine lobster, claims Saul Zabar, the current owner of the beloved New York institution. And, he reasoned, they'd have to charge way more if they really used Maine lobster, the cousin with true pedigree. My guess is they'd have to charge a lot less if they actually called it "wild fresh water crayfish salad." Let's call a crustacean a crustacean.

Under pressure from the Maine lobster folks, Zabar's changed the name of the salad to "seafare salad." They can probably squeeze some really distant cousins in now under that label. A few bottom feeders, some catfish, maybe a jelly fish or two. And it's Zabar's for goodness sake; $16.95 a pound is worth it, just to be seen on the street with the shopping bag.

As far as I'm concerned, though, one betrayal means there are others yet to be discovered. Is the chicken soup my mother loves from The Vinegar Factory (brother Eli Zabar's joint) really pigeon stew? Are there poor relatives lurking in other Zabar delicacies? There are people, I'm sure, who will look the other way about the lobster ruse, but for people like me, who have major trust issues, there will always be that hint of suspicion, that scintilla of doubt.

I'll never know where the lobster on the street in Wilmette came from, or where he was headed. But there's one thing I know for sure: it wasn't Zabar's.

Papa-Paparazzi

I felt like a movie star. If only I had washed my hair, been more careful with my makeup and my outfit. For a few blissful moments, I actually believed I had acquired a fan base.

There I was at our local outdoor summer music festival, enjoying a rare evening out with friends before my daughter arrives home today and I am once again on call every Friday and Saturday night for chauffeuring services. Good food, great people -- a welcome diversion from what has been a pretty stressful week.

Now I realize every guy likes nothing better than to watch a little girl on girl action, and I suppose you take what you can get when you're stuck with an over fifty crowd that has come to relive a bit of youth to the soothing sounds of Steely Dan. And so it was that I noticed, as I sat on my girlfriend's lap catching up on life, there were two men watching us intently, their iphones poised to snap some photos.

I could see the headlines now in the local rag: Blogger Jill Ocean discovers she's a lesbian. Well, we all like a little attention, even negative attention, not that being a lesbian is negative in any way. And, as a quasi public figure, I like to accommodate my fans, so I planted a big wet one on my friend's face (I was aiming for her mouth, but she turned and gave me some cheek instead). I glanced around, thinking my fans would be satisfied with the photo of the century and move on. But they looked disappointed, their iphones still at the ready. The back of my head was apparently not what they were looking for, big lesbian style smooch notwithstanding.

It was then that I realized the chief photographer (we'll call him papa-paparazzi) was my husband's old golf friend and drinking buddy. I didn't recognize the other guy (we'll call him baby-paparazzi) but he was as intent as his friend was on capturing my face in a picture. For what, I couldn't tell you.

They were persistent, papa and baby paparazzi. My friend's husband stood in front of us and tried to block their view, but every time he shifted I could see the iphones rising as the amateur photographers reveled in their good fortune. Somebody was going to have to pull a Charlie Sheen; I was beginning to find the obsessive attention a bit unnerving.

Which brings me to what this post is really about, and that is friendship. True friendship, the kind that makes people step up for you even when they really don't have to. My friend's husband grabbed his own phone, went right up to papa (who was so focused on getting a picture of me he didn't even notice) and snapped a picture of his face. Point blank. Hope the guy remembered to use his wrinkle cream.

To make a long story short, my friend's husband (I suppose he's actually my friend as well, and, to his credit, was not at all threatened or annoyed by our little show of lesbian behavior) politely asked papa and baby to move away because they were making me uncomfortable. Tails between their legs, they moved on, and their phones disappeared into their pockets. I think it was their phones. Or maybe they were just happy to have seen me.

There was nothing that could have made me smile more last night (except, maybe, the text from my neighbor's daughter telling me that my daughter had led her team to victory in "Color Days"). I have not been hung out to dry at all, at least not by everybody. There are folks out there who will stand up for me when I need a little help, go out on a limb for me because they have a clear sense of what's right and what's wrong and don't think I deserve to be going through what I'm going through.

Good riddance to papa and baby paparazzi. I've got a posse of mama and papa bears by my side, and, though nobody's captured that image on film, it's worth millions.

Hello Muddah, Redux

Tomorrow is homecoming day, the day anticipated with both delight and dread by campers and parents alike. As always, I will get to the bus stop early, barely able to carry on a coherent conversation with other parents as I crane my neck, feeling the emotion percolating and the tears forming as I imagine the moment the buses will pull in.

And I know my daughter will be craning her neck by the bus window as well, trying to spot me in the crowd and flash me her beautiful smile and offer up a big wave. For a few moments, neither one of us will be thinking about the down side; for her, the end of a carefree summer, for me, the beginning of daunting piles of laundry. I still cringe when I think of my utter failure in that department last year, when I dyed her favorite white bikini top purple and the bottom green. (Yes, I separated the laundry, but maybe not quite as methodically as I should have.)

More than ever, though, I am looking forward to my youngest daughter's return this year. She is my loyal housemate, my steadfast companion, the person who supplies structure and meaning to my occasionally unstructured and meaningless days. Together, we have made it through a year of unique challenges. Her laughter, her uncanny ability to know when I just need to have her nearby, those are the things that have helped me along. I'm not really sure what I've done for her on my end, but she seems as content with our arrangement as I am.

This summer will have been her last one as a camper. Her excited phone call the other night informing me that she had been awarded the much coveted honor of "color days" captain was enough to pull me out of the significant funk I had gotten myself into after a long day of airport delays and way to much time to contemplate my woes. Though it's still hard for me to accept that my baby is somehow old enough and experienced enough to lead half the camp in its most significant competitive event, I suspended disbelief and was so thrilled for her I was able to enjoy a full night of drug free sleep.

No matter how hard I try -- even if I remember to wash whites and colors separately -- I know I won't be able to make the transition any less rocky than it always is. I've been down this road too many times to have any illusions. I'll give it a day or two, and I'm pretty certain things between us will be back to normal -- such as it is.

To Tell the Tooth

I've received my first housewarming gift, and I haven't even moved yet. A hand carved, hand painted wood block identifying me as "queen of the double wide trailer." Damn right I am. Sometimes my friends make me downright weepy.

And sometimes, when I'm already downright weepy, my friends make it stop. With a long distance phone call from a (gasp) pay phone because there is no cell service in the wilds of Montana. With an encouraging email. With an invitation (often more of a command) to go to lunch. With an early morning visit in lieu of a planned work out just to give me some warm hugs and listen to me bitch. I'm kind of looking forward to my first dinner party in the trailer, just so I can have all my wonderful friends in one place.

As I fill up garbage bags with clothes to give away and trash to toss, I am becoming mentally prepared for a scaled down life in a trailer. I'm almost looking forward to it. There will be less room for clutter; maybe that will apply to my brain as well.

I had been concerned, for a while, about what I would do with the damn piano. The baby grand that sits in our family room, gathering dust and an occasional cluster of family photos. Years ago, my mother-in-law had somehow acquired the piano from the church where she worked, had it refurbished, and shipped it out to us in hopes that one of our children would play. They didn't. But it sure is pretty.

As luck would have it, I was recently informed that my mother-in-law wants to be sure that her son gets the piano. Guess she wants to keep it in the family. Wait, it wasn't really in the family to begin with. No matter though. I would've hated to have to cut off its legs and maybe pitch half of the ivories just to get it through the door of the double wide.

Issue resolved. Now I'm free to work out the finishing touches, which will include not only dumping lots of stuff but working on myself to make sure I blend in with the trailer crowd. I'm already off to a good start. My teeth have been cracking at an astonishing rate. My dentist attributes it to stress, and has begged me to stop being so stressed out. What a great idea! But, in the meantime, with the last crack appearing right there in my front tooth, I am ready to fit in with my new neighbors. I suppose I might have been able to use some of the extra ivories from the too large piano to help with some dental repair, but, alas, the piano must remain intact and reside somewhere more suitable.

Let's face it. You can't be queen of the double wide if you have a perfect set of choppers. Who needs all those teeth anyway? It's not as if I can afford steak. And a big black hole where your front tooth once stood makes it so much easier to slurp up spaghetti.

Clean Country Air

When I finally arrived at Ohare last night after a four hour delay in New York, things went pretty smoothly. Our gate was ready, everybody deplaned quickly, and my taxi arrived within minutes of my call.

The driver knew what town I was going to, but his guess as to the street was two blocks off and worlds away. "Country Lane?" he asked.

Country Lane? Well that just gave me a chuckle, although I was flattered that he thought me to

be well-heeled and happy enough to live on such an idyllic street. On Country Lane, the flowers are lush, the white picket fences are freshly painted, and married folks live happily ever after. On Country Lane, everyone always seems to be smiling.

"No. Laurel," I admitted, rather sheepishly. Where the houses and the people are a bit more gritty and run down. Where, whenever there's a big storm, the neighborhood's highest percentage of trees and playground equipment and fences are felled. Things just seem a bit more dispensable on Laurel, a little less precious and protected than they are on Country Lane. All I know is if I park my double wide on Laurel, the tornado will come.

My husband's attorney is insisting that I sell my house -- well, actually, it's our house -- on Laurel. As a show of good faith, she says. I'm not really sure why I need to make a show of good faith, but, then again, I'm not very astute about these kinds of complicated legal maneuvers. I'm kind of hoping the court will issue an order to someone -- anyone -- to buy our house. A sort of show of good faith by humankind in general. Folks from a more idyllic street, perhaps, so they can see how the other half lives. It ain't pretty here on Laurel most of the time, but sometimes a little adversity is good for the soul.

God willing, the sale won't take long, and my daughter and I will finally be able to move into our double wide. Maybe I'll just violate a village ordinance or two and set it up on the idyllic lane two blocks south of here. Maybe some of the bliss will rub off.

The Village People

When I emerged from the subway at West 4th Street and 6th Avenue, I came upon a large crowd gathered outside what is widely known -- at least in New York -- as "The Cage."

The Cage is a place where amateur basketball players from all over the city come to play skilled -- albeit slightly violent -- hoops. It is about as no-frills as you can get: a chain link fence, a non-regulation size court (real estate is hard to come by in New York), a background chorus of honking horns and drivers yelling obscenities, a haze of exhaust fumes, and the occasional drunk sprawled against the base of the fence, stealing a prime front row seat.

To say the least, the basketball being played in The Cage is a bit different from what I'm accustomed to seeing on the well maintained park district courts in deep dark suburbia. Let's just say I didn't notice any height challenged middle aged Jewish guys wearing knee braces and panting uncontrollably after three minutes of play. I'll leave it at that.

After watching the guys play for a while, I headed off to Washington Square Park to meet my son and daughter and a few of their friends. Again, I was struck by how this "park" in the midst of Greenwich Village is, well, a bit different from what I've grown accustomed to. Sure, there were some short Jewish guys who I am sure had knee braces concealed under their khakis, but there was, in addition, a veritable mosaic of folks from all walks of life. The downtrodden and the upscale, young and old, gay and straight, a rainbow of skin tones. Everybody looked somewhat out of place, and everybody looked as if they somehow belonged.

Ahh. The big city. Where basketball is played within the confines of a "cage," a cage that serves as much to keep the spectators outside safe from the violence and chaos within as it does to protect the seriously skilled amateurs from the violence and chaos beyond the chain link fence. Where people from across the economic and social and racial spectrum come together in a rare patch of urban greenery like stray pieces of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle and somehow fit together, despite the jagged edges.

I am at the airport now, awaiting my flight back to Chicago. The diversity in the gate area isn't quite as striking as it seemed in the Village, but I make no assumptions. I am willing to bet each person here has a unique story to tell.

Theories of Relativity

Cousins are the greatest, even when they're not yours.

Which is not to say that mine are not, truly, the greatest. Yesterday, a good chunk of my small but tight knit family converged in New York City for brunch. It was like Thanksgiving in August, with all of us sitting around a huge table eating like pigs and catching up as if no time had passed since our last gathering. I was particularly tickled at the reaction they all had when they realized I was there too (nobody had mentioned that I would be in New York City to take my mother to the doctor). It's been a long time since so many folks seemed so genuinely happy to see me. And not one of them asked me to pick up any lint.

There is much to celebrate in "the fam" these days. We went around the table clinking our mimosas to toast all the good tidings; there is a baby in the oven, a wedding in the offing, several new jobs, a startling recovery by my mom (the reigning matriarch), and, a boy I love (who I could swear was just born) is turning twenty-one. Heck, I toasted myself for just being a part of the clan, even though, at the moment, my life seems to be going to hell in a hand basket.

Yep, cousins are just a cool invention in general, no matter whom they belong to. Back home in Brooklyn, as I made my escape from my mother's barrage of orders to spend some quality time at the local Shoprite (I believe I've mentioned the Shoprite before, and it is truly one of the most unpleasant places on earth, but compared to extended periods in my mother's apartment, it's heavenly), I was waylaid by my mother's neighbor. He claims his name is Joel, but I just like to think of him as somebody's cousin. Somebody's cousin Vinny, perhaps.

"Psst. Jill. Over here." I whipped my head around. "Jill, I got the best guy for you. The best fuckin' guy out there." It wasn't just Vinny; it was Joe Pesci, in the flesh. I was sure his next line would be something about being in Ala-fuckin-bama.

Joe, Vinny, who cares? He said he had a guy for me, so he sure got my attention. As it turns out, the guy he was talking about wasn't a potential sugar daddy -- damn! Just a sleazy personal injury lawyer who would make us rich.

"Yaw mudda, she's a tough lady, she doesn't listen to me." Go figure. The presentation just screamed legitimacy and common sense. Even a deaf lady should be able to sense it.

"Dis guy, he knows his way around the courtroom." Okay, I'd prefer a guy who knows how to find a G spot, but Shoprite could wait.

"Yaw mudda, she got all them grievous injuries. And you too, you were hurt bad." Who knew? I had no idea coffee stains on my dress constituted grievous injuries.

Well, Vinny/Joe was on a roll, and by the time he finished filling me in on the killing I was about to make (let's hold off on tort reform, please) and the stash of painkillers he was willing to give me -- just because we're both somebody's cousin, I suppose -- my head was spinning so badly I started to think I really was in Ala-fuckin-bama.

Who knows? When I see the real cousins again, I could be wealthy and feeling no pain. I just might really have something to clink my glass about.

Pippa Longstocking and Some Royal Treatments

I ran into an old acquaintance at Starbucks last week. He was poring over ads in the newspaper, considering a "spa day."

"How gay," I told him, not meaning it in a bad way, since I'd take a gay man over a straight one any day. I just had a hard time imagining this guy spending the next few hours with his toes soaking in a pedicure bowl while some old lady buffed his fingernails and another prepared a vegetable peel for his face.

He handed me the newspaper. The first ad that caught my eye was:

COLLEGE GIRLS

Pigtails by Day

High Heels by Night

Ahhhh. That kind of spa day. Pippi Longstocking, meet Pippa Middleton. I searched the page, and found nothing about college boys in loin cloths fanning away hot flashes while frat guys with greased muscles pluck away chin hairs. Sometimes life is so unfair.

Come to think of it though, I'd probably feel less self-conscious with an old lady doing the fanning and a pigtailed, high heeled coed doing the plucking. I'll save the frat boys for a more tender moment, like, say, when all the lights are out and I've plied them with enough alcohol to think the facial stubble rubbing against their strong shoulders is their own.

But seriously, what would be the male equivalent of Pippi in fishnets and stilettos? Opie in super snug Wranglers? Curious George in a Speedo? The man with the yellow hat -- and I mean just the yellow hat?

Frankly, I think I'll take a good old fashioned spa day.

Going Fishin'

Hot Coco

When I head to New York this weekend, I will be spending much of my time going through my mother's medical bills and home health care bills and dealing with Medicare and the seventeen other insurance companies that all seem to have collected premiums from somebody involved in the car accident but somehow deny any responsibility for payment.

It will be a nice change, I suppose, from dealing with matrimonial attorneys who seem to be very adept at bargaining away my life while my youngest daughter's college tuition money somehow lands in their pockets. But I'm sure, like the insurance companies, they know what they're doing. Cha ching, cha ching.

I admit to having made some irrational demands in my divorce case. After all, a narcissistic bitch who singlehandedly caused the break down of what was otherwise a perfect marriage should hardly expect to spend the rest of her life living above the poverty level. I get it. My mother, on the other hand, was just minding her own business on that fateful day in May when some reckless driving caused her to break in several places. Somebody needs to pay.

And it's not just about medical care and room and board in fancy hospital rooms with spectacular river views. The biggest arguments will revolve around the high tech equipment, the various special pieces of rehabilitative apparatus without which my mother could not possibly have regained the strength in her battered skeleton. The wheel chairs that sit in her apartment taking up space; the cleverly designed walkers that so skew the delicate balance in an injured octogenarian's body that she inevitably needs a new walker to cure the collateral damage; the canes, the slings, the long stemmed shoe horns and "grabbers" (which, unfortunately, don't work on microscopic bits of lint).

Just wait until they see the claim I make for the Chanel "wallet purse" I had to purchase for my mother yesterday after receiving an emergency request via email. When she ventures out, she can't really carry the five hundred pound designer satchels she favors without further exacerbating her injuries, so she desperately needs a lightweight version that she can wear across her body. And, of course, it has to be Chanel.

"My friend had the same problem a few years ago, and she still walks around with a little Sportsac bag that she can sling over her shoulder," she told me when I called to be sure I had located the correct item. I didn't bother asking why she didn't get herself a Sportsac, but she told me anyway. "I'd rather die than be seen walking around with something so disgusting." Understandable. I can only imagine how all the old Russian ladies strolling on Ocean Parkway in their torn housecoats would talk.

I know the insurance companies are going to require proof of medical necessity, so when I take my mother to her fancy Park Avenue orthopedist on Monday I will ask him to write up a scrip for a sixteen hundred dollar Chanel "wallet purse." It will be good practice for my divorce case; I won't feel at all sheepish asking for a few extra pennies for a high end double wide.

Manny Happy Returns

When I gazed over this morning at the adorable mutt sprawled next to me in my bed, I was reminded what a lucky woman I am. Manny the puggle is adjusting to his blindness, he is exercising more, and he is -- albeit slowly -- shedding some pounds. Slowly but surely, normalcy (such as it is) returns.

It's been a rough few months for us both, ever since Leo passed away. I still get frequent pangs of loss; I can't go into the backyard without imagining an ebullient lab playing fetch, I can't look at the family room couch without imagining Leo's handsome head resting on its arm. I pass by my little Leo shrine countless times each day -- the box containing his ashes, his final paw print, the picture of him as a puppy. But I avert my gaze. It's just too painful for me to look.

Yesterday, when I was walking Manny, I ran into a neighbor I hadn't seen in a while, and she asked where Leo was. It was difficult for me to speak the words out loud. "He died," I said, after managing to untwist my tongue. But that seemed inadequate. "I put him down," I added. "In May." I was stumbling over my words, trying to find some that could do justice to Leo's heroic battle and his equally heroic passing. My neighbor was clearly mortified for having asked the question.

Almost three months have passed, and I still feel off balance when I walk Manny alone. I miss the weight of Leo's eighty pound frame, the chaos of two dogs pulling me in opposite directions. I miss Leo's deep, throaty bark; I miss the white bearded "mature" dog who never stopped being a puppy.

I grieve for Manny most of all, who never understood why I carried Leo out of the house one evening and failed to bring him back. Manny, who will happily lie down just about anywhere, except in the spot at the foot of my bed which was always reserved for Leo. Manny, whose trust in me was eroded a bit when I took away his best friend. Manny, the dog who can't see but who sure knows what's missing.

Every day, Manny and I continue to reestablish the trusting relationship we once had. My handsome mutt snuggles up just a bit closer to me each night, and, little by little, his beautiful smile is returning.

Rolling the Dice

The young gals who work at the yoga store have been planning a bachelorette weekend for a friend for months. Finally, the weekend is upon us, and I was treated to some vicarious thrills as they firmed up the arrangements.

Yesterday, they took advantage of the sluggish August retail traffic and worked on some of the finishing touches: carpools, wardrobe decisions, and -- most entertaining for me -- the gifts. The gals, all in various stages of young marriage and, in some cases, pregnancy, pooled their resources. Each of them had bags full of penis related gag gifts (pardon me for using the words "penis" and "gag" in the same sentence) that had been gathering dust since their own bachelorette parties. And there would be, of course, a penis cake, with penis shaped candles, and paper plates and cups decorated with penises. Dicks everywhere. Welcome to the real world, sister.

My favorite "gag gift" was the set of dice: one cube with cartoonish depictions of various sex positions, the other with names of various rooms in the house. Funny, the bedroom didn't make the cut. I couldn't help but think that the game of sex dice would be more appropriate for a divorce party. Granted, my memory is a bit fuzzy, but I don't recall marriage being filled with steamy days and nights spent hanging from the rafters naked. Not that divorce is, either, but my guess is those clever little cubes could certainly be a useful ice breaker for middle aged daters.

Speaking of which, I have been bombarded with ads lately for a new computer dating site, one that "services" the fifty and over crowd. The images are startlingly different from the ones I'm used to seeing in ads for the more traditional dating sites, which depict pleasant looking twenty-somethings with bedroom eyes falling instantly in love in a candlelit restaurant. The stars of the fifty plus site are overweight and wrinkled and stuffed into a roller coaster car. Like the young lovelies in the other ads, they are smiling, but I would bet those smiles have more to do with having taken a good dump that morning than the anticipation of wild sex after the date.

Unless, of course, somebody has stuffed a pair of those sex dice in the woman's purse.

Paths of Stone, Hearts of Gold

Thank God for ice cream, cases of caffeine free diet coke, and wonderful friends who know exactly when you need them.

Last night, I had a bit of a setback, a face to face brush with a painful reminder of what are still fresh and raw feelings of hurt and betrayal. What can you do? Setbacks are as much a part of life as breathing, and this one literally took my breath away. Luckily, at least for me, loyal and true friends are as much a part of life as setbacks, and a spontaneous delivery of diet cokes, ice cream, and, most importantly, a big hug, is never more than a speed dial away.

My friend's visit did much more for me than the anxiety pill I popped as soon as I could locate the pill bottle, much more than thoughts of spite and revenge ever could. Within minutes, my pulse slowed, my blood ceased to boil, and my skin stopped crawling. The four of us (my friend and I, and Ben and Jerry) didn't talk much, but it didn't take long for me to remember how full my life is of people who are loyal and true, folks who will never promise not to hurt me and do just that, who will never forsake me no matter how much of a pain in the ass I can be. I like to think I would return the favor for them, should the need ever arise.

When I was growing up, my father always cautioned me against taking the path of least resistance. I have certainly taken his advice to heart, choosing for myself a path filled with twists and ruts and felled trees, and the occasional stone that gets kicked up in my face. The journey is arduous, and it is tempting, sometimes, to retrace my steps and find a more pleasant and freshly paved road. But I've laced up the shitkickers and I stay the course, no matter how much it hurts. It's not a pretty journey, but I have to believe that, despite the setbacks, there's something good waiting for me at the other end.

My path will be strewn with lots of empty ice cream containers, lots of empty soda cans. And it will be peppered with lots of warm hugs from true friends and alive with the distant echo of my father's voice, urging me on.