Badabing Badaboom

Move over Sopranos, there's a new family in town: the scheming Ponzis.

Where is Elliot Ness when you need him? Ruth Madoff, who is so down and out she can't even afford mascara for a television interview, must be wondering why the modern day Italian crime boss still roams free while her hubby Bernie rots in prison. Not only can't she figure out how to off herself from a New York City penthouse, but she had no idea what Bernie was talking about when he confessed to her and their sons that all their riches came from a ponzi scheme. "What's a ponzi scheme?" she reportedly asked. Really. Really?

In fairness to Ruth, she probably didn't jump immediately to unflattering ethnic stereotypes. No doubt she made a bee line for her closet -- Gucci, Pucci, Versace. Was there a Ponzi suit buried deep in the back? Maybe a long forgotten pair of pumps? A Ponzi pocketbook?(Bottomless, to be sure.) The name must have sounded at least vaguely familiar, and it would not have been unreasonable for a wealthy socialite with a massive wardrobe and what appears to be severe memory loss to assume Ponzi was some fly by night Italian designer.

As it turns out, there were plenty of skeletons in the Madoff closets, ponzi skeletons. The truth is it was all too good to be true, the clothes, the yachts, the vacations, the homes. Just as too good to be true as the returns the investors were getting from Bernie, but you don't hear anyone accusing them of knowing the truth. We've all been there; we trust until there's a reason not to, and Bernie was a great guy. There was no reason not to trust him, no reason not to just consider yourself lucky to be his friend (or his spouse, or his son).

I kind of feel sorry for Ruth, pounding the pavement in Boca, without makeup no less, in a futile search for a Ponzi boutique. Time served.

SIMple Pleasures

Subscriber Identity Module. Am I the only person who just found out what the SIM in SIM card stands for?

I pride myself on being a true inhabitant of the twenty-first century. I try my best to talk the talk. As much as I've always wanted to refer to the thingy that stores stuff in my cell phone as the TTSS card, I accept that SIM sounds better. And "subscriber identity module" is certainly a more fitting title for the tiny chip that is truly worth its weight in gold.

My cell phone died the other day, making me wonder how on earth I survived the first thirty or so years of my life without one. For a full day, without time to travel to the Device Support Center (DSC?) so a very specialized technician could confirm that my phone was indeed dead and give me another one, I was lost. Lost without the flashing red light reassuring me at regular intervals that I am sought after (even if it's usually by some retail store promoting its latest wares). Lost without the ability to call someone when I was, actually, lost in the car. Lost without all those phone numbers and email addresses stored in that precious little module thingy.

That night, I panicked momentarily when the American Airlines website, which had inexplicably dropped half my reservation from the day before, told me I would have to call customer service to retrieve the flights. Call? With what? I was stymied, until I glanced over and saw my land line, that cumbersome black box with wires coming out the back and all sorts of awkward moving parts. Positively medieval. They might as well have suggested I send smoke signals. But I muddled through.

Yesterday, when I finally located the Device Support Center -- after driving back and forth several times because I could not call anyone for directions -- the highly specialized technician typed away furiously at his computer for a few minutes, tried to turn on my phone, confirmed that it was indeed dead, and brought out a replacement. I was literally salivating as I watched him transfer the SIM card, close things up, and power up my new "device." I couldn't wait to call (well, text) everyone I know to tell them I was back.

But saliva turned to bile when the highly specialized technician informed me there was nothing on my SIM card, that I must have saved everything to the now defunct "device" instead of the "module." My world came crashing down; that precious little chip had failed me, was indeed nothing more than a thingy that stores stuff, and apparently not very well. There are no yellow pages for cell numbers; I was officially disconnected, totally lost.

Thankfully, the highly specialized technician was either an idiot or a liar. My little module was, as it turns out, jam packed with all the information I need to stay constantly in touch, and to always know what exciting new items have arrived at the mall.

The Book of Ruth

Now I've heard everything. Are we really supposed to believe that the guy who managed to get kazillions of people to fork over boatloads of money so he could take them for everything they were worth couldn't figure out how to commit suicide?

Ruth Madoff is telling all, and apparently she is not above making shit up. She claims that on Christmas Eve a few years ago she and Bernie were so depressed they decided to try suicide. Now why on earth would a couple of Jews be depressed on Christmas Eve, when they can pretty much waltz into any restaurant without a reservation (and, to top it off, look forward to a Chinese feast the next day)? And Ambien and klonopin? Really? People I know pop Ambien like Skittles, and klonopin is the current popular alternative to Xanax, touted for its miraculous effectiveness and low level of toxicity. Anxiety Skittles. (Yes, I have my own emergency stash; just knowing it's there makes me calm.) A suicide cocktail? I think not. Those two wanted a solid eight hours with happy dreams, just like the rest of us.

Shockingly, they woke up the next morning -- no doubt feeling quite rested. No paramedics, no stomach pumps, no reports of heads bent over the gilded toilets; just bright eyes and bushy tails, as far as I can tell. And no stepped up efforts to finish off the job. Sorry, but I give those two more credit than they give themselves. I'm fairly certain that if they wanted to kill themselves, they'd have figured it out. (Didn't they live in a penthouse?)

Anyway, suicide is for cowards, and the Madoffs don't seem like the cowardly types. I might have given Ruth the benefit of the doubt, might have, that is, until she came up with the incredible suicide story. Look up chutzpah in the dictionary; guess whose pictures you'll find.

Oh well, like I've said before, we are all capable of spinning our own narrative, our own version of the truth. The one that makes us feel a little better, and keeps us from stuffing ourselves with too much sleep candy.

Oceans of Knowledge

Apparently there are bloggers out there who attract way more than eighteen official followers and a smattering of "unofficial" followers who are too embarrassed to admit to a daily "Eagle" fix.

The key, as far as I can tell, is to write about something useful. Like recipes. Or how to recreate ultra expensive designer fashions in the comfort of your own living room for mere pennies. People eat that shit up.

My problem, however, is I don't have a creative bone in my body, and I only like to be around food if I'm eating it, so basically, I got nothin'! Kind of depressing to be almost fifty two years old and realize I have nothing of value to pass on to others -- just my sometimes inappropriately public private musings about life and love and ordinary stuff that happens every day. I can see my tombstone now: "Here lies Jill Ocean. She was here for a while, and now she's not. Big deal. BFD."

As is often the case, just when I feel I am about to hit rock bottom, some higher power intervenes to start lugging me out of the sink hole, and this morning that's exactly what happened. An old friend appeared while I was mourning my pitiful epitaph and asked me if I would take her shopping one day, because she loves the way I dress. She didn't ask me how to make anything herself or how to cook something. She asked me to take her shopping -- something I am fully capable of doing as long as my credit card doesn't get cancelled.

I was so flattered, I pretty much divulged all my secrets right there in Starbucks. There are only three colors worth wearing, I told her. Black, gray, and white. And clothing should always be expandable, so you can eat more. And buy boots, lots of boots. There you have it. I wonder if folks would pay me good money for that advice.

Who knows, with that little teaser maybe I'll at least get a few more blog followers. Until, that is, they figure out I got nothin' else useful to say.

Bleak Mythology

Cupid, draw back your bow. I couldn't believe that was the song I was listening to at five thirty in the morning at Starbucks.

Let your arrow fly straight to my lover's heart for me. Sometimes you can hear a song thousands of times and never really hear the words. Interesting how I never considered the possibility that Cupid is actually capable of sending his arrow soaring into someones chest. The guy can't even remember to put pants on. I always assumed his arrows were toys, with harmless little suction cups at the tips.

I guess it makes sense though. Give a chubby little exhibitionist a quiver and a little attention, put him in charge of love, and there you have it -- a recipe for disaster. Is it any wonder those of us with any semblance of intelligence try to avoid love at all costs? That arrow in the heart can really hurt, and it seems to always be aimed at women. Come to think of it, Sam Cooke sang all sorts of misogynistic lyrics: Cupid, draw back your bow (and kill the bitch); stand by your man (bitch, and while you're at it, get him a beer). Sam should have taken a stanza or two from Dionne Warwick's songbook. I'll never fall in love again. Forget the violence and the pain and the misery. Move on. There are far more harmless ways to spend your time.

Cupid can just take his arrows and, well, you know. If anything's gonna make me quiver these days, it's looking forward to another round of spider solitaire.

The Magic Wand

There is a lone red tree across the street from my house. I had not noticed it before today. Probably because it used to be green.

Just goes to show what a little splash of color, a little make-up perhaps, can do. Which is why I tend to shy away from the stuff most days -- I prefer to be like the tree when it is still green -- or, better still, bare -- flying under the radar. But when I head out for the evening, out comes one of the many little make-up bags I've acquired along with freebies from the department store make-up counters, on goes the mascara and the blush. It's not much, but the difference, to me at least, is startling. I am in costume, ready to be spoken to, prepared to interact.

I often wonder who decided, back in the day, that a woman's face, like a blank canvas, should be painted before being displayed. That our eyes should pop, that our cheek bones should be lifted by some magical blend of rosy shadows. That our lips should shimmer with colors not found in nature. Same guy who conjured up the idea of bikini waxes, I assume.

Last night, when I came home, I stared at my smokey eyes in the bathroom mirror. Smudging had made them even more dramatic, more of a masterpiece than the one I had created hours earlier. It was kind of sad, really, to scrub off the paint, to restore the canvas to its original state. I stared back in the mirror, wondering what had become of the museum piece. The woman staring back at me was virtually invisible. The way I like her. I think.

I am going to pay more attention to that tree now. Even after the red leaves blow away.

Lovin' It!

What is wrong with some people?

It's Saturday, it's sixty-six degrees, the sun is shining, and even the most curmudgeonly among us cannot resist a taste of the outdoors before the dark months descend. Or so one would think. I went for a leisurely stroll with Manny, both of us enjoying the sights (more me) and the smells (more him) of a spectacular October day. With Manny calling the shots and dictating the route -- usually circular -- we were out for a while. Naturally, we worked up quite a thirst.

So, first stop, Manny's water bowl, then we headed to the car to get me my daily Diet Coke from McDonald's. There is no fountain drink that compares to a medium Diet Coke from McDonald's. Yes, it must be a medium. The proportions -- ice to syrup to carbonation -- are perfect, and it is neither so small it disappears too quickly or so large it ends up watery from too much melted ice. Ambrosia.

It was two thirty in the afternoon, well after what should have been the lunch time rush, but as I approached the golden arches I saw the line of cars in the drive thru was already snaking out of the parking lot and onto the street. I won't wait more than fifteen minutes for a table in a popular restaurant, but, if I have to, I will suffer extraordinary inconvenience to quench my thirst for a McDonald's medium Diet Coke. Hey, there are worse habits (which is not to say I don't suffer from them as well).

So Manny and I chatted amicably as we continued to enjoy the sunshine (thank goodness for convertibles) until we were finally able to squeeze our way past the line of cars into the otherwise virtually empty parking lot. Yes, that's right. I parked. I got out of the car, walked the twenty-five steps to the entrance, and bellied up to the wide open counter to place my order. Granted, I had to fill the cup myself, which meant I might not get the ice to liquid ratio exactly right, but, as any addict knows, nothing beats a quick fix.

We pulled out, both of us feeling a bit smug as we zipped by the line, which seemed to have not moved at all. I had my medium Diet Coke, and, okay, I confess, we had our small order of fries. Off we went, happy to be getting back to our perfect fall day.

Another One Bites the Dust

He's dead, and there's still a lot of confusion. After all these years, nobody can agree on how to spell his name.

Qaddafi, Gadhafi, Gaddafi, Kadafi. How can we possibly know the truth about how he died when nobody can figure out what his name is. No matter. At least we can be sure the murderous megalomaniac died certain that whatever he had done in his life was justified. "Do you know right from wrong?" was his parting question. I, for one, can never get enough self righteousness.

The whole chase into a rat infested drain pipe was unseemly though, and it's difficult for someone like me (who finds it hard to step on a spider) to watch the up close and personal violence, no matter how well deserved. I wonder if I would have enjoyed the spectacle more if I had lost someone over Lockerbie, or anywhere else the monster's handiwork had been carried out. I wonder how far my humanity extends, whether I could ever reach the point where I could kill someone with my own hands. Or watch it with glee.

Frankly, the brutality scares me. Raised on a steady diet of oppression, violence, and pure evil, Qaddafi's (or however you spell it) blood thirsty killers are now poised to take his place. It makes the sniping at the Republican debates seem rather benign, to say the least. All of a sudden, just being vapid and rude and completely full of shit doesn't seem so bad. Not that I would ever actually vote Republican.

Who knows. Maybe nature will triumph over nurture, and the innate humanity that has kept our species at the top of the food chain will overcome baser instincts. But rage and hatred and gruesome violence are powerful habits, and habits -- particularly bad ones -- are hard to break.

Hop Hip

Somehow I let myself get talked into trying a hip hop class this Saturday. How somebody with two left feet will survive a hip hop class is beyond me, but in my old age I've lost a lot of inhibitions, so what the heck.

Years ago, I tried a step aerobics class. I was mortified, as I stared into the wall of mirrors in front of me, to see that as everybody else was traveling to the left, I was going right. Everybody else would step up, I'd step down. And so on. But forcing yourself to do things you suck at is good for the soul, I think, character building at the very least. And I like to think of myself as a character, so I'm not going to back down on the hip hop thing.

I do draw the line, however, at activities that are excessively humiliating or demoralizing. A friend recently gave me a book (a signed copy, no less) written by an attorney turned career counselor outlining how to land a great job in the legal field. The book targets people like me -- middle aged, woefully out of practice, pathologically insecure. I thought maybe it would offer up a magic formula, one that involves sitting alone in my sweats by the computer waiting for a fantastic job to fall in my crumb filled lap.

Unfortunately, that chapter seems to have been edited out. The book was all about positive mental attitude (shit) and persistence (oy, I was exhausted just reading it). Hip hop is within the realm of possibility. Pounding the pavement and looking confident while I turn blue in a suit that fit a lot better before I took to spending evenings on the couch with Ben and Jerry is not. I have my limits; like I said, I know where to draw the line.

On Saturday, I may "hip" while everyone else "hops," but I'll just laugh it off. My soul will thank me.

Heavenly Father

For as long as I knew him, my father thought his birthday was October 20th, and that's when we celebrated. After he died, we discovered a discrepancy on his birth certificate, which listed his arrival date as the 19th.

One way or another, my dad would have turned ninety-two this week. Even though pancreatic cancer had made him look old in the final months of his life, I still remember him as a youthful looking seventy-six, the strong and vibrant rock in my life. I can still hear his reassuring deep voice, the voice that retained its resonance until the end. I wonder what he would have been like had he made it to ninety-two.

He was the one who always told me I could do anything if I set my mind to it. I always believed it when he said it; I play it back in my head often these days as I face the terrifying thought of reinventing myself for the next chapter of my life. "Don't take the path of least resistance," he would caution. Oh, but the path of least resistance can be so soothing, daddy. My daily dose of comfort food. Where the heck is he when I need a loving kick in the ass?

After I graduated from college (by the skin of my teeth, I might add), I took a year off to work before going to law school. It was a year I try to forget, a year marked by tremendous self-doubt and all encompassing eating disorders and an unbearably tempestuous relationship with my mom. My dad, never a fan of public transportation, would buck ridiculous traffic every evening after work, heading out of his way from his office in Queens into Manhattan to pick me up so I wouldn't have to endure the long subway ride to Brooklyn.

I've erased a lot of that year from my mind, but those car rides with my dad have stayed with me all this time. We talked about everything and about nothing. Mostly, he listened. Without judgment, without scorn, without any semblance of anger, he listened. I know now how powerless he must have felt, my rock, unable to fix whatever was wrong.

He may not have fixed anything, but he carried me through the worst of it. Sitting next to him each evening, I felt as if he was carrying me on his shoulders, protecting me from all the muck. Some days -- every day, really -- I miss those broad shoulders, would do anything for a ride.

Happy birthday daddy -- today, or tomorrow. I still hear your voice, still count on you to steer me home.

You've Got Mail

On average, ninety nine per cent of what I find in my mailbox goes straight into recycling. So many wasted trees.

The other day, as I was quickly sorting through the mess, I came upon a puzzling item. Not anything like the usual fare -- catalogs for stores I've never heard of, paper bills confirming my paperless online payment (wtf?), cards offering up the best landscaping or housecleaning or roofing services. It was a small bubble wrapped envelope, no stamp, my name scrawled hastily on the front, no return address.

I considered putting on a hazmat suit before opening it -- you can never be too careful these days. The envelope felt light, almost empty, and I couldn't help but think it would emit a thin cloud of white powder once opened. I shook it; nothing. I squeezed it; just bubbles. I held it up to the light; well that was pointless.

The mystery envelope still sits, unopened, on top of the pile of things I might get to one day. I've gotten to the point in my life where I just don't like surprises. Suspicious packages, emails from unfamiliar senders, unexpected knocks on the door. I ignore them all. Ninety nine per cent of the time, it's just junk.

Rain Check

At the last minute, my daughters and I made a unanimous executive decision to blow off the breast cancer walk. Not even the idea of an activity for our favorite charity could lure us out of the car and into the heavy rain for a three and a half mile soggy and cold trek.

Twenty minutes later, lying back in bed, still clad in layers of pink and my running shoes, I was feeling a little bit wimpy. Every day, women across the globe suffer the pain and emotional turmoil of breast cancer, and I couldn't handle a little precipitation. I certainly didn't deserve to be wearing the shirt with the image of a tough babe flashing her bulging bicep.

I beat myself up all day about it, particularly when the sun began to peek through and I realized the walk may have been quite bearable, at least halfway through. I rarely pass up an opportunity to beat myself up, and this seemed as good a reason as any. I did, however, hope my daughters were cutting themselves a bit of slack. Really, who in her right mind would want to walk at the crack of dawn in a deluge if she didn't really have to. I applauded their intelligence.

So much for working on self love and all that crap. Face it, sometimes you just need a little help from the outside. And, sometimes, when you most need it, it appears. In the middle of the night, I received a series of emails from a friend I had met this summer on my girls' weekend away, a fellow writer and yogi. Her insomnia had led her back to my blog (it was either that or laundry), and she was enjoying it, even feeling moved by some of the posts. Her compliments lifted my spirits, opened my eyes to the brighter side of things. And hearing about someone enjoying my writing because of insomnia certainly beats hearing that it's just a time killer for someone on the toilet. When I start looking at the bright side, there's no stopping me.

I had considered giving away the shirt with the tough broad on it, to someone more worthy. But I'm over that. Sure, into each life a little rain must fall, but that doesn't mean you have to walk three and a half miles in it.

Who's Your Daddy

At least three people had told me that day alone the name of the site I should go to to select my domain name for my fledgling writing business. Still unclear about the meaning of "domain name," I managed to remember the name of the site. Or so I thought.

As it turns out, "Go Daddy" and "Big Daddy," though they both refer to the same relative, are about as unrelated to each other as a dog is to a fish. At first I thought it was just an advertising ploy, a way of showing domain seekers how to craft an eye catching web page. Yipes. Eye catching, mouth opening, gasp emitting -- if these were the tricks of my new trade, I wasn't quite sure I could handle it. "Big Daddy" was, indeed, big, and, I suppose, theoretically, could have been about daddies, although there was not a womb in sight. Bigger than life size (at least in my life) penises were everywhere (and when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere). Grown men looking like nymphs, flaunting their gargantuan wares for all to see. Yipes indeed. My legs are still crossed.

Note to self: delete Internet history so when my daughter logs on she doesn't think I'm batting for a team that, no doubt, does not have any use for me. It took me longer than it should have to realize I had traveled to the wrong place -- or maybe I was just in a state of shock -- but I finally navigated my way back to the far more innocuous "Go Daddy" site. Phew. Despite all the foreign sounding phrases about domain names and SSL certificates and search engine visibility and web hosting, I felt comfortably at home after my surprise foray into gay porn.

So I followed the instructions and created my domain name and established an email (three, actually) to go with it and charged it all to my credit card and, lo and behold I am now an entrepreneur. Although, to tell you the truth, I immediately searched the Internet for my new domain name and couldn't find it. For all I know, I'm advertising on "Big Daddy," with a big penis as my logo.

One day soon, I hope, I will become the master of my domain.

Status Quo

My mom called yesterday to remind me her phone is working. Over fifty years as a Jewish mother, and that's the best she could come up with to make me feel like shit?

I admit, I've been a bit remiss about staying in touch. I didn't even realize her email was down (which is why, allegedly, she called to remind me about the phone). I know she's worried, I'm a mom, I get it. But I have nothing good to report -- nothing she'd be interest in hearing about anyway -- and it's just not my habit to call people to say "hey."

Shame on me. I should know better. I am well acquainted with the cheap little thrill that goes along with a quick text or call from one of my kids, even if it's only just to say "hey." (That is, after I get over the initial panic, assuming as I always do that something must be wrong.) Kind of ironic, since I never contact my own mom when something is wrong. Which is why, these days, communication -- on my end -- leaves a lot to be desired.

It's not that anything in particular is wrong. It's just that things have not yet become right. I remain in limbo, at the mercy of folks who are simply not as motivated to be done with my divorce as I am. In fairness (to me), I am an equal opportunity uncommunicative bitch; I avoid lots of conversations, since most folks I know will ask me what the status of my divorce is, and, frankly, I don't feel like discussing it.

My daughter explained to me, this morning, that everyone in her life pretty much knows everything about everybody the moment it happens. The Facebook generation posts status reports as things happen -- break-ups, hook-ups, the eruption of a pesky new pimple, with up to the minute pictures to accompany all the breaking news. The inner circle, the outer circle, anybody who's ever heard your name -- and is therefore officially your "friend" -- knows what's going on in your personal life at any given time. A good thing? I don't know, but at least it saves everyone a few phone calls to the people who really matter.

I will try very hard to remember to call my mom today. I will suggest to her that she join Facebook and check my status for any changes. Or maybe check for a new profile picture; if my thumb is up, she'll know things are good.

A Stranger in Our Midst

When I pulled up to Starbucks a bit later than usual this morning, I was a little surprised to see a police car parked in my usual spot. I wondered if maybe the Dunkin Donuts was closed.

The cop was still sitting in the driver's seat, looking very serious as he tapped away on his government issue computer. Nowhere near as cute as the fire chief, whose red SUV had no doubt already come and gone. Damn, I hate when I oversleep.

I quickly forgot about the very serious but forgettable looking cop and went in to collect my morning brew and claim my spot on the couch. It was only after I settled in to scroll through a slide show of Michelle Obama's fashions (including the baseball cap and dark glasses she wore when she took the First Dog to Petco) that my favorite barista (who had had the nerve to be on break when I arrived) rushed over to tell me how our world had been shattered. Apparently, only an hour earlier, one of the regulars from my usual shift had his briefcase snatched right from his hands. Right here in my Starbucks. Right when I'm usually here, my wallet strewn carelessly on the table in front of me, my phone similarly unguarded.

Talk about feeling violated. I glanced over at the growing line, so many unsuspecting souls, oblivious to the sudden surge in the crime rate in our little town. I hugged my laptop a little closer, sat on my wallet, and tucked my phone in my sports bra (no pockets today). Where's the fire chief when I need him? (Yes, I know there's no fire, and the whole crime thing is outside his jurisdiction, but a) the cop looked too out of shape to chase a dastardly thief, and b) if I had to choose a lap to hop into for comfort, well, no contest.)

Hopefully this was just an isolated incident. I have to believe that; otherwise, all my assumptions about life here in Mayberry might as well have been in that briefcase. Back to the Michelle Obama slideshow, and to wondering how the hell she goes on a shopping spree at the local Petco, surrounded by secret service agents, and nobody, NOBODY, recognizes her.

I suppose you can get away with stuff when nobody expects you to be there.

A Month of Sun Days

The calendar on the wall in my kitchen tells me it's still August. The boots in my closet remain lined up neatly, and flip flops still lie strewn across the floor. It's eighty degrees outside, has been for the last five days. Maybe yesterday's bump on the head was more serious than I had thought. I could have sworn autumn had already arrived.

School has been back in session for over a month. When I gaze out the window, all evidence suggests that it is indeed October. The trees are a collage of vibrant colors, the sidewalks are littered with the ones that couldn't hang on, brown and curled and crisp. Even at my age, I still get a kick out of stomping through the piles -- nature's bubble wrap.

Pumpkins are everywhere. Not just the plump ones blocking the entrance to every grocery store, waiting to be cut into jack-o-lanterns. Bakery displays are lined with pumpkin delicacies, Starbucks is pushing pumpkin spice lattes, there's even pumpkin ice cream (for those of us who still seem to have one foot in summer, one foot in fall, I suppose).

Yes, it's definitely autumn (wall calendar notwithstanding; I'm just particularly fond of the August picture -- a dog doing a handstand), so why is it so warm outside? Don't get me wrong -- I'm not complaining. Well, maybe I am, just a little. As much as I love having the top down on my convertible for a little while longer, I am, frankly, done with shorts and flip flops. I have a three month attention span for those items, and am more than ready for boots and sweaters and jackets. It's confusing, crunching through dead leaves with bare toes.

At least I'm fairly confident I'm not confused; it's just mother nature playing games with my head. Actually, I think yesterday's head bump gave me clarity. It happened while I was bending down to get laundry out of the hamper; bang, I smashed my head into the corner of the dresser. (Yes, the dresser has always been there, but the hamper had moved.) The mishap reaffirmed what I have known for quite some time: household chores are bad for my health. Years ago, I broke my foot taking out the garbage. I've shattered more than a few light bulbs while hanging precariously on a ladder trying to change them. What can I say? When you're born into Brooklyn royalty, your blood screams for a household staff.

I'm still waiting for the staff, but, in the mean time, to protect myself from further harm, I'm going on strike. So what if the dishes pile up in the sink? Why risk chipping my manicure? And definitely no more laundry. I have enough holes in my head.

Fast and Furious

When my two older children were young, I used to tell them if I didn't have my morning coffee, I would turn into a bear. Terrified by the thought, they took no chances, and, at a very tender age, kept a safe distance until I took a few gulps.

Every year, on Yom Kippur, I promise myself I will try to fast (a promise as illusory as the one we made on our wedding day), but never, in all the years, have I even considered passing up my morning coffee. The way I see it, the sins I might commit as a result of being deprived of my daily brew would make any kind of atonement impossible, which would kind of defeat the purpose of the whole fasting thing.

Frankly, I wasn't raised to fast. (Yes, I was raised to believe you can never be too rich or too thin, but starving oneself for one day for religious purposes was a completely separate issue.) The truth is my family used to rise from the temple pew at about one, walk home (real Jews don't drive on Yom Kippur), and feast. Feast, fast -- the words are so close, so easily confused. But make no mistake -- we feasted on matzoh ball soup and challah and brisket and kugel. It don't get any more Jewish than that. And, let me tell you, we'd do penance for eating all that crap later.

Today, I will spend some time reflecting, even though I won't be all dressed up and sitting in an official house of worship. It's an unseasonably warm fall day, and I will probably take my nerve shattering road bike for one last spin before putting it to rest until next spring. I will spend time with my daughters and connect, somehow, with my other family members in New York -- probably after they finish the official holiday lunch.

And when I attend the "break fast" at my good friends' home this evening, I will politely hang back from the tantalizing spread until the true fasters get their fill. (As long as I've had my morning coffee, nobody will get hurt.) My guess is there'll be plenty of kugel left for the heathens.

Rise and Whine

The woman must have thought I was a baby snatcher. I explained that I was just reminiscing about my long ago mornings with the double stroller. Fascinating, the look on her face told me. The slight eye roll provided insight into what she was really thinking: weirdo.

It was not yet six in the morning, and the Starbucks was empty except for me and the woman with the two little tots. I was still wearing the same tee shirt I had worn to bed, although luckily I had remembered to put on pants. The crease lines from my pillow were still embedded in my cheeks, little black crumbs of mascara nestled stubbornly in the inner corners of my eyes. It had been difficult to muster up the energy to get there, but the prospect of a heavy dose of caffeine had strengthened my resolve.

The woman with the stroller looked fresh faced, her young skin smooth and slightly rosy from her chilly morning walk. Her children were well scrubbed and dressed for the day -- shoes, socks, pants with coordinated tops, medium weight jackets. I was impressed.

Funny, I used to be capable of such feats. Back in the day, I would be out and about at the crack of dawn, and, despite having already spent considerable time feeding and changing diapers and engaging in various forms of baby conversation, the kids and I would be all decked out neatly in something other than pajamas. These days, when Manny's whimpering drags me out of bed before sunrise, I feel thankful that I at least don't have to dress him. And, when I venture out to Starbucks still wearing my pj's, I feel thankful that at least I didn't leave the house buck naked. Aim low, you don't get disappointed.

As idyllic as the tableau appeared, I'm guessing the young woman with the double stroller does not realize how lucky she is. Lucky to be spending her days with these chubby cheeked little creatures who, in about five seconds, will be all grown up and living their own lives. I distinctly remember wheeling my double stroller early one morning down a street filled with commuters heading to the train. I prattled on to the backs of my children's' heads, telling them how lucky all those folks were to be going to work instead of facing a seemingly interminable day of child rearing. (Passersby gave me strange looks and a wide berth; as it turns out, both kids were sound asleep while I was carrying on a conversation, apparently, with myself.) Through the rosy lens of hindsight, I can't figure out for the life of me why I wasn't downright giddy about my life that morning.

My oldest child has been thrust into the business world head first, and is still adjusting to the shock of working twenty hour days (including weekends) and having no time to accomplish the most basic tasks. No doubt, she misses the lazy days of college, and probably has a good chuckle when she thinks about how stressed she thought she was. One day, I hope, she'll be wheeling a stroller, and, no doubt, she'll feel nostalgic pangs for the camaraderie of work, the occasional "atta girl."

Yep, soon she'll be the one talking to herself and glancing suspiciously at dewy eyed middle aged women gazing menacingly at her children. I hope she'll enjoy every moment.

Apples of Our Eyes

Steve Jobs is dead, Sarah Palin is not running for president (and sorry to disappoint those whom were counting on her -- ugh), and Amanda Knox is back home in Seattle hoping her fellow ex-con Italian boyfriend will fly over for a visit. But, alas, it seems he's just not that into her. Go figure.

It's interesting that these three folks landed on front pages (and home screens) on the same day; it reminds us there are lots of ways to achieve notoriety. If this were a statistically relevant sample, one could conclude that two thirds of the time, it isn't really all that clear to anyone what a person has done to warrant that fifteen minutes -- or fifteen lifetimes -- of fame.

Take Sarah, for example. She went from borrowing cups of sugar at gunpoint from her Russian neighbors to traversing the lower forty-eight in a bus formerly owned by the Partridge family. Speaking in some sort of polar dialect, she gets folks all excited about some weird tea party and becomes the toast of any town she visits. Whether it's a pizza joint in New York City or the Iowa State Fair, everyone knows her name, everyone overlooks her appalling grammar. So much for impeccable sentence structure; I've been to New York many times and have yet to get an audience with Donald Trump.

Then there's Amanda. Poor little Amanda. At best, she's a flaky and somewhat reckless college kid who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. At worst, she's a diabolical killer. Or maybe she's just a not-so-innocent bystander. Nobody knows (except Amanda, of course, and her boyfriend, and, I suppose, the black guy who's still in jail), but almost everybody on the planet seems to care. A lot. It took me almost an hour to read through the reader comments following an internet piece about her homecoming. I couldn't help myself. It was addictive. Folks -- most of whom seem to speak the Sarah Palin dialect -- were literally getting into verbal fist fights with each other, so sure was each writer of his opinion. I had to stop; the intensity was getting me all worked up.

Finally, Steve Jobs. College drop-out, pot smoking Buddhist, occasional business failure. Creative genius, tireless worker, inspirational speaker, world changer. There was no doubt in my mind, when I logged onto my Mac and his eyes stared back at me, why he was so famous. It's abundantly clear -- what he's done, what he hasn't done -- why we all know his name and his face, and why we should. His life is instructive in both its successes and its failures, and he leaves a world in which almost everyone owns a gadget inspired by him. Cool. Way cool. We should all be able to leave such a legacy.

But still, after the eulogies have been delivered and the issue of Time Magazine devoted to his life flies off the stands, images of Steve will fade and we will continue to be inundated with tales of Sarah and Amanda, the gals who inexplicably arrived in our collective consciousness and stir up a kind of passion in people you usually don't see outside the bedroom. Or, come to think of it, in it.

Crazy world: ipods, iphones, ipads, and, often, idon'tgetit.

Lost in Space

A few days ago, I had lunch with a friend. A bright, accomplished, fifty-something year old woman who has juggled work with raising three children and now finds herself on the verge of divorce and trailer-park-bound. Hmm. How the heck did that happen?

We talked about what we might do with ourselves now, how we never could have imagined ourselves being in this position at this time in our lives. We wondered who in their right mind would hire us -- no matter how bright we are -- when they can just as easily hire someone young, someone with promise. Our years of promise appear to be behind us; broken promise, as it happens.

Recently, someone suggested I determine what my dream job would be, and just go for it. I tried, but sitting on my ass watching NCIS reruns doesn't pay very well. After two Jewish holiday dinners in a row I briefly considered becoming a kosher brisket taster, but that's just too darn seasonal. And not a particularly good stepping stone; who's going to hire an old broad with gravy stains on her shirt and clogged arteries?

I toyed with the idea of sending out a bunch of resumes, but that can be so demoralizing, and then I remembered good things come to those who wait, so I decided to wait. I didn't have to wait very long; a dream job opportunity literally jumped out at me when I logged on to play a little spider solitaire the other day: astronaut.

NASA is looking for some new trainees, and if anyone has the right stuff, it's good old Jill Ocean. Jeez, even the name conjures up images of brave space travelers falling back to earth. I certainly have the credentials. They're looking for engineers, scientists, or other professionals. Finally, something I can do with my law degree. And you don't need to be a cocky, young fighter pilot type. They're just looking for folks who can work in an operational environment. I don't really know what that is, but I've had plenty of experience working in dysfunctional environments, so I'd imagine an operational environment would be a cake walk.

I'm going to call my friend and see if she wants to go to astronaut school with me. I've seen the pictures, and as far as I can tell, they spend a lot of time laughing and doing somersaults in the air. Kind of like Mary Poppins. Beats the crap out of a desk job.

Til (insert date) Do Us Part

I am turning fifty-two. The same age my friend Barb was five years ago when she succumbed to cancer. And to think I had decided fifty-two wasn't a special birthday.

As uncomfortable and painful as life had become, Barb fought like hell to make it to fifty-two, but fell short by two months. She weathered a double mastectomy and botched reconstituted boobs and wildly aggressive metastasis, not to mention collateral pleasures like kidney failure and dialysis appointments and countless hospital stays for ailments of unknown origin. Still, through it all, she proclaimed herself to be blessed -- for all the life she had lived, for all the people she loved who were in it. As she told an intimate group gathered for the fiftieth birthday party she threw for herself, if she died tomorrow, she would die happy.

My most significant physical ailment right now is a big zit on my chin, yet if I died tomorrow, I think I'd be mad as hell. Not so much about the dying itself (although that certainly would piss me off) but about all my pesky little problems. Yes, including the zit. Well shame on me; enough of that shit. It's a gorgeous autumn morning, my kids are all healthy and thriving, I have great friends, and Manny managed to make it through an entire day yesterday without peeing or pooping in the house. Life is good. A little divorce nonsense in the grand scheme of things? Just another zit.

In fairness (to me), I'm not the only person to let divorce make my whole world seem miserable. In an effort to slow down divorce rates, the powers that be in Mexico City have proposed marriage contracts with time limits. Progressive countries like Iran already have these; there, you can agree to marry for as little as a few minutes. Cool. I love a short cocktail hour.

I wonder how many folks will give the new contracts a shot, stand up before their family and friends and promise to love and cherish each other for a couple of years. Kind of cuts into the romance a bit. Then again, the contracts would be renewable, so if the bride and groom are delusional enough to believe the loving and cherishing will last forever, what's the harm? I would feel kind of sad for all the unemployed matrimonial attorneys, but, wait, I'm over it.

I am pretty damn certain I will still be trapped in the vicious web of divorce tomorrow. Frankly, I'm more likely to be struck by lightning (twice!) than I am to be done with this mess. I am also pretty damn certain the zit on my chin will still be there -- if picking at it constantly is any indication. But everything else -- all the stuff that matters -- is pretty damn good.

Could I die happy tomorrow? Not a chance; I'm greedy, and I want a lot more of the good stuff. Could I die feeling grateful for everything I have? Yeah, that I can probably handle.