Giving Large

You can usually tell the difference between someone shopping for her own daughter and someone shopping for her son's wife. The slight hint of a sneer often gives it away.

Some aren't quite that subtle. The sweet looking little old lady who came into the store yesterday seemed innocuous enough at first as she agonized over the size and color of a sweatshirt. "She usually wears a large, but this extra large doesn't even look big enough for her," she said. "Do these run small?" I told her they did not, even though I had never tried one on. But the garment she laid out on the table in front of me looked like it could fit a family of four. It wasn't made out of drapes. It was the drapes.

"If your friend usually wears a large, I'd just go with a large. Better to err on the smaller side," I suggested. My instincts are pretty keen on matters such as these. I would be downright suicidal if somebody gave me this item and explained that it was not a window treatment.

"It's for my daughter-in-law," the sweet little old lady clarified. "She wears her clothes much too tight." Ahhh.

I wasn't about to get in the middle of this one. But the sweet little old lady was just getting started. "Why is it that fat people love to wear clothing that's too tight and shows all their rolls?" she asked. Where's the sales manual when you need it? We're supposed to offer up socks and headbands in addition to any purchase. I was thinking maybe I should just suggest socks and headbands instead of this purchase. There was certainly no way I was going to suggest adding pants, even though we're having a contest to see who can sell the most.

The woman was relentless. "And why do they insist on wearing bright neon colors?" They? The fat people? "You'd think they'd want to hide their bodies, not flaunt them." I can't speak for the daughter-in-law, but I definitely wanted to hide from this woman, certainly wouldn't feel comfortable stuffing myself with some Christmas goose at her holiday table. I hope the ill-fated bride has a healthy stash of chocolate waiting for her in her nightstand -- that is, as long as the indigestion isn't too debilitating.

The mother-in-law from hell left empty handed, hopelessly conflicted about sizes. I guess it's not always such a good thing when somebody puts a lot of thought into a gift. If she returns, I'm going to suggest a gift card. It's small, and it's bright orange. The daughter-in-law will love it.

Such a Deal

It's Cyber Monday. The red light on my blackberry began flashing in the wee hours of the morning, and I woke to an inbox filled with news of online shopping deals. Deals for clothing, accessories, exercise classes, electronics, pet supplies. No stone has been left unturned, no price tag unslashed, just in case a weekend of the modestly named Black Friday deals was insufficient.

For the crowd phobic among us, and for the occasional misanthrope, Cyber Monday is a welcome relief, a good excuse to sit on our asses and drink hot chocolate and drain our bank accounts without having so much as an accidental shoulder brush with another human being, certainly without fear of any human conversation. It's not just about good deals and staying in your sweats all day, though. There are other benefits to online shopping, bonuses far more valuable than your garden variety 25% off coupon, particularly when it comes to clothing. For one thing, you don't have to try anything on.

Even with expedited shipping, you get a few extra days to shed some Thanksgiving stuffing before facing the cold, hard truth. Staring at the computer screen at the models on a Victoria's Secret website can be so much less painful than gazing at your own reflection in the full length mirror in your bedroom. No rolls of fat spilling over lacy underpants, no unfilled spaces in bra cups while boobs with minds of their own spill out under armpits, no back fat. No stretched out clothing hanging haphazardly on a dusty treadmill in the background. As you sit covered from head to toe in stretchy clothing that doesn't squeeze and pinch and constantly call attention to your love handles, it's easy to imagine yourself looking as sleek and taut and glistening (glistening, I said, not drenched from a hot flash) as the models do in the slinky undergarments. And you can live that dream until the UPS guy arrives later in the week, maybe on Reality Check Thursday. Which, naturally, will lead into the blackest of Fridays.

I think I will take advantage of Cyber Monday, just so I can enjoy a bit of a Delusional Tuesday and a Keep-the-Blinders-On-for-One-More-Day Wednesday. The ego shattering package will arrive soon enough. It will, no doubt, take a few days for me to recover, just in time for Granny Pants Saturday.

The Weather Outside is Frightful. Not.

If it weren't for the nagging ache in my stomach and the waves of nausea that go along with volumes of food that have yet to complete the digestive process I'd have sworn it was spring this morning.

Waking up in my own bed after the annual trek to see family out east, I felt slightly disoriented. Outside my window, the trees were bare, the fallen leaves had all been raked or blown away. My car temperature gauge told me it was already in the fifties. The air smelled more like it does in early April than it typically does in late November, filled with the promise of new blooms and warmer days. Just another illusion, but illusions aren't always a bad thing.

The weather may be confusing, but at least some things remain constant. After the brief holiday hiatus, I happily resumed my Starbucks routine this morning. My thick paper cup was reassuringly red in honor of the season, decorated with snowflakes and snowmen and inspiring little messages. My vow to never eat like a glutton again has been proven, reassuringly, to be as illusory as the spring weather, with my resolve being tested at every turn. Cold soggy pizza at work last night was irresistible, giving me that incomparable happy (and slightly naughty) feeling you get when you eat cold pizza for breakfast. In Starbucks, my favorite barista (who had heard from my favorite manicurist that I was back in town) greeted me not only with her usual warm smile but also with a small package of her homemade blintzes, as promised. Real Russian blintzes. There is no room for voids this season; I will never have to wait too long to top off the tank.

No matter how warm it is, this is a time to hunker down, to indulge in comfort food and snuggle up under warm blankets with loved ones and watch sappy old movies. All good. I'm still glowing from a couple of days "snuggled up" (figuratively at least) in the company of my three children, something I get to do less and less as time moves on. And, just a short while ago,I retrieved Manny, the snuggle king, from the dog sitter, and he will be a more than willing participant in my seasonal transformation into a complete couch potato.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't want to continue moving forward, moving into what will hopefully be a new and better phase, filled with possibilities still beyond my imagination. And I certainly don't plan to wait until spring really arrives to get there.

Yep, as soon as people stop throwing pizza and cupcakes and blintzes my way, I'll be good to go.

Dollars and Scents

You have not lived until you've experienced the original Bloomingdales in New York during the holiday shopping season.

After fighting the traffic and dropping my mother and daughters off so I could find a parking spot on the street and not pay thirty dollars for our one hour stay, I made my way back on foot to the store. I took a deep breath as I waited for a break in the stream of shopping bag laden shoppers exiting and finally elbowed my way inside. Immediately I felt the danger signs of asphyxiation setting in as my nostrils absorbed air so saturated with men's cologne it seemed completely devoid of oxygen. It was all I could do to suppress my gag reflex and plunge ahead.

I escaped the men's department relatively unscathed, and scurried through the mushroom cloud of women's perfume to the safety of an escalator. As I ascended to the second floor, I filled my lungs with what seemed like pure mountain air compared to the pollution in the lobby. Stepping off, I jostled my way through the crowds and, out of breath and sweating, located the "dress up rooms" where my younger daughter was trying on designer jeans (which, to my mother's great shock, cost quite a bit more than twenty dollars).

The line of women waiting for a fitting room snaked its way out onto the sales floor, winding through overfilled racks of overpriced clothing. Hmm, tis the season of giving, yet all these people were trying things on themselves. Maybe they're all just buying for twin sisters. (I've never recovered from finding out the truth about the tooth fairy; I just can't handle the disappointment of knowing folks are out there during the holiday rush buying gifts for themselves.) I suppose it's difficult to resist trying on skin tight clothes that look so fabulous on the toothpick sized mannequins (all headless, I assume, so we cannot see the grimaces on their faces as they suck their guts in).

Within ten minutes I was hyperventilating. I lied, said it would take me a really long time to walk back to the car, and escaped through designer purses and fine jewelry, avoiding the stench of the exit closer to my parking spot. I strolled the six short blocks, barely noticing the constant din of honking horns and shouting New Yorkers and traffic cops' whistles. I inhaled the exhaust fumes, wondering why high end designers can't seem to come up with such a delightful and natural scent.

Maybe next year, at Bloomingdales.

TGI Black Friday

McDonald's is doing its part to make sure we live up to our reputation as the "ugly Americans," announcing its plan to offer up fries for breakfast on Black Friday. You just can't beat good old-fashioned American ingenuity.

You can't really blame McDonald's for diving right into the spirit of self-reflection and selfless giving that is our holiday season. I know some people might think that offering up fries for breakfast to a nation already plagued by obesity related illnesses is yet another example of the shameless commercialization of Christmas, but when you think of all those joyous, bloated smiles at the drive-thru you can't help but feel closer to God. People are just so cynical.

Maybe I'm feeling a tad bit defensive, since this is my first holiday season working in retail. In my line of work, you get to see the highly spiritual folks, the ones who like to get a jump on all the good will and holiday cheer and get the damn shopping over with early. Just the other day I witnessed one example after another of the love and holiness brought out by the season. "Well, who cares if she likes it," said one sister to the other. "At least we can strike her off the list." Warms the cockles, doesn't it?

Then there was the mother and her grown daughter agonizing about the perfect gift for the daughter-in-law. Naturally, they confined their search to the sale rack, and came up with a hideous bright green jacket. It had a huge snag on the front of the left shoulder. "We can't give her something with a snag on it, can we?" asked mom. "Oh, it's barely noticeable," responded the daughter. I looked down at the snag, a good inch of thread curling downward from a puckered little hole. "We'll cut it and she definitely won't see it, especially since she's so in love with anything green." Well, gosh, maybe they should puke on it too; more shades of green to love.

If it's been this good already, I can't wait to get to work on Black Friday. All the halos, all the angelic smiles -- it's going to be awesome. Especially after I stuff myself with fries for breakfast.

The Year They Cancelled Thanksgiving

A child has been born, and a turkey has been saved.

We knew that my Connecticut cousins were expecting their first grandchild some time around Thanksgiving. Kinda cool, sure, but Thanksgiving with the cousins in Connecticut is sacred, and some baby nobody had even met yet was not going to interfere with our annual family ritual. Or so we thought. After all, it wasn't our fault the baby was to be born in San Francisco.

So for at least a week now, we've all been on high baby alert. Excited to hear of the arrival of our newest family member. Excited to hear whether it's a boy or girl, since the parents have refused to accommodate our curiosity and instead selfishly decided to be surprised. Excited to be reassured that mom and baby are healthy and we could indeed get to our feast with clear heads and the usual gusto.

Well, I've heard that becoming a grandparent is something indescribable, a feeling that takes you completely by surprise and transforms you into a person you never dreamed you could become. And so it was, yesterday, when my usually level headed cousins, upon hearing the baby was on the way, were welcomed into the club of the single minded adorers, folks who just seem to have no perspective. "The baby's coming today. Thanksgiving is cancelled. I'm sorry. Call me," was the email I received in the morning. WHAT??? Conflicted doesn't even begin to describe how I felt. Marginalized. Abandoned. Remarkably hungry.

Really. Really? What does a little baby have that we don't have? All the kid's gonna do is lay around eating and passing gas. Okay, come to think of it, not so different from the rest of us, but what about all the scintillating conversation? The gossip? The inappropriate jokes? Boy are my cousins gonna be disappointed when they realize what a waste all that non-advance-purchase airfare was!

Baby or no baby, my family knows how to overcome adversity, and nothing will stop us from having our annual gorge. The rest of us, the downtrodden, the forgotten, the starving ones, will convene in New York and stuff our faces regardless. And I suppose we'll toast both the new baby and the New England turkey that was suddenly spared.

By the way: It's a boy!!!

Jaded Photographs

Whenever I run into someone I haven't seen in a while, I get to hear how surprising it is that I haven't yet been swept up by a knight in shining armor and am not hearing wedding bells. I get a little defensive, assuring them that I could go out any time I wanted to, could be married at the drop of a top hat.

The truth is, I don't fantasize about any future nuptials (not for me, anyway) but I do fantasize about trying on wedding gowns. My first time around, I was by myself, in an unfamiliar city, and feeling a little too chubby to look good in white satin and lace. No entourage of bridesmaids, no feuding mother and mother-in-law, nobody. I could have been shopping for a sweatshirt.

Next week, when we head to New York, we will be tantalizingly close to Kleinfeld's, the venerable wedding dress capital of the world, and home to Say Yes to the Dress. I suggested to my younger daughter that she, her sister, and I pay a visit to Kleinfeld's, claim that I am getting married, set a ridiculously high price point, and go to town. She found the idea of her old mother trying on fluffy wedding gowns a bit repulsive (I didn't mention I was looking for something red and slinky), although she said she would agree to the adventure if we claimed her older sister was the bride-to-be. How perfectly ordinary; where's the fun in that?

Maybe we should set our sights on some more minor tourist attractions, like Ground Zero. A friend just went with her daughter, and told me about the spectacle of people snapping pictures of their family members smiling in front of the memorial. Ew. Makes televised bickering over bridal gowns seem downright classy.

The truth is my time in the big city will be limited and I need to spend it doing what I enjoy most -- wandering aimlessly. For me, New York is still a place I think of as home -- one of my homes -- and I don't need to do any sightseeing. I can still remember Ground Zero before it was Ground Zero, and I will never forget the first time I trudged with my young family through the still fresh rubble to view all the tributes draped over the fence enclosing the hideous, gaping hole. No need to memorialize any of that in a photograph; some things just stick with you forever.

And if I were to wander into Kleinfeld's to try on wedding dresses, well that wouldn't just be memorable. It would be surreal. My mom assured me, back in the day, that had I been marrying someone Jewish she would have taken me there to shop for my gown. Do I feel as if I missed out on something? Sure, but it's not Kleinfeld's. It's the whole experience of sharing the joy of planning a wedding with my mom. Not with an entourage of bridesmaids and future in-laws. Just with my mom. But I was a different person back then, and so was she. It would not have been possible.

As cynical as I am these days, about marriage and everlasting love, I will have my nose pressed against the window of Kleinfeld's -- or some comparable alternative -- the moment one of my daughters announces an engagement. I will get swept up in the ludicrousness of spending inordinate sums of money on a virginal gown, of seeing my girls star in some anachronistic princess fantasy that can overcome even the most cynical among us.

Maybe they'll even let me try one on. If folks can snap pictures in front of a memorial to thousands who died well before their time, this old broad can take a spin or two on a pedestal in a fluffy wedding gown. No cameras please.

Unruffled Feathers

It's amazing how a few random displays of kindness can take a person out of a funk. Thanks to some unsolicited acts of decency. yesterday turned out to be a much better day than the one before.

With my renewed faith in humanity -- at least the humanity in my little section of the universe -- I have faced today with a much better attitude. Even though reality is setting in, and I probably just enjoyed my last birthday celebration for this year. Even though I'm having trouble zipping up my jeans. Even though Demi and Ashton are finally calling it quits. And the positive mental attitude has been working -- so far, not even a tiny urge for an anxiety pill.

There is much to look forward to in the next couple of weeks. First, there's my annual trip to Connecticut via New York for Thanksgiving with my family. Then, only a week after that, there's a bonus trip to New York for my son's graduation from college. My cynical son, the one who thinks ceremonies like graduations are pointless and exist only to please parents (yeah, so? your point?), has decided to walk with his class after all. Honestly, who does he think pays the bills?

Family milestones can be particularly loaded when you are going through a drawn out and sometimes contentious divorce. But just as we all rose to the occasion for my daughter's graduation last May, it looks as if everyone is poised to do the same this time around. And, for me at least, there will be nothing fake about my joy in having the bickering factions (i.e. me and my husband) and their alleged allies (i.e. our respective blood relatives) together in one room. Raising my son and my daughters was a journey of love I did not take alone, and I cannot imagine not sharing their accomplishments with the people who have loved them right along with me, every step of the way.

Deep fried turkey, a few helpings of stuffing, and celebrating one of my children, all within the span of ten days. Life don't get any better than that.

CYA

I've had far better days than yesterday. I've had far worse days, though, and at least today I can start fresh.

That is as soon as the bile stops rising into my throat and sending me on a sprint to the bathroom, which is what happened several times in the middle of the night. I can't decide if the distress is from the inhuman amount of food I consumed last night at a birthday dinner with friends (a bright spot in an otherwise lousy day) or the phone call with my attorney that kept me screeching all the way home from work yesterday afternoon. Probably a little of both.

I am not sure if any of my wrath made an impact, but I am pretty confident that my attorney will never again make the mistake of repeating to me the nonsense that spews from my husband's attorney's mouth. And you cannot even imagine how thrilled I was to hear that after almost two years of collecting fees for lord knows what the attorney from hell has finally realized what the one true issue is in the case from hell. Naturally, her well thought out solution is to totally screw me, but that's no surprise. I just wish I could describe the sheer delight I felt upon hearing that my attorney, my husband's attorney, and his accountant were able to agree on something -- that their fees should be paid first out of the ever dwindling pie.

Yep, there's zealous representation going on, just not of me. Like I said, though, today I have a chance for a fresh start -- bile or no bile -- and when I skimmed through the MSNBC headlines on my home page I was immediately struck by a bit of good news. Pippa Middleton says it's okay to wear leggings as pants. You know, the kind of pants that don't need to be covered by a long sweater, the kind that can be deemed sufficient butt coverage for public consumption. And if her royal hotness says it's okay, who am I to argue? (Of course Pippa could probably wear granny underpants and make them look sexy but tasteful. As for the rest of us commoners whose butts have not been blessed with royal perfection, I think we have a civic duty to hang on to those long sweaters and flowing tunics. Some things just shouldn't be shared.)

I, for one, will be covering my own ass when I wear leggings. Let's face it, if history is any indication, nobody else is going to do it for me.

Subdivide and Conquer

Parents in some South Carolina town are all up in arms because a teacher there was having her first graders rub her feet. At least she didn't "take showers" with them.

The news is full of stories about grown ups behaving badly, yet we never cease to be shocked when we hear that things aren't always as they seem behind the closed doors of our neighborhood McMansions. Shit may be happening "out there," but for some reason many of us have ourselves convinced that our own subdivisions defy the averages.

As a person who lives in one of the houses with a door that suddenly turned to glass, revealing the stains and the tears within, I breathe a sigh of relief each time another home goes transparent and shows itself to be much more of a fixer upper than anyone might have assumed. It's not that I take pleasure in anybody else's marital or financial or parental problems; it's just that an occasional reminder of the flaws in our Stepford-like assumptions gives me the comfort of knowing I am not alone.

Do I doubt for one second that gossip worthy problems like infidelity or bankruptcy or garden variety family dysfunction are as rampant here in my little corner of deep dark suburbia as they are elsewhere? Not a chance. But do I still get sucked into the belief that all those other houses are as neat and tidy inside as the landscaped lawns in front? Naturally. I am as delusional and prone to flawed assumptions as the next suburbanite. Deep down, though, I know that if you pulled back most of the curtains, you'd see a lot of crap. Okay, busted. Maybe I do take just a little bit of pleasure in the misfortune of others.

As realistic as I can be, though, I still find it hard to believe that any of my neighbors are, ahem,"showering" with little boys or having six year olds rub their feet when they should be working on phonics. That's just too icky.

Margaritaville Can Wait

There's wisdom everywhere; you just have to look for it. "If you love something, set it free," admonished a sign on the wall in the airport food court. "If it doesn't come back, have a margarita." Good advice, and lucrative, no doubt, for the proprietors of the little Mexican joint displaying it. Win win.

It seems counter intuitive, though, especially when it comes to people. Tossing away someone you love just doesn't come naturally to most of us. Then celebrating with some tequila when the person doesn't return? Seems downright harsh. But as I was pondering the pros and cons of the whole issue, I came upon another bit of wisdom, right there on the sign outside the church near my house. "God loves you regardless," the large black letters assured me. Manna from heaven! Okay, then; without so much as a look back, out with the old loves, in with the new. L'chaim.

The other day, I read an essay by a guy who had become hopelessly addicted to Twitter, apparently losing his job and his wife as a direct result of his obsessive hourly tweeting. (I still don't really understand the concept of tweeting as it relates to humans, but it sounds even more narcissistic than blogging, if that's possible.) So this guy would spend almost every waking moment dreaming up clever little tweets for his fans (who numbered in the thousands), obviously at considerable cost. Although I get the feeling he may have snuck in a margarita or two at the loss of the wife.

Finally, he engaged in a sort of self intervention and quit, cold turkey. Actually let go of the thing he loved more than life (or wife) itself. That story, and the serendipitous snippets of wisdom I've come across in the past few days, led me to consider whether I should let go of my blog, set it free. It's certainly something I love, so much so that I leave home at 5:30 many mornings to sit in Starbucks and see what comes out. So much so that I often rush out on my dog at great risk of finding lakes of pee and piles of poop upon my return. So much so that I skip much needed workouts and ignore the ever accumulating clutter in my house. And my head.

Even the prospect of a margarita doesn't diminish my terror at the thought of my blog failing to return, leaving me forever. And let's face it; no amount of tequila will stop me from replacing this little space with yet another obsession, so why let it go in the first place. People may be expendable, but my little piece of real estate in the blogosphere just isn't. (Just don't tell the people I love I said that.)

And if anyone thinks my priorities are screwed up, it doesn't matter. Cause God loves me, regardless.

The Lone Car State

I have to admit I was being overly harsh when I wondered whether there was anything in Dallas, the city, that would outdo DFW, the airport, a place I've passed through many times without ever going outside. (The options at DFW for dining may be plentiful, but the food is nothing to write home about. And once we actually found restaurants to wander into in the city, we feasted on some of the best guacamole and the spiciest salsa I've ever encountered. The people of Dallas should really get downtown more, enjoy the endless summerlike weather and a good meal.)

The trip to Dallas would have been worthwhile even without the Mexican delicacies, even without the concert we attended on Saturday night (my surprise birthday present from my daughters, who kidnapped me for the weekend without a hint as to where we'd be heading). The packing list certainly offered no clues; I could have been going anywhere with some jeans, boots, flip flops, deodorant, and a "brazeeeeeeer that covers the nips, pleeeeeeeeze." Charming children. But time with them is a precious treat, and our brief trip south was certainly no exception.

Dallas indeed offers more than a huge airport, big hair, funny accents, and endless sprawl. We visited the Sixth Floor Museum, housed in the book depository from which JFK was shot, overlooking the infamous grassy knoll. I've seen the images many times -- live, even, when I was four -- but experiencing this piece of history with my daughters, one of whom wasn't even born yet when young John went down in a plane, was indescribable. Each of us was moved in a different way. My older daughter teared up at the footage of the president's son saluting the flag draped coffin; my younger daughter, who was weaned on television images of the twin towers going down, was, nevertheless, overwhelmed by the half century old tragedy, the senseless killing of one man. I was fascinated by the pictures of young children lining the route, folks now in the throes of middle age. I wondered if they still have nightmares about that day.

When I approached the window from which the fatal shots were fired, I stared out as the narrator on my headphones took me through the final seconds. As he outlined the slow progress of the president's limo, the busy street below became oddly empty except for one lone black car. It took the hairpin turn just as the narrator described it, passed the spot that changed the course of history just as the narrator pointed it out. There was nobody else standing at the window; in those moments, history replayed itself just for me.

Yes, we had our share of fun, long hours, and shitty food at DFW. But outside the confines of airport security, our time in Texas was priceless.

Dancing in the Darkness

I love November. It's my birthday month. It's the month of Thanksgiving. It's when we start to hunker down for winter, feeling cozy but a long way from feeling weary from the long, cold, dark days. We look forward to the twinkle of holiday lights and the uplifting holiday tunes, before they get old. Morbid Halloween decorations have finally been taken down, and the leftover candy is beginning -- finally -- to lose its appeal.

The ground outside is carpeted with wet leaves, not a good thing for a klutz like me. As I pulled my garbage and recycling pails to the curb yesterday morning, walking gingerly so as not to break a limb on the slick driveway, my sweatshirt hood drawn tightly around my face to shield me from the driving rain, I wondered if there was something perverse about my fondness for the onset of winter gloom. Then I wondered why it would surprise me that I might be perverse.

There's a lot to celebrate this month, and today is no exception. It just occurred to me that today is the first anniversary of An Eagle's Tale, the blog that was supposed to take me out of "fighting warrior" mode and usher in a more peaceful, more optimistic era. Though I admit I've spent more time than I would have liked over the past year dodging bullets and lobbing a few of my own grenades, I have by no means lost hope. Nobody has waved any white flags yet, but I believe there's an end in sight to the bullshit, and I also believe life, post war, will be fine. There are worse things than living in a double wide, yes?

My mother, who gets all sentimental this time of year when she conjures up vivid memories of my birth and wrestles with the swift passage of time, commanded me yesterday to go out and buy myself something nice, on her. She means something really nice, with a designer label and a hefty price tag. Something I don't need, and would never consider buying for myself. I don't think a wall hanging for my future trailer is what she has in mind.

I will do my best today to shop around for something frivolous, not just to celebrate November milestones but also, and, more importantly, to please my mother. Old habits die hard. And, as the bitter winds kick up and the rain turns to snow and any leaves remaining on the almost bare trees finally surrender and fall to the ground, I will simply dress warmly and take somewhat perverse pleasure in the beautiful bleakness.

Waxing Nostalgic

I scoffed the other day when I read an article on line claiming that bad experiences in restaurants often lead to bigger tips. It's a simple formula, apparently; complaining leads to guilt leads to overcompensation. Gosh, we're a weird breed.

And I, as it turns out, am right in there with the rest of the idiots of our species. Today, when I skulked into Elizabeth Arden for a quick eyebrow wax with the esthetician with whom I have been cheating for two years, I came face to face with the sadistic bikini waxer who caused me to stray. There she was, Edwina Scissorhands, not letting me get away for one moment with my feeble attempt to pretend I had no idea who she was. What the heck was she doing there on a Tuesday??

With a malicious grin, she tormented me with her precise memory, asking after each of my children, knowing exactly what they had been up to the last time I lay whimpering on her spa bed. She twisted the knife with news of her own son's upcoming surgery for some mysterious illness. Ooh, she's good. Naturally, I told her how disappointed I was when I was suddenly available only on Tuesdays -- her day off -- for spa treatments. I told her how much I missed her. And I promised I would make an appointment soon so we could catch up.

I just know she's sharpening her scissors, honing the tweezers, bringing the hot wax to a hyper boil in anticipation of my contrite return for a full Brazilian. But the truth is I wasn't motivated by my fear of the pain (which, by the way, has kept me off the bikini waxing circuit for quite a while; that, and my conscientious objection to mature women trying to look prepubescent). What motivated me was pure guilt and shame, guilt for hurting Edwina's feelings, shame for sneaking around behind her evil back.

All I know is that the next time there's a hair in my soup, I will think of Edwina Scissorhands (oh, stop, not for the reason you're thinking) when I offer up my compliments to the chef and a ridiculously huge tip.

The Progress of Elimination

Victories in my life tend to be small, definitely bittersweet.

This morning, I cheered Manny on as I coaxed him into the yard to do his business so I wouldn't return from Starbucks to a pile of poop in the family room. It took a while, but it was worth it, making me feel as if my Monday resolution to disabuse him of the notion that our wood floors are a proper place for relieving himself was off to a good start. With a little focus on both our parts, the world -- at least our house -- would soon be a sweeter (smelling) place.

Alas, it was still dark out, and I did not notice until it was too late that I had stepped in a pile, which I then tracked into the kitchen on the way to Manny's box of rewards. Ugh, so much for breakfast. Poop in the family room was starting to look good.

My house is chock full of piles of poop, nasty reminders of a marriage gone sour. Photos, knick knacks, mementos from vacations and time well spent. Sometimes it's difficult to remember the pleasures and the victories, even the big ones. The walls tend to close in on me, particularly when it's just me and Manny, when even the child who lives with me is not home.

This past weekend, the walls pushed back a bit with the arrival of my son, my irreverent and offbeat son who pops in from time to time to make us laugh until it hurts. Sure, there are plenty of bittersweet memories, but nothing -- no amount of stress and frustration -- can take away the pleasure I get from my offspring. Sometimes I just need a little extra dose, up close and in person.

He leaves today, but Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and I won't have to wait too long for a hefty serving of his political rants, his dissertations on the universe, and his crazy stand-up routines that send me and his sisters into fits of hysteria (the good kind). Let the season of comfort food and family insanity begin!

My son is worried because he caught Manny nibbling on his own poop the other day. I told him that's better than eating other dogs' poop. He's concerned that eating poop of any kind is hazardous to ones health, and suggested maybe that's what made Manny go blind.

And to think I always attributed that to masturbation! Well, there you have it, another piece of good news -- another small victory.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

What could be worse than subjecting a kid who just lost a parent to the nightly ritual of condolence calls? Not much, I'm guessing.

My son's good friend's dad passed away suddenly last Sunday. Dropped dead, really, in the truest sense of the word. Without saying goodbye, or, sadder still, without giving anyone else the opportunity to do the same. If terminal illness has any up side, that would be it. Plenty of chances for goodbyes and reflection. Preparation and readiness? If you ask me, that's a myth. No child, no matter what his age, is adequately prepared for the moment at which life is supposed to continue without the person who gave him life, who raised him, who was just always viewed as a given.

My son's friend is putting on a brave face, smiling and accepting well intentioned hugs from all the consolers and grievers passing through. They share stories with him, their memories of time spent with his dad. He has spent more time with the man than all of them put together, yet, unlike them, he is still unable to retrieve and hang on to the funny little anecdotes. For him, there is one memory that haunts him -- his last phone call with his dad on the day he died. "Don't forget to get me the charger." Those, he told my son, were his parting words to his father, his goodbye.

I had the dubious good fortune of yelling "I love you" into my father's ear over the telephone as he lay dying. Yes, I took some comfort in that, knowing that as he passed from this world he would take with him that reminder. Had the timing been different, though, his final memory of me would likely have been of watching me leave hours earlier, hearing me consoling my mother at the door as I headed home to Chicago. Our own version of don't forget to get me the charger. No affirmations of love. No articulation of how I felt, how losing him made me feel as if my legs were being cut off at the knees.

No matter how many times my son reassures his friend that one final sentence at the end of a routine conversation nobody knew would be the last does not in any way define a lifelong relationship, he knows his friend will struggle with the memory for a while. Who wouldn't? But he will get past it, especially when he becomes a parent. When he experiences first hand the kind of unconditional love a parent feels for a child, the little person who explodes into the world making demands and never really stops doing so. When he can know, finally, how the mere sound of a child's voice, or, in truth, the mere thought of him, can make life seem complete.

I wouldn't be at all surprised if my kids' parting comments to me included some kind of request and a gratuitous grunt. But I hope when I go, as they endure the funny stories of others, they will know that whatever they last said to me will have been, to me, the sweetest words of all.

Consumer Protection

I admitted to a friend the other day that I am enjoying my job selling yoga clothes. "That's nice." His condescending smile made his next comment unnecessary. "You know you'll have to get a real job soon."

True enough, but I still felt like smacking him. Doesn't being thoroughly exhausted after several consecutive days on my feet pretending to be a pleasant human being qualify as real work? Sure, it's not rocket science, but let's face it, I'm not a rocket scientist. And it's certainly more challenging than lying in bed all day. Which would definitely be my first choice.

It could be worse -- I could be working in Starbucks. Yesterday morning, the two overly chipper baristas (I realized later they must have just been delirious) were giggling about the fantastic employment they had landed with their fancy psych degrees.They wondered if a PhD would enable them to advance to positions of greater responsibility -- maybe groom them for taking out the garbage. I have to admit I find it kind of reassuring to have a couple of psych experts serving me in the morning -- brewers with benefits. You never know when I'll be on the verge of a psychotic episode, in need of more than just a shot of caffeine.

Come to think of it I probably don't have sufficient education to merit a position behind the counter at Starbucks. Even without having taken more than one psych class in college, though, I have been known to offer up a bit of counseling to my faithful customers. "You are beautiful," I tell them when they start to obsess about a bulge here and there. "Camel toe is not the way to recapture your elusive femininity," I tell them when they desperately try to squeeze into a smaller size. "The snottier you are, the more sickeningly sweet I will become, and I will also crumple up your merchandise when I put it in the bag." This I don't necessarily tell them, but every once in a while a little encouragement in the behavior modification department is appropriate.

Rocket science -- no, but there's definitely a bit of social science required in retail. My advice may be amateurish, but it sure beats real work.

Happy Day of the Dead

I have promised myself I would not stoop to writing about Kim and Kris and their 72 day marriage. I'm just glad I didn't waste money on a gift.

Let's face it: relationships are hard, and they take a lot of work. Constant work. From the beginning. The closer you get to someone, the more likely you're going to piss each other off. It would be nice if we could take all our unpleasantness out on complete strangers, but there's really no satisfaction in that.

This morning, I think I may have permanently scarred my budding relationship with the local fire chief, a relationship I have been nurturing with great care and unbelievable patience for over a year. My heart was already going pitter pat as we walked into Starbucks together at the crack of dawn, my tongue stumbling over my words as I tried to converse. (Since when is "how are you?" a difficult question to answer?)

Our Starbucks was unusually crowded today, with more than a few unfamiliar faces scattered among the regulars. I scoped out the seating, noting that to avoid the crazy chatty woman who camps out looking for prey every morning I would have to box out the chief and steal his favorite chair. You'd think I would have learned by now about compromise and unselfishness and fair play, but I guess sometimes you really can't teach an old dog new tricks. If one of us was going to have to go down, it was going to have to be him. Sorry my love.

Clearly, some of us just aren't cut out for commitment. I kind of admire Kim for realizing so soon that she is one of those people and for sparing her new hubby the pain and torture of a long term marriage. He will survive. He's going to have every single woman in the Midwest showing up on his doorstep with homemade casseroles and cookies and promises of all sorts of goodies. As for Kim, well, she'll always have the dresses. And the ring. And the gifts. And the gorgeous spread in People Magazine. Everybody wins.

I feel kind of bad that the pair couldn't spend Halloween together, but Day of the Dead is being celebrated as it should be.