The Road Less Travelled

Studies show that the more you talk about your plans for a New Year's diet, the less likely you are to do it. Actually, studies show (or experts say, I can't remember) that talking a big game about any future plans makes one far less likely to take action.

I don't really know how the researchers reached their conclusions, given that it would take a mind reader to identify the folks who keep mum about their intentions. But experts are experts, and I am much more likely to believe a report issued by experts than the rantings of your average schmo down the street. So I'm assuming the carefully conducted research took into account the problems with subject identification as well as the widely held belief (okay, widely held by me) that diets just don't work.

In my own personal experience, I have found that talking about a diet is less a kiss of death than simply thinking about a diet. Just pondering the prospect of food deprivation of any kind leads me to strap on the feed bag and dig in. I take action all right, just maybe not the kind of action the voices in my head have contemplated. And, as far as I know, nobody else hears the voices in my head, so going public is generally not the problem.

Let's face it, when we come up with good intentions, those intentions are generally contrary to what we feel like doing. Dieting -- like getting organized or leaving our comfy spot on the couch to do something productive or always having enough back stock of toilet paper so that you don't have to run from bathroom to bathroom with your pants down -- takes effort. Lots of effort. And whether we talk about our plans or keep them to ourselves, the path of least resistance is far more alluring to most of us than the path of toil and trouble and elbow grease.

Given the likelihood of failure, we might as well do some talking and reap at least a few social benefits. Talking about our good intentions or just about anything has become so easy that even the shyest and most private among us can succumb to the temptation. Why wait an eternity for success at a diet and its accompanying kudos when we can take a few seconds to change a Facebook status or fire off a tweet (or write a blog) to fill everyone in the universe in on our noble plans? Without actually having to endure so much as one conversation, we are almost certain to be inundated with thumbs ups and congratulatory tweets and all other forms of cyber pats on the back.

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I tremble to think where the road paved with bad intentions leads. I will continue to keep folks posted about my lofty hopes and dreams and, dare I say, goals. I am not taking any chances.

I Feel the Earth Moving

It's that time again, time to make some New Year's resolutions.

This year, I am going to try to come up with a few I can actually keep. The things over which I have no control are out. Like reversing climate change. Or finding a cure for cancer. Or establishing peace on earth. Or finalizing my divorce. Yep, crazy resolutions are out of the question this year.

I don't want to aim too low, but my expectations are certainly less lofty than they used to be, say, when youth and a false sense of financial security clouded my judgment. As I scrolled through online pictures this morning of the frightening ways the earth can change in a split second -- glacial calving, volcanic collapse, earthquake islands -- I thought how ironic it is that such major alterations in the earth's landscape can occur so quickly while the more mundane transitions of everyday life seem to occur at, well, a glacial pace.

But enough about my divorce "proceedings" (a term I use very loosely) and back to my resolutions. As if some cyber god had read my mind, an ad suddenly appeared next to a picture of a meteor crater, an ad for an e-book that seemed to be written just for me: Vulnerability Management for Dummies. Sure, the blurb seemed to suggest the book was created to help protect online business networks from various kinds of attack, but it specifically noted that size and scope were irrelevant. As an avid (albeit obscure) blogger, a proud owner of a domain name for a fledgling business and, most importantly, a card carrying dummy, I am most definitely a candidate for a VM program.

So, therein lies my New Year's resolution for 2012. I will learn how to guard my Achilles heels and manage my vulnerabilities. I will become a fortress, impermeable, indestructible. Neither major changes in the earth's landscape nor petty shenanigans by attorneys and their clients (just a random example) will penetrate my thick skin or diminish my resolve. I am going to get with the VM program; I am woman, hear me roar.

Bring on the attacks. Heck, bring on the Mayan Apocalypse. You ain't seen nothin' yet -- just the tip of the iceberg.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

This was my second Christmas in twenty-six years not spent tearing presents open beside a tree. It was, instead, a Sunday like so many I had experienced growing up in Brooklyn, complete with bagels and lox, a movie, and Chinese food.

A day like every Christmas I had experienced for exactly half my life, yet it felt strange, more strange than it did last year, when the novelty of a return to a Jewish style Christmas trumped the feelings of loss. This year, I was plagued by inexplicable pangs of nostalgia: for the long and tedious ride to Michigan, for the last minute Christmas shopping at an overcrowded mall, for the endless hours sprawled in a food coma watching a continuous loop of A Christmas Story while awaiting the next leaden meal.

I suppose I will one day grow accustomed to the occasional holiday spent without my children, but, for now, it's all still raw. The thought of them cavorting in the enemy camp, feeling warm and fuzzy in the embrace of those who have heard all sorts of nasty things about me, the thought of someone else occupying my favorite chair, all these things stir in me decidedly "unChristian" feelings. And a decidedly un-motherly desire for my kids to have a lousy time.

All this negativity in spite of a perfectly lovely day filled with good food and a few hours watching a young Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window in a downtown theatre that took me back to my childhood with its uncomfortable seats and ornate walls and elegant red velvet curtain. Even the weather was lovely -- sunny and unseasonably warm. I secretly reveled in the noticeable absence of a single snowflake, content to know that if I couldn't enjoy a traditional white Christmas, nobody could.

The kids return today, and, tomorrow, we will celebrate Chanukah with a fanfare grossly disproportionate to the minor status of the holiday. I will be armed with gifts to rival anything they found under the tree, I will stuff them with grotesquely fattening food, I will have cookies decorated with sickeningly sweet blue icing.

And, no doubt, I will continue to do such things, until the ghosts are put to rest.

All I Want for Christmas is Yuri

I have a new love. He's Russian, so we'll just call him Yuri. Heck, his name could be Stalin and I'd still find him irresistible.

He'll be single soon -- his wife is divorcing him, accusing him of serial infidelity. Bitter, gold digging bitch. From what I've read the guy is a saint. Generous to a fault (he just bought his twenty-two year old daughter an $88 million apartment in New York, and he didn't even try to negotiate a better price), and he has no criminal record (he was acquitted of participating in a plot to murder his business partner).

Oh, Yuri, I would take you away from those folks who don't appreciate you, and all I'd ask in return is that you buy me the nicest double wide in town. Nothing too fancy, no gold hubcaps, no diamond beveling around the bathroom faucets. Just a good location (I want to be near a Walmart) and maybe an occasional dinner out at the local Old Country Buffet so I can dress up. Who could pass up an offer like that? The whole deal will cost less than one of the toilet paper holders in his daughter's apartment, and I can be really good company.

I'm not looking for any great romance. My heart is cold these days. I don't break into a sweat anymore when I watch Mark Harmon close an impossible case on NCIS. Even when the episode features men in uniform. Nothing. Although I did feel a little tingle when I saw the Navy's recent "First Kiss" photo of two lesbians shoving their tongues down each other's throats to celebrate a homecoming. My heart literally went pitter pat when I thought about how the military brass felt watching that little spectacle, their little crew cut hairs literally bristling. Oy, don't ask. Don't tell.

But back to my Yuri, my sweet, generous Russian. Who knows? With a little soft lighting and sexy music in the trailer, a little borscht and some cheap vodka, and me in a hot little teddy from Walmart, anything is possible.

Borrowed Time

Sometimes you just have to let your hair down, go hog wild. Yesterday morning, when my workout partner suggested -- about seven minutes into it -- that we finish our session at Starbucks over some coffee and her homemade Christmas cookies, I shook out my pony tail, grabbed my coat without a moment's hesitation and off we went.

Hold on to your seats; it gets even wilder. There were seven varieties of cookies -- SEVEN!! -- and I sampled each one. No workout. Seven kinds of cookies, well before noon. Without guilt, without regret. I even made a conscious effort to not be conscious of the love handles that seem to be spilling even further over my workout pants this season, love handles I'd love to blame on the holidays except I have yet to be invited to a single party. But really, I've barely noticed them at all, and really, they don't bother me.

Okay maybe they bother me just a little. But apparently not enough to do much about them. Which makes perfect sense, as the official countdown begins today to the Maya Apocalypse on December 21, 2012. With only one year remaining to indulge in earthly delights, bring on the cookies and the cakes and the potato latkes that literally moisturized my skin from the inside out last night. (Happy Chanukah by the way.)

Our conversation at Starbucks yesterday morning was as enjoyable as it was predictable. My salivary glands kicked into high gear as my partner described the latest seventeen course gourmet feast she had whipped up for her family. My stomach started flip flopping as I described my latest efforts to ignore the signs that I will, indeed, be living out my golden years in a trailer (forgetting, momentarily, that with only a year to go, it's all a moot point). Our trainer -- who needed very little convincing to join us in our delinquency -- was armed, as always, with scripture passages and plenty of advice on giving it all over to Jesus. Whatever "it" is. I usually ignore his preaching, but this time I paid attention. If it's true that none of us will be waking up a year from tomorrow, I might as well start making friends with the guy. On the off chance I end up in his neck of the woods.

In any case, while I'm letting my hair down and going hog wild, I might as well give it all over to somebody, the "it" that interrupts my sleep and causes all my teeth to crack. Giving it all over to the lawyers certainly hasn't worked, and Jesus probably charges a lot less.

Watch Dogs

There's a news truck parked outside my Starbucks this morning. Maybe they're here to get local opinions on the shocking death of the North Korean dictator. Or maybe they're here to get our reactions to the recent spate of home invasions in the neighborhood.

My take on reports of Kim's death? I'm skeptical. I'm not a doctor, but I just find it difficult to believe a heartless dictator can die of heart failure. My take on the inordinate number of burglaries lately in my corner of deep dark suburbia? Maybe the police need to shift their focus, be a bit less zealous in their pursuit of drivers using cell phones (yes, my daughter was pulled over after she reached up to put her hair behind her ear, her cell phone tucked safely in her purse) and a bit more vigilant in patrolling the dark winter streets. We don't have a lot of Christmas lights in these parts, not too many blow up neon Santas to ward off the bad guys.

After all, I can hardly count on my neutered blind dog -- who routinely guesses wrong when positioning himself to appear as if he's looking at you -- to scare off some criminals who have testicles large enough to keep striking in the same place. Let's face it, nobody around here can count on their dogs for much protection, even the ones who can see. This is a neighborhood filled with designer mutts who don't like to walk in the rain, who wear coats on top of the ones they're born with, who have standing appointments with their groomers. Show me a crook who's going to be scared of a yapping fur ball and I'll show you some North Koreans who are crying because Kim died and not because they are terrified that things can actually get worse.

I realize I'm being a bit shallow, worrying about someone stealing my flat screen TV's while there are people starving in Korea, but that's just the nature of things. There are plenty of lunatics out there oppressing their own citizens while they aim nuclear missiles in our direction, but really, what can we do about that? Send the troops leaving Iraq now that they have nothing to do? Beyond that, not much, other than shake our heads with disgust and, when the alarm sounds, crouch under our desks and keep our fingers crossed.

But burglars in our midst? We can do something about that. I'll be keeping my cell phone handy -- even when I'm driving -- and if I see any suspicious shadows on the dimly lit winter streets, I'm gonna risk that ticket and do my part to keep things safe close to home.

The Reign of Zane

Politics is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get. All I know is I like plain talk. Save the technical terminology for someone who needs to be impressed.

So, if you're like me, you call a spade a spade, and, if you're like me, you almost start to like Mitt Romney when he calls Newt Gingrich zany. I rarely understand what any of the Republican candidates are talking about, but zany Newt? That I get.

The thing of it is, folks are being a little critical of Mitt for stooping to such low name calling, but I think a lot of people are missing the point. A guy who proudly announces that his campaign has gained the support of Christine O'Donnell, former Senate candidate and witchcraft practitioner, is obviously no stranger to zany, probably even thinks of it as a good thing. Let's face it, O'Donnell makes Newt seem pretty middle of the road.

Mitt himself may not be casting magical spells while he's busy casting aspersions, but that doesn't mean he's got his own two feet firmly planted. Married to the same woman for forty-two years? The same church all his life? Seems pretty zany to me. At the very least somewhat masochistic and misguided. But, then again, consider the source. Nobody has ever accused me of being sane or even remotely clear headed. Not recently, at any rate.

I kind of like zany people, actually, and now that Mitt has put a finger on Newt's "problem," I'm actually feeling sort of kindly toward Newt. Yes, I know that zany may be fun at a cocktail party and maybe not so much at the helm of a government, but gosh, except for the Republican presidential debates, Washington can be so boring sometimes. It's not like I'm looking for Qaddafi kind of zany, but a little quirkiness might not be such a bad thing. They all flip flop, they all get into bed with strange bedfellows, they all have skeletons in their closets. And you have to be a little zany to want the job in the first place, so a little overt kookiness may be just what the country needs.

As Forrest Gump would say, "zany is as zany does." Let's see if Newt can live up to the task.

Revolving Door Prizes

Some folks seem appalled that New York Yankees star (and hunk) Derek Jeter sends his one night stands off alone in a limousine with an autographed baseball. I don't know. It sure beats bus fare and a pat on the ass.

At least those gals arrive home with some bragging rights. Heck, I brag when one of my dates picks up the tab for my Big Mac and gets my name right. Or close. Toss in some fries and a shake and I'm downright dewy eyed as I sit down to change my Facebook status to "Smitten." I can't even imagine what I'd do if I got to ride in a limo with one of the guy's balls in my pocket.

Actually, I kind of like the idea of a door prize, a keepsake to make the memory of it all seem a little less dreary. An engraved stethoscope? A chewed up pen? An embossed legal pad? Sure, a baseball would be cool, but let's face it, I'm dating Jews these days, so I don't think I can really count on any sports paraphernalia. If I make it past a second date with one of them I'll definitely start setting my sights a bit higher -- jewelry, maybe, a diamond, perhaps. For now, though, the only diamonds I can expect to see are in the form of a little blue pill.

Well, it doesn't hurt to dream, does it? I'd give anything for a roll in the hay with Derek, a ride in a private limousine, and a souvenir baseball. Frankly, for a roll in the hay with Derek, I'd settle for the pat on the ass and bus fare.

Just Breathe

I'd like to think it was empathy yesterday when, after watching helplessly as my daughter tried to catch her breath, I started gasping for air myself and became dizzy enough to almost pass out. My guess is, though, that I had moved past empathy, and had entered a state of pure panic.

She has mono and a sinus infection, and appears to be getting worse by the day. I look at her, with her pale skin and bloodshot eyes and red nose, listen to her hacking cough, and wish I could take it all from her, make her discomfort and pain go away. Like most mothers, I would give anything to suffer her pain for her, to take it all on just to see her smile. But magical powers have eluded me, and my helplessness (combined with a healthy dose of exhaustion) transformed me last night into a useless onlooker simply fighting the urge to faint.

It will take me a lot longer to forgive myself than it will for my daughter to forgive me my lapse in caretaking. She is still sleeping peacefully this morning, and I am hoping when she wakes she will remember the chaos of last night as a bad dream. Even if she recalls it with clarity, she is not one who is normally in the habit of pointing fingers or blaming others -- even mom -- for her misery. If past behavior is any indication, she will just laugh at herself and roll her eyes at me. I hope.

My heart has stopped racing, I feel a bit rested after a rare decent night's sleep, and I am counting on a better day today. The one email I received last night from my most steadfast abuser was only mildly abusive, and I was able to delete it without allowing the words to linger or do further damage to my already battered psyche. Except for a few noises in my head (mostly debating whether I should stay home today and feel helpless or go to work and get some vicarious thrills from the retail therapy of others), I woke to a quiet morning. No coughing, no whimpering dog, no emails suggesting that I am a horrible person who has somehow caused problems over which I have no control.

Life can be dizzying these days, and there is nothing like a sick child to put everything else in perspective. I'm aiming low today. All I want for her -- and for me -- is some good steady breath.

Christmas Carols for Dummies

You know you've entered the twilight zone when a group of Dickensian looking characters march into a store seeking Christmas carol requests and the best anyone can come up with is Dreidel Dreidel.

My journey through the zone continued as I headed a short distance south from the largely Jewish enclave of Highland Park, Illinois to a memorial service in Kenilworth, reputed to be the wealthiest, whitest, and most exclusive suburb in the Midwest. I felt as out of place driving by the stately homes draped in wreaths as Ebeneezer and company must have felt caroling among the heathens, a character in the wrong play.

The church was the most beautiful I've ever seen, ornate yet tasteful, just the right size to house a large crowd yet still feel intimate. The person being remembered was my age, a friend's husband who finally succumbed to a rare form of bone cancer after a six year battle. I stood silently with the crowd as they sang haunting but unfamiliar hymns, only able to participate for the first verse of Amazing Grace. When the music sounded suspiciously like Edelweiss from The Sound of Music, I started to belt out the words until I realized the lyrics had been changed and everyone else was singing about Christ, not a mountain flower. Yes, I was definitely a fish out of water.

But strange songs and stained glass images of Ben Franklin instead of Moses rows of bright red poinsettias aside, I felt oddly at home in this church, surprisingly comfortable. Like everyone else there, I sensed the unfairness of such an untimely death, the passing of a person born in 1959 -- just like I was. The pastor had spent considerable time with my friend's husband during his ordeal, and was able to speak with first hand knowledge of his struggles, both physical and spiritual. Much of the service revolved around the dying man's own journal entries, writings about fear and puzzlement and, above all else, hope. Hope, even in the face of a certain unpleasant outcome. The words, read to us by his old college buddies, were instructive and profound.

Through his writings, he had gained strength and overcome fear. My friend, his wife, spoke of his final words, semi-conscious assertions about being pulled away from his world of stately homes and material comforts and beckoned toward a better place. She literally watched him go off on his journey, listened to him as he traveled from his wealthy, white, exclusive earthly home to an unfamiliar place where, nevertheless, he would not feel like a fish out of water.

A place where, no doubt, Christmas carolers serenade dreidel spinners as if it were the most natural thing in the world, a place free of petty earthly concerns. I'm nowhere near ready to abandon this world, with all its faults, but when my time comes, I sure hope there's room at the inn.

Presents of Mine

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Houses and trees twinkle with strings of blinking lights, a thin blanket of snow covers the ground, and a news headline yesterday announced a heated debate as to whether Santas' beards should be real. (I'm thinking only if it's the real Santa, but who cares what some Jew thinks?)

Mall parking lots are packed, and the stores are enjoying a steady stream of shoppers laden with shopping bags and threadbare credit cards. My view this year, for the first time ever, is from the business side of the register, and what I've learned is almost as shocking to me as the news of fake Santa beards is to others: most people are shopping for themselves! A few engage in the old ruse of taking items into the fitting room because "my sister is exactly my size," but most don't even bother. At most, they express some guilt when they decline the offer of a gift box. "I shouldn't really be shopping for myself," they say, as if this purchase is just a tiny aberration in an otherwise selfless and generous day. Funny, when I peer into their other shopping bags, there's not a gift box in sight.

An observant and well indoctrinated Jew, I've always adhered to the teachings of the Old Testament, which doesn't even recognize Christmas, and, even if it did, would probably still hold that individual birthdays are the most important days of the year, especially when it comes to gift giving. The revisions that were implemented some two thousand years ago may have been well-intentioned (in a spiritual sense), but let's face it, if everybody has to share just one day out of 365, it's only natural that many folks are going to focus mainly on their own haul. Show me someone who prefers to watch others open all the presents while she sits empty handed except for the video camera and I'll show you a mall Santa with a real white beard.

As far as I'm concerned, the entire Christmas shopping season was a scheme cooked up by biblical merchants (oh no! could it have been the Jews?) and was never really intended to cater to the odd soul who actually believes it is better to give than to receive. It's every man for himself out there; heck, even we Jews get into the spirit, taking an occasional detour into the stores in December to buy ourselves a few presents. It's always nice to have a new outfit for the movie and Chinese dinner on the 25th.

Yep, Santas shave and people shop for themselves in December. It's how things were meant to be.

Happiness Is...

Could there be any purer happiness than the feeling that overcame the little blue penguins who were released back into the cold waters off New Zealand after an oil spill?

These were the lucky ones, the ones rescued in time from the toxic brew and nursed back to health on dry land while crews worked to clean up the sea. The view from the back tells it all; there is no need to check their faces for little penguin smiles to know these creatures are as happy as, well, clams.

I would love to be as happy as the penguins seem to be, but I remain stuck in an environment that can, on occasion, be toxic and very bad for my emotional health. It's not all bad, and it certainly won't kill me, but sometimes I'd love to be spirited away and taken care of while somebody else cleans up the mess in my house. Unfortunately -- or, maybe, fortunately -- I'm nowhere near as cute or helpless looking as a blue penguin, and I can take care of myself. And I can certainly take care of my messes, particularly since I had a hand in creating them.

Here at the top of the food chain, we don't get to experience the kind of simple, unadulterated joy experienced by a sea creature, a bird simply thrilled to be alive and home and have unlimited access to fishy treats. When my children were babies, they used to do something I referred to as the full body smile -- arms flapping, bellies jiggling, mouths squealing, and cheeks stretched to their ears. Helpless creatures, but capable of feeling pure joy. It always made me smile. Not a full body smile, but rather a smile tempered with the knowledge that such bliss would necessarily be fleeting, that life, for them, would one day be far more complicated.

I don't mean to sound negative. Pure bliss may be out of reach, but I wish for and expect a good degree of happiness for me, for my kids, for all the people I love. To the extent we are able, we should all experience the feeling of flapping our wings, pointing our toes outward, and dashing with pure abandon into the sea.

Sleep Therapy

You get used to sleeping alone in a big bed. Manny doesn't count -- I just use his plump, downy torso as an extra pillow. But a person, no matter how much in love you are -- that can be an intrusion.

Last night, there were three of us. My daughter, struggling with a sinus infection and burning up with fever, was sufficiently distraught and filled with self pity to crawl into bed with us last night. Manny and I tend to confine ourselves to what was always "my side" of the bed. It has nothing to do with revulsion; it just ensures easy access to the necessities on my nightstand -- the tissues, the Advil, the lamp and the books for the frequent bouts with insomnia.

With the sudden introduction of a feverish and lanky teenager whose limbs seemed to be everywhere, the balance shifted. Manny popped up and stared blindly in the direction of her coughing, excited for what was obviously a decision on her part to spend more quality time with him. He abandoned his pillow duties and slithered over to the middle, where he could nestle next to her and still be close to me. I was disoriented, suddenly finding myself alone on my side with inanimate pillows that don't breathe and snore in a calming, sleep inducing rhythm, yet very much not alone with my space heater of a daughter just inches away, a toasty leg occasionally kicking me in the ribs.

We all get used to the way things are, even if they are not necessarily what we have hoped for. Most of us don't dream of sleeping alone, without someone to cuddle with or wake up with or poke when we're having a bad dream, but after a period of time flying solo in a king size bed you start to wonder if you could ever share it again. It's liberating to not worry about being disturbed or doing the disturbing; I was acutely aware of this as I banged around in the dark this morning trying to get dressed.

As much as my daughter's arrival in the wee hours of the morning was a disturbance in the force, I did find myself smiling at the thought of having her there. It reminded me of times long ago, when my pudgy faced little girl would wander in, looking for comfort and begging for an invitation to climb in. I often resented the sleep interruption, but I usually gave in, secretly content to have her join us just so we could make her feel safe.

She is no longer terrified of the monsters under her own bed or the demonic creatures in her closet, but it is nice to know she still needs comfort from mom every once in a while. And, I have to admit, despite the excessive heat emanating from her until the Tylenol took hold and despite the occasional kicks and despite the loss of my fat, canine pillow, it was nice to have her there.

My daughter may not know this, but sometimes she's the one providing comfort; she's the one shooing away the monsters.

A Big Apple a Day...

It was truly a New York minute. Well, actually, it was a New York hour and a half, but let's just say it was a New York moment.

The New York University winter convocation ceremony was less a celebration of students graduating from a school than a nod to a group of young people who chose to take on the challenges of a daunting city, and succeeded. NYU is a place without a pristine campus -- without a campus at all, really. There is no football team, no intricate fraternity system through which students might find a comfortable social niche. By all appearances, NYU is scattered buildings on gritty urban streets, buildings identifiable as part of the university only by virtue of simple purple banners hung several stories up. Its students blend into a landscape of unparalleled diversity -- diversity of age, race, economic status, attire, beliefs, and passions. They make their transition into adulthood steeped in a melting pot of adventurous souls.

Sure, a traditional continuous loop of Pomp and Circumstance was thrown in when the graduates marched in. Actually, they kind of sauntered in, New York style. Some carried shopping bags, some carried little suitcases, and they entered in no particular order. Some chatted, some seemed oblivious to everything, more than a few collided with each other as if they were strolling down some crowded New York City sidewalk. Musical theatre majors entertained us with show tunes while we waited, and closed things up with a spectacular New York medley. There was no recessional, per se. Graduates and families alike jostled the crowds to escape the theatre, New York style. Orderly chaos.

My son has told me he feels as if the lion's share of his college education occurred in New York City rather than at any institution. The student speaker seemed to concur. There will be no homecoming weekends for these graduates, no spirited annual football gatherings to glue them together. But it is clear that New York City has become a part of each of them, and that, for what it's worth, will always be their common ground. Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker, and my son is no exception.

Back home in deep dark suburbia, I envy him that he gets to stay. To continue living, at least for a while, in his fourth floor walk-up in the West Village, in an apartment about the size of my kitchen. In a building with a vestibule just large enough for one person -- something I realized the other day when we tried to get in while the mail woman was trying to fill the cramped metal boxes. My son greeted her by name, and she chuckled as the three of us tried to navigate the tiny vestibule without injury.

Outside that little vestibule, though, is a world larger than life. Hole in the wall restaurants of every ethnic variety imaginable line the streets, interspersed with trendy little dessert joints and coffee houses crowded with beat up wooden tables and delicious treats. Taxis whiz by, horns blare, everybody is on the move. Even the dogs seem to walk quickly and with purpose.

Graduation day in Washington Square Park. Just another beautiful day in the neighborhood.

A West Side Story

My son and I chose not to get visitor passes that would have given us access to the 9/11 Memorial at Ground Zero. For him, it was about imperialism and hypocrisy and the crass monetization of a terrible human tragedy. For me, it was about not wanting to freeze my ass off waiting in a ridiculously long line.

I don't have any regrets about our choice, just as I have no regrets about foregoing a show with my mom and her friend so I could spend an afternoon aimlessly wandering the streets of New York with my son. No doubt the sight of the thousands of names on the massive tombstone would have moved me to tears. The sight of the gaping hole where the towers once stood, even ten years later, still takes my breath away. The growing "Freedom Tower" sparkles with the promise of peace and prosperity, but it is difficult for me to get past the waste and the grief.

Lower Manhattan looks a lot different these days. The perimeter of Ground Zero is no longer draped in makeshift tributes, the neighboring Trinity Church is no longer shrouded in a dark cloak of mourning. The once gritty landscape of the waterfront to the west glistens now, the dilapidated skeleton of the West Side Highway has been replaced by wide open gardens and a river promenade and beautifully sculpted paths. The streets surrounding Ground Zero are filled with camera toting tourists, the sidewalks are lined with sleek new hotels and shops. As I sat last night in a candlelit fifth floor lobby that vibrates with live music and sexual energy as it overlooks the 9/11 crater, I felt guilty, as if I was somehow dancing on a mass grave.

Time marches on, and moments that define a generation inevitably become ancient history, a chapter in a textbook. What we thought would always be sacred, hallowed ground has become, once again, a thriving center of commerce, a place where folks can read blurbs about what happened here and then scurry across the street for a glitzy lunch.

I reminded my son, now twenty-one, that he informed me in the weeks after the towers fell that he would one day join the air force. Time has marched on for him as well, and his cynicism about all governments, including our own, at least gives me the comfort of knowing that he will never voluntarily put himself in a flight suit and risk his life at war. I can be as patriotic as the next guy, but it would be tough for me to happily sign on for that kind of loss.

We gradually made our way north, our conversation moving seamlessly from political debate (more like a one-sided rant on his part, with occasional nods or defensive objections from me) to safer ground. A talented and passionate writer, he posed a question his professor had tossed his way: "Why do you write?" He urged me past my initial responses -- it's therapeutic, I'm narcissistic, it gives me clarity -- and made me realize that, yes, I write for those reasons, but for something more as well. Writing connects me, not just to my small band of readers, but to people in general. I love discovering that my mundane thoughts may have touched a nerve in someone else, that another person has similar concerns, similar questions, similar dreams. Writing -- and reading -- fosters understanding, and, ultimately, as my son suggested, writing and reading make us better people.

My very cynical and often contrarian son graduates from college today, and he has chosen to participate in the ceremony, even though he thinks such things are, well, bullshit. I would have supported his choice either way, but I am not so secretly thrilled that he has chosen to walk with his class. Several months ago, when he insisted he would not do so, he felt certain that graduation ceremonies were just worthless dog and pony shows for parents, a prize for the thousands of dollars they've spent on tuition. He told me yesterday how much he values the time he spent here, how much he has learned. His participation today is, naturally, thrilling for his parents, but gratifying for him as well. That is true cause for celebration.

I have no idea where the future will take him, and neither does he. Who knows, maybe when I visit him in New York a few months from now he will overlook his distaste for what he considers to be crass commercialization and choose to visit the 9/11 Memorial after all. His curiosity might just get the best of him. No matter what, he plans to keep writing, not just because he thinks it will make him a better person, but because he enjoys the way his writing connects him to himself and others.

He sometimes thinks he should choose a different path, something maybe a bit more lucrative. Maybe one day he will. But for now, I hope he continues to do what he's been doing, with no regrets.

You've Got Mail!

I am flabbergasted. Not at the news that people tend to lie on line, but that some professor actually researched the issue and published a paper about his findings.

Stunning revelation, that people are more likely to lie or, shall we say, stretch the truth a bit, the more removed they are from face to face conversation. No shit! Here's another hypothesis (although I'm not a respected sociologist, so take it with a grain of salt): it's a lot easier to say all kinds of ridiculous things when you're instant messaging someone or when you're emailing someone than when you're looking that person in the eye. Yep, I bet if I conducted a really scientific study with a statistically relevant sample I'd prove that to be true. Too bad I am not up for tenure anywhere; I could publish a rockin' paper, add another line or two to my resume.

We've all done it. Settled scores via email. Told soon to be ex friends what we really think of them in a text. Expressed deep love or irrepressible hatred in a faceless chat. Then there are the more subtle deceptions. The Facebook pictures that suggest we are forever smiling, forever surrounded by loving friends, always raising our red Solo cups in a perpetual toast to our happy lives. Our profiles are carefully tailored to reveal only what we want people to know. Where we've worked, the charities we support, the schools we've attended (even though many of us spent so much of our time there in a drug induced haze -- or, in my case, a bulimic stupor -- we barely remember what our major was). Nobody would ever guess that their deliriously happy looking and well-credentialed Facebook pals really spend most of their time feeling lonely and lost and pissed off at everybody and sprawled on the couch watching bad television.

Sounds a bit negative, I know. Maybe we should just accept the bullshit and be thankful that all this electronic communication at least keeps us social and connected. We live in a world where nobody really needs to leave home. Hook us up to the Internet and we can work and shop and find out what's going on in the world without ever getting out of our pj's. And the little white lies? Well they make us all sound a bit more interesting, and what's so bad about that? It's not as if we're completely distorting the truth (except, that is, if we're on a dating site, but it still beats spending evenings in a bar).

So, to the professor who took some precious grant money and wasted it on proving the obvious, I despise you, I think you're a fraud, I refuse to read your stupid research paper. (But if I run into you in Starbucks, I will tell you how brilliant you are and ask you for an autographed copy of your work.)