Mortality Check

A dear old friend's mom is sick, and, as my friend so eloquently summed it up, it "sux."

As if turning fifty -- and then some -- isn't enough to make us acutely aware of our mortality, watching our parents succumb to age and disease is a looming reality check, a constant reminder of time inevitably running low. Of the six childhood friends who recently connected, three are orphans, two of us have only our mothers remaining, and one (the one whose mom is sick) has been blessed this long with two parents. There were no blended families in our group, just plain old moms and dads who stuck together no matter what, regular folks with histories and problems of their own that mattered very little to us. They were our roots, our rocks, seemingly invincible.

A diminutive and incredibly feisty woman, my friend's mom was born in Turkey but, as long as I have known her, has taken her adopted country by storm. She has always been a force to be reckoned with, and I find it hard to believe that she will lose her battle with cancer. I want to return again to her small Brooklyn apartment, once again enjoy the doughy Turkish treats she knew I loved, once again hear her strong, accented voice and watch her take charge of everything and everybody in her midst. I want things to be like they were, at least for a moment or two.

Next weekend, I head to New York to celebrate my own mother's eighty-first birthday. Though she was never a big woman, she has always been larger than life to me (and I mean that only in the most positive way; sort of). A car accident last May and osteoporosis have taken away more than a few inches from her height, compressed her spine so severely that she seems to be disappearing before my very eyes. She has quieted down a bit as well, emailing and calling me far less frequently because she knows I just don't feel like chatting most of the time. Sure, I can do without the constant questioning, the concerned messages, but she would be even more surprised than I am to know how afraid I am that she will, actually, disappear.

Lately, I have wrestled constantly with the notion that my children are so wrapped up in their own lives -- as they should be -- that they barely notice I am there. Sure, I like that they see me as their root, their rock, their invincible mom (okay, maybe invincible is a bit of a stretch), but there is a selfish piece of me that wants them to cherish every moment with me, before I start to disappear.

Yeah, right!

Courting Public Opinions

One of the best thing about fat camps for dogs is you don't have to wait until summer arrives to ship them off.

When my friend emailed me the article about the brilliant new service available for those of us either unable or too lazy to keep our dogs' weights under control, I could think of no better use for the loose change piling up in my piggy bank (no pun intended). The double wide can wait.

Manny barely had a chance to woof out an objection before I had his little duffel bag packed and the car gassed up. He's no dummy. He knew something was up when I failed to fill up a little ziplock with treats for the trip. (I don't know where the nearest camp is, or even if there is one within driving distance, but I am ready to go at a moment's notice.) Images of doggie ellipticals and four legged aerobics classes and lectures on why people food can kill you danced in my head. I explained to Manny that this would all be for his own good. He gave me a skeptical head cock, then rolled over and played dead.

If only he could accept the fact that I know what is best for him, life would be so much simpler. I know how he feels; there are lots of well meaning folks out there who think they know what is best for me, and I often wish I could roll over and play dead as effortlessly as Manny does. My promotion dilemma has elicited all sorts of well intentioned advice, and, to be fair, it is all solicited. (Manny's a lot smarter than I am; he never asks anyone's opinion.) Being busy is good for me; I am wasting my brain; it will be a good challenge for me; why would I waste my time on a job a monkey could do? All valid points, I suppose, but none of it helps me to figure out what I actually want to do. And, being an adult human as opposed to a dog, I, unfortunately, am the one who must ultimately decide. I wonder if the powers that be will agree to let me sleep on it a little longer, maybe, say, two years.

If fat camp for dogs turns out to be a bust, Manny can at least point an accusing paw in my direction and bark a smug "I told you so." If my latest career decision turns out to be a bad idea, I'll have nobody to blame but myself. And depending on where they stood, my posse of advisers will either offer up smug nods or throw their hands up as if they had never encouraged me to screw up.

There is, of course, a bright side. Manny and I, kindred spirits always, will both want to drown our sorrows in food, and when I tell him I'm off to pick up a pizza, he will flash his pearly underbite and wag his tail. He will know, somehow, that this is no car ride to fat camp, and he will shimmy his fat butt into the car with the speed and grace of a greyhound.

Rules of EnTITLEment

This morning, I filled out an online survey about my visit to Starbucks. I'll do almost anything for a free cup of coffee.

Questions, questions, questions. Yesterday, I agreed to interview for a promotion at the yoga store, and found it odd that I was coming up with responses to sell myself even though I have major misgivings about taking the job. More hours, more headaches, less flexibility, and a raise that, in the grand scheme of things, won't affect my life too much. Okay, well maybe I'll be able to afford a few little upgrades in the double wide, but certainly nothing too fancy. I would get a new title though, which is always a cool thing.

Jill Ocean, JD, CYI, ASM, blogger. What next? And which of those hard earned titles suits me best? As I waited in line at Starbucks the other morning, I heard a voice behind me ask "runner, cyclist, or triathlete?" After a few seconds, when I didn't hear anyone respond, I turned around and realized the guy was talking to me. Naturally; if I am nuts enough to be wearing work out shorts under my down jacket in the dead of winter, I must have some sort of title, a word that might help explain me. "None of the above," I told him. He seemed disappointed; he thought he had me pegged. Sure, I've run, I've cycled, and, if trying at least three sports (though not necessarily at the same time) counts, I've been a triathlete. But I'm already over defined -- JD, CYI, ASM (to be), blogger. There's simply no more room on the dotted line.

Come to think of it, the business cards I just ordered contain none of those impressive initials; it's as if I keep reinventing myself, hoping one day I'll figure out what people should call me. Frankly, the title that's stayed with me the longest is "mom," but somehow that hasn't made it to my resume. Funny, since motherhood has been my most intensive training ground, the role that has taught me how to solve problems as well as any jurist, to be as flexible as any yogi, and how to manage multiple tasks and all sorts of unruly people. And it's given me plenty of fodder for my blog.

Who am I? I suppose it depends on who's asking.

Axing Nostalgic

Long ago and not so far away my son, now twenty-one, was a teenage boy.

Though he was possessed of a large vocabulary, it was only decipherable through variations in grunts -- the slight deviations in tone quality, resonance, and duration that, as a mother, I learned to recognize. He showered often but never looked particularly scrubbed, and he trudged through his days as if the weight of the world rested on his yet to be broadened shoulders. His school notebooks -- to the extent they could be located -- looked as scattered as he often did, the frayed edges of pages torn from metal spirals poking out haphazardly as if they were trying desperately to free themselves from the tyranny of neatness and organization. Like his thoughts.

One day, there was a slight sea change. When he emerged from his shower, he did so in a cloud of, well, for lack of a better word, fragrance. He had discovered Axe, the men's hygiene product available as body wash, shampoo, after shave and lord knows what else. No matter what form it took, it was anything but subtle, not something you would expect from a kid who wanted to skulk through life unnoticed. It was like extra strength Febreze for living things, not much different from the stuff I used to spray in his hockey bag (or mine -- another story) so that when I unzipped it I wouldn't suffocate.

With the introduction of Axe in our home, I was at least able to keep track of my son's comings and goings, but otherwise it was just another thing for him to hide behind, as opaque as his unruly mop of hair and his stubborn silence. I get it, and, apparently, so do the folks who invented the stuff. New on the shelves this week: Axe: Anarchy for Her. It's our turn ladies, time to conceal the chaos within. Time to let everyone know we're there, but not necessarily what's there. Like old-fashioned French whores, we might even be able to skip a bath or two.


My son is still a mystery to me, even though he now uses far less aggressive soap products and even though he gets an occasional hair cut. Still, there is a certain appeal to hiding behind a veil of perfume, or hair, or a slouch so deep you can virtually disappear. It's nice to know there's a way you can keep your anarchy all to yourself.
 

Oink!

Tonight, Chinese folks everywhere will usher in the year of the dragon. As much as I would love to think of myself as a fire breathing dragon, I was born in the year of the pig. 

To my knowledge, I am not Chinese, not even by a tiny percentage. Which means I can interpret Chinese myths in whatever way I choose, and I choose the dragon. As a pig, I am peace loving, trusting, and strong. All true, I think, but where the hell is strength going to get me if I trust everyone and shy away from a good fight? Dragons have strong personalities, love their freedom, and hate routine. Now you're talkin'. When I open up my fortune cookie, that's what I want to see. Especially the part about hating routine -- it suggests kind of a take charge, screw the rest of you attitude. It's my feast, and I'll take my wonton soup after my moo shu, thank you very much.

A pig by birthright, maybe, but if I have learned anything from my extensive yoga training it's that I should be present, live in the moment, so this year I will be exhaling flames and upstaging pigs and other lesser beings everywhere with my flamboyant scales. I will guard my freedom jealously, and shatter old routines that have failed me. With apologies to my inner pig, I will fight for what I want, and I will trust nobody. If anyone's going to get burned this year, It's not going to be me. That is, as long as I don't inhale my own flames. 

Okay, maybe I'm sounding a bit too belligerent, even for a fire breathing dragon. And, okay, maybe I am all talk, and won't be waging many battles, won't be scorching any earth, might even fall into the trap of trusting some people. But all that won't diminish my strength in any way. I may be a pig, and a pacifist to boot, but it doesn't mean I can't stick my trusting little snout into the trough and grab the morsels that are rightfully mine. 

Dragon, pig, woman. Peaceful with a touch of lethal breath, and an occasional sprinkling of sugar and spice. Life on the farm (like everywhere else) can be complicated. 

Woman's Best Friends

I haven't been able to stop thinking about Leo this weekend. I think about him often, but the memories of my gentle old friend have so dominated my thoughts I find myself reminiscing out loud to anyone who will listen.

Curious about what I was up to a year ago today, I scrolled back through my old blog posts. As it turns out, a year ago this morning, I was calling the veterinary hospital at regular intervals to check on Leo. A year ago yesterday, he was diagnosed with cancer, and I had rushed him into surgery to buy him some time. If memory serves me correctly, a year ago tomorrow, I was sprawled on a blanket with Leo in the inner recesses of the hospital, spoon feeding baby food and trying to get him to eat peanut butter off my finger. The things we do for love.

Leo lived until Mother's Day, and his little sidekick, Manny, has never been the same. He's never stopped looking sad since Leo failed to return that night; it's as if some part of him followed Leo out of the house and somehow got lost. He went blind about two weeks later, but I don't think the blindness has ever been as much a cause of his sorrow as the loss of his best friend. Sure, Leo didn't exactly view Manny with the same kind of affection, but Manny, blissfully incapable of perceiving such nuances in emotion, was devoted, smitten, completely dependent. There is no longer any barking in the house; Manny used to only bark when Leo did, or when he happened to notice something that he wanted to share with his buddy. These days, he just doesn't have much to say.

As kind and good natured as Leo was, he was a royal pain in the ass. In his later years, he woke me every night at about two so he could go pee. He barked when a leaf blew by the window (autumn was a bitch). He left a trail of brown fur clumps throughout the house, and he almost pulled my arm out of its socket several times when another dog would appear on our walk. But, like Manny, I miss him terribly. Manny has taken over as household pain in the ass, some days making my life a bit of a living hell. But I would miss him terribly if he were not there. As sad as he is (he no longer drowns me in enthusiastic kisses), he still greets me when I come home with a wagging tail, and he still follows me around as if I am the finest person on earth.

All three of my kids want me to get a puppy so Manny can have a new friend. Easy for them to say; the dogs have never been their responsibility, just another thing or two in the house that could prove mildly entertaining when there's nothing better to do. I have finally gotten Manny back on track with his bathroom habits, and the thought of training a puppy is, to say the least, daunting.

Then I think about Leo, and Manny, and all they've taught me. I look at pictures of puppies every now and then, and feel my heart melting all over again. And I wonder how much more I will do, for love.

G Whizzes

It's a great time to be alive, and not only because technological advances have made rectal thermometers obsolete. (Sorry, I still marvel at the new ones that they just wave in front of your forehead; swipe -- it's as easy now to get a temperature read as it is to get cash.)

I remain optimistic in spite of the stories that dominate the news. War, famine, oppression, crime, toppling cruise ships, and the latest and, possibly, most distressing report, that the G-spot is a myth. Apparently, some of the best and brightest scientists, using all sorts of "objects" (hmm) and even plain old fingers, have been unable to find any evidence of the miraculous button that can lead to all sorts of wild and joyful explosions in a woman's body. Talk about a buzz kill.

These same geniuses, who have neglected to even consider the pleasures involved in the endless search for the elusive pot of gold, have also hypothesized (without any real scientific study or, um, hard empirical evidence, that all penises -- except those belonging to porn stars -- are pretty much the same size. Well, I don't know what kind of "yardstick" they're using but I'm thinking maybe the sample of "objects" used in the G-spot research was not statistically relevant. Maybe there's just a certain amount of tissue allocated to men for brains and penis, and maybe the men at Yale (where the recent study was conducted) just get a disproportionate share allocated to gray matter. I'm no scientist, but I'm thinking if they conducted the study at your average fifth tier school they might just find evidence of an entire alphabet's worth of spots.

Whatever the outcome, I still think it's a great time to be alive. G-spot research is as grant worthy as cancer research, Sarah Palin is back in the news, and the blackout that may have affected my search for Google images yesterday is over. At least I can amuse myself scanning pictures that might, er, enhance this post.

Gym Dandy

Apparently, if you get an excused absence from gym at the high school -- which seems reasonable if you've been diagnosed with mono and a sinus infection -- it means sure, you don't have to be here, but you're getting a D+. Really more of an acknowledged absence, I think.

The detailed message from the gym teacher outlining exactly how gym grades are calculated -- participation is huge, and when you're not there, for whatever reason, you are not participating -- probably should have cleared everything up for me, but I have to admit I still don't get it. Maybe it's my old fashioned math skills, or maybe it's some problem I have with basic vocabulary. "Excused" is obviously a word of many nuances.

Anyway, the very helpful gym teacher suggested that my daughter could bring her grade up, maybe to a C, if she pops over to the gym every day during finals week and puts in some time on an exercise bike. Hmm, maybe if she brings her heart rate up above two hundred she can get some extra credit, even eke out a B-. Whatever. It's all about the transcript, and Harvard isn't taking a kid who barely passes gym. Wait, Harvard probably isn't taking her anyway, so who cares?

Up here in deep dark suburbia, we do care, a lot, and we pay steep property taxes for top notch public education. And, for a lot of folks, whatever's left in the piggy bank goes to tutors. If you try to find a seat in the local Starbucks during finals, good luck with that. The tutors stake their claims early, setting up shop at every available table and couch as they receive the endless stream of students looking to enhance their grades I mean education. If all the pennies in my piggy bank weren't already spoken for (trailers aren't cheap), I'd be out there searching for a gym tutor. Someone who can explain to my daughter (and me, frankly) how to be there when you just can't be there.

I know I shouldn't be working up a sweat about all this, but what kind of parent would I be if I didn't do everything I could to advocate for my child. Then again, I've gotten pretty good at recognizing a lost cause when I see one, so I'm ripping up the court papers and hoping a little extra cardio between finals will be one of those invaluable learning experiences you just can't get when you're sitting home fighting what feels like the plague. At the very least, maybe she'll get that C.

Rolling Out the Red Carpet

If I seem distracted, it's just that I'm waiting for the Today Show segment that promises to tell me how to get a movie star's red carpet body.

Ah. Here we go. The LA nutritionist -- who looks as if her red carpet body strategy is to dwarf any excess flesh with the largest breast implants she could find -- is walking us through an array of tantalizing diet treats. There are juices in a rainbow of colors, but not one, as far as I can tell, that you can sink your teeth into. There's hemp protein powder, which looks a bit like petrified diarrhea, mixed into a deep purple concoction no doubt intended to block the memory of what the stuff really looks like. Not working for me.

Okay, she's moved on to something a bit more realistic: moderation. Simple, sensible, accessible. That is until the camera zoomed in on a plate with a piece of chicken about the size of a thumbnail. Like the breast implants, the huge pile of spinach next to it probably made it seem smaller than it really was, but still, if a portion is something I can stuff into my mouth all at once it's inevitable -- there's a midnight pizza in my future.

Discouraging. But, still hopeful, I perked up as she moved to the final option. After all, the best is always saved for last. Lovely meals, perfectly measured for nutritional content and calorie count, delivered right to your door, three times a day. Perfect. Now all I have to do is find someone willing to cook and assess and calibrate and bring it all to me, in the trailer park, for a reasonable price. Any volunteers?

Back to the red carpet. I think I'm going to wait for the next segment, on Melissa McCarthey's secrets. Affordable, attainable, and easy to maintain. I'm in!

In the Driver's Seat

When I backed out of my driveway for the second time yesterday morning, it did not occur to me that the neatly cleared pavement from an hour earlier would be densely packed with gray slush from the street plows.

Luckily, my daughter and I had decided to leave early for school, just in case the roads were bad. We never thought about the driveway, until the car stopped dead against the newly arrived immovable cushion of snow. With surprising good nature, she immediately offered to jump out and shovel, and I was not about to object, with my car's tushy warmers giving me the closest thing I'll get these days to a hot stone massage.

As it turned out, my daughter was wearing neither snow boots nor gloves, and my thrifty little spa treatment was short lived. Reluctantly (at least on my part), we switched places, and out I went to try to shovel a path while she waited for instructions on when to rock the car forward and backward. The piles of snow seemed insurmountable but, after a few minutes, thinking I had shoveled enough, I told her to give it a little gas. Well, it's hard to imagine such a skinny little wisp of a thing having such a heavy foot but the front tire started to spin at what seemed to be three million rpm's and, much to my daughter's toasty-assed delight, sprayed me with a face full of snow. Another thrifty spa treatment, I suppose; at any rate, the closest thing I'll get these days to a facial.

Okay, it's not like I'm complaining about not being able to afford some beautification and relaxation every now and then, but I have let things go a bit. Let's just say it's been so long since my last bikini wax I don't even need a leash for Manny. Ooh, that was awkward. Anyway, as we girls finally lurched backwards into the street (yes, people, I was back in the driver's seat since she was still bent over laughing about the little spraying incident) we high fived each other, congratulating ourselves on our can-do spirit.

Yesterday, we moved mountains. Tomorrow, maybe we'll tackle the broken door in the upstairs hallway. Maybe even screw in a few lightbulbs.

Living on the Edge (of my Seat)

I practically fell off my chair. Well, okay, I actually fell off my chair.

It happened at work, in the back office, where I was hiding from customers and eating lunch. It wasn't because anybody made me laugh, or that the fax coming in from my attorneys was even mildly amusing. I just misjudged where the chair would be after I stood for a moment -- no doubt right where it had been before -- and when my butt hit the front edge the chair literally flew out from under me, crashing into the wall as I crashed to the floor. Even my ass has lost a bit of footing, it seems.

I wonder sometimes if it's obvious, if folks on the outside looking in can tell I am on shaky ground. I wonder if I appear as off kilter as the forty-something year old woman in Starbucks, the one who is clearly operating without a full set of marbles. She has emerged again after a bit of a hiatus, and she is in rare form. She has something to say to everyone. In my case, she expressed concern about my well being and asked me if I'd like to be set up with someone. What a frightening thought.

The other day, just as I was about to pack up and leave to escape her incessant babble, men of all shapes and sizes began to stream in to Starbucks and she quickly lost interest in me. She works the room from her seat, catching the guys completely off guard as they approach the counter to place their order, talking to each one as if they've known each other for years. They all get sucked in at first, taking a few seconds to realize they do not know this woman who acts so familiar. To everyone except her, their body language betrays a desperate search for an exit strategy as they try to remain polite. Even those of us who know her routine, who have relinquished some of our social graces to guard against her badgering, have a hard time extracting ourselves from her invasions.

I may not be as "outgoing" as she is, but am I as out of control? Is there a crazy look in my eye that I fail to notice in the mirror, one that is painfully obvious to everyone but me? I examined my face more closely this morning as I brushed my teeth, searching for signs. The crows' feet have expanded a bit (you know what they say about crows; big feet, big, um, talons); the dark circles continue to spread, conquering more square footage around my sockets by the minute. Hardened specks of yesterday's mascara cling fast to the inner corners, the youthful glow is long gone. Aging, maybe. Crazy? I don't think so.

Come to think of it, even though I am definitely on shaky ground these days, I might actually be quite sane. My daughter told me this morning that she thinks she gets her resourcefulness from me. I practically fell off my chair.

The Right to Bare Arms (and Legs, and Breasts)

The Facebook generation is coming of age, the teens who don't blush when their parents bring out the naked baby bathtub pictures because they're too busy posting their own soft kiddie porn on line.

Back in the day, and by that I mean when my two older children graduated from high school earlier in the current millennium (which, if you do the math, is not that long ago), yearbook photos were subject to at least one strict guideline: head shots only. Implicit, I suppose, in that guideline, was a requirement that the student be appropriately clothed, at least from the neck up. Seemed reasonable at the time; still does.

Enter a babe-a-licious high school senior somewhere in the surprisingly not so wild wilds of Colorado, an aspiring model who thought it appropriate to submit a vampy shot of herself clad in a glorified bra and panties as her high school yearbook picture. Granted, it was hard for the geeks on the yearbook staff to say no to those smoky bedroom eyes, but, ultimately (possibly with a little help from the administration), they vetoed the shot.

So unfair! The poor child; even her mommy's unconditional support ("everyone has a right to self expression") can't help her. No worries, though. The Class of 2012's Most Likely To is smarter than your average bare ass. While morning show anchors shake their heads in empathy with her plight, she is pouting her way onto computer screens everywhere, maybe even to the cover of People Magazine once Kate Middleton turns thirty-one. Or gets fat.

Let's face it; Matt Lauer has never been the sharpest tool in the shed, but at least he once had youthful good looks on his side. "A slippery slope," he commented with a muted "tsk tsk," offering his support when the porn princess (oops, typo, I meant prom princess) suggested that next the staff would ban pictures of girls wearing something sleeveless. Oh, Matt. Wasn't that a great opportunity to point out the other slippery slope, the one littered with yearbooks full of nudity, maybe even a few masturbation shots for honor students?

Naturally, the issue is moot, since the circulation for this one yearbook picture has no doubt broken all sorts of records, and the little nymphet will be way too busy autographing wallet size copies of her rejected photo to pursue her constitutional rights all the way to the top. Even so, the school might be well advised to draft some guidelines to stave off further slides down the slope. And as for the little nymphet, she might as well enjoy the launching of her brief career before her fifteen minutes are up.

Please Take My Kodachrome Away

The Mary Tyler Moore Show notwithstanding, the seventies were just an ugly decade. Men wore really short shorts, white people wore afros, and the clothes were either "hippie" without the causes that made them cute in the sixties or just plain tacky.

Even three decades of penitence and rehabilitation in the post-seventies world of shabby chic cannot erase the hideous memories. And, thanks to modern technology, the yellowed photographs we took with our Kodak Instamatics can now be scanned and disseminated to the world at large, exposing us as the freaks we used to be. For those of us who had the decency long ago to shred all those photos, the sudden appearance of mountains of evidence of unspeakably bad taste is devastating. All those years spent reinventing ourselves, all the apparel bonfires devoted to making the world a prettier place, for naught. Sigh.

Today, my old friend Mimi, dubbed "group historian" by one of the other six in our newly reconvened childhood group, posted seventies-era photographs of all of us on Facebook. And to think I used to be quite fond of her. A pathologically sentimental idiot, apparently, she has saved everything -- pictures, letters (I tremble to think), autograph albums. (Note: an autograph album is the little zip up faux leather thing we all got at the end of the school year so that we could measure our popularity by the number of pages signed by "friends" we barely knew; sort of a precursor to Facebook.)

I suppose Mimi's passion for documenting the past might be useful in my quest to prove myself innocent of the charge that I was the one who first referred to one friend as "Boom Boom." (So far, Mimi has found no evidence of anybody calling anybody "Boom Boom," but the investigation is still pending, and frankly I would like to see my name cleared.) Otherwise, there doesn't appear to be any up side to sharing these pictures with the public. What happened in the seventies should stay in the seventies.

"Who can turn the world on with her smile?" Maybe Mary could, but I wouldn't put my money on any of the freaks in the picture. Possibly now, but not back in the day; not in those outfits.

Group Hug

There were six of us. In the grand scheme of things, the years we spent together don't add up to much, but childhood friends are not easily forgotten.

By high school, we had broken ranks. Zoning glitches separated us physically, dispersing us into various schools where we each faced intimidating crowds of unfamiliar faces. Even for the three of us who ended up in the same place, the lure of new friends loosened our clingy grip on the old. We pursued different interests, different people, different paths. Though we always retained some tenuous connection, we were no longer, and never again to be, a group of six.

Never, that is, until there was Facebook. Some of us have been in touch for a while, and have already caught each other up on the past thirty something years. Love, loss, success, disappointment; we all offer different versions of the same story. Eileen, Ellie, Jill (the real Jill), Mimi, Robin, and I, the six uncertain girls who used to walk to Hebrew School together twice a week, walk the mile together to junior high every day (uphill both ways, naturally), reconvened last night. The most elusive one, Robin, had finally been located (in Australia of all places) and we trickled into the on line chat just as we used to trickle into the lobby of Jill's apartment building each morning for our trek to school.

We floated notions of a reunion. A trip to Australia in January seemed appealing to some of us stuck here in the northern hemisphere. I suggested we meet to celebrate Mimi's birthday, which happens to be tomorrow, but that probably won't work. Someone else suggested we meet on the bench lined bike path on Ocean Parkway, the street on which we grew up. Is it possible that we've become the old ladies who sit on the benches watching the kids play? Frightening. We traded recollections of long forgotten pranks, scores that were never settled. Our good natured prattle was filled with implicit forgiveness, and a longing to reconnect with the ones who knew us when. Robin rattled off all of our birthdays. I can't remember my own phone number, but, those birthdays are permanently embedded in my brain.

Life has tossed us all over the globe, but, unlike many Facebook connections, the ones that seem cool for a moment but actually remind you why you lost touch in the first place, this one has warmed my heart. Whether it's winter in Australia or summer on a bench in Brooklyn, a reunion with my first group of friends would be like coming home.

To Be Perfectly Ernest

My son has decided to catch up on great American literature, and I have vowed to join him. Which is why his dog-eared copy of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms has been sitting patiently on my nightstand for two weeks, awaiting attention.

By last night, I had run out of excuses. I had filled in every square in the New York Times Magazine Sunday crossword, had correctly organized the numbers in the weekly sudokus, and had attained a score in a round of spider solitaire that will be virtually impossible for me to beat. I don't read other folks' blogs because if there's something out there better than my own (hypothetically, of course) I don't want to see it, and, anyway, I'm way too self absorbed to be interested in whatever anyone else has to say. It seemed only logical, then, to read a book. A good book.

Which is what I did. Or tried to do. After about seven pages of stark yet elegant prose describing wartime Italian countryside, I drifted off to sleep. And, truth be told, when insomnia interrupted me only an hour later, I opted for my paper back sudoku collection over Hemingway. Numbers can be so much less threatening than letters.

As I sit now with my son at Starbucks, he is well into For Whom the Bell Tolls, and I am still stuck on page eleven of Farewell. Not even the simplicity of Hemingway's diction can tempt me away from my more comforting habits. Yes, I have put down the number puzzles for the time being, reserving them for those long hours in the dark when I most need the reassurance of accomplishment, the sense of worth that goes along with filling in the final square. But my return to the world of letters and words is, as it often is these days, as writer rather than reader. It is life in a world of my own creation, life on my own terms.

I wonder what Hemingway liked to read, or if he liked to read at all. It's difficult to imagine him sitting in a Paris cafe, wasting time with his head buried in a book authored by someone else. Why read another guy's interpretation of things when you are perfectly capable of making your own observations and drawing your own conclusions? Why miss all there is to see when sitting in a Paris cafe?

I know what you're thinking. I am certainly no Hemingway, and my Starbucks in suburban Illinois is certainly no cafe on the left bank. I've fought some battles, but have never been away at war. I have tried to run, but I have never lived the life of a true expat (self-imposed exile in the neighborhood does not count). I can get mired in bullshit, but I shy away from bull fights. Come to think of it, I have seen relatively little (even though I think, sometimes, I have seen it all), and should, by all rights, have relatively little to say.

But when has that ever stopped me? Or anyone, for that matter. And so I will continue to read less than I should, do sudoku puzzles until my fingers ache, and blog about whatever springs to mind. It's how my world takes shape.

The Circus of Life

It looks like the birthday wedding dress shopping extravaganza is all systems go, so let the preparations begin. First item on my list: order a "Facelift Bungee."

Yes, for only $19.95 (plus shipping and handling), I can stretch my skin taut over my cheekbones without worrying about botox induced paralysis or irrevocably botched surgery. The bungee -- a hair clip attached to a chin strap you can tighten to your heart's content -- is virtually risk free. My only concern would be pulling so hard that my boobs flip up over my shoulders, but that's probably not much of a risk when their normal resting place is somewhere around my knees.

What will they think of next? All I know is I don't want to look like the forty-nine year old who was trying on princess ball gowns the other day on Say Yes to the Dress, with leathery tan skin sewn so tightly over her cheekbones her eyes were practically on the back of her head. Little girls playing dress up can be cute. Old cougars playing little girls playing dress up -- not so much.

I'm counting on the facelift bungee to give me a more natural youthful look, and I'm hoping the product line is expanded in time for my shopping expedition to include an ass trapeze and a tummy tight rope. A three ring circus right in my own body, my aging assets defying gravity and most other laws of nature. But, damn it, I'm going to look good in that mermaid gown.

No need to send in the clowns. They're already here.

It's Only Fitting

Unless hell freezes over, I don't plan to be remarried -- or even thinking about it -- by my next birthday. But I can't help myself; I am obsessed with the idea of shopping for a wedding dress, just to see what the real deal feels like. And with nothing inherently special about turning fifty-three -- it's a prime number, not even divisible by seventeen, according to my very bright friend Cherry -- I need to create my own fun.

I am already dropping hints, paving the way for a gathering of my posse in New York City where I will try on every style of wedding dress ever made at the television gown capital of the world, Kleinfeld's. I don't necessarily require that my appointment be captured on film -- although it would certainly be icing on my birthday cake to star in a Say Yes to the Dress episode -- but I do expect a private audience with the extremely gay gown guru, Randy. Naturally, my greatest fantasy would be to turn him straight, but I will settle for an excited swish of his narrow hips and a big juicy hug.

The other day, I kind of got caught up in a Big Bliss marathon of Say Yes. I was riveted by the spectacle of morbidly obese women -- and I mean morbidly obese, with tattoos on their arms wider than my ample ass -- floating through the stock room of fluffy, feathery gowns, seeking the magical dress every girl dreams about. (Well, almost every girl; my daydreams of satin and tulle and lace and jeweled tiaras only began recently.)

Anyway, the pattern was pretty much always the same (and I am not just referring to the preponderance of African American fiances in this particular demographic). Hope at the beginning, despair after the first few dresses made them look more like giant pagodas than princesses, and, finally, tearful joy when some figure hugging gown seemed to perform nothing short of a miracle. And then, there's the final fitting, where the seamstress, a genius who I am certain has an advanced degree in engineering, always manages to take some of the delicate fabric and build a sturdy fortress somehow capable of containing boobs the size of small planets. The show has it all: drama, suspense, fantasy, and even a touch of science fiction.

If I am to compete with any of this, my posse of matrons of honor (who will not be forced to wear lavender chiffon on the off chance any of this leads to a wedding), will need to begin preparations for the big day now. We need a back story: a groom to capture the imagination of a broad audience (I'm thinking a twenty-five year old is probably the way to go), a tortured relationship with my mother (that'll write itself), a long lost sibling who needs a spleen transplant and I'm the only match (should be easy to find a neighbor in the trailer park willing to hook herself up to a few tubes in a hospital bed just to make a few bucks), and a whopper of a budget (to match my whopper princess dreams).

Space in my entourage will be limited, so if you have any interest, start working on that resume. Anyone unwilling to tell me I look absolutely stunning in everything need not apply.