Reality Bites

We leave Paradise this morning. I woke early, finding myself hugging a lukewarm bottle of Corona. Unopened.

Within seconds, after some of the fog cleared, I vaguely recalled getting up in the middle of the night scratching myself raw from mosquito bites. The best I could do was grab an ice cold beer from the mini bar and hold it against some of the worst spots to numb the itch. They say everything happens for a reason; I suppose I've been nibbled half to death so I will be better equipped to handle the transition back to reality. Such as it is.

By tomorrow, I'll have traded the morning wake-up call of crashing waves for the gentle snoring of a smelly dog. Beach yoga, beach volleyball, beach walks -- they will be but distant memories. Me posing for a photo with a huge python wrapped around my neck? Not so distant, I'm afraid. My daughter has been stalking the photography office to ensure we don't leave without that picture. She has assured me that nobody will notice the sagging flesh of my middle aged body in a bathing suit; my wild eyed look peering through the loop of the snake's muscular torso will detract from all that. It was a pretty big snake.

Last night, we bid adios to Puerto Vallarta with a final trek into the center of town for a traditional Mexican dinner of bruschetta and pasta. Yes, even I have had my fill of guacamole and tortilla soup. We wore our favorite sundresses, every ounce of silver we had purchased from our new best amiga Lupe, and even put on makeup. I cheated a little, leaving the oil from the late afternoon massages we had enjoyed in my hair, thinking it might help to counteract the weeklong beating it had taken from the sun. So what if the pieces I couldn't quite stretch into a pony tail hung down the sides of my face like sauteed linguine?

The beaches and the restaurants were noticeably uncrowded this year; no doubt, news reports of rampant kidnappings and random murders scared many Americans off to tamer hot spots. Maybe we're brave, maybe we're just reckless, but we took taxis and wandered the streets without fear. We sort of got kidnapped last night by some overly zealous nightclub employees who physically grabbed us by the arms and dragged us into their bar and sat us down in the zebra upholstered booth by the front window.  My protests were ignored, my feeble attempts to get up and leave were met with gentle but emphatic escorts back to the table. Most people get bounced out of bars. We seem to do everything ass backwards.

I am happy to report they didn't kill us. They did, however, give us free margaritas (which of course my daughter could not drink)  and we, in turn, did them the favor of staying for a bit so other passers by might think the place was popular and worth checking out. Charity may begin at home, but there's no reason to leave it behind when you cross the border.


We leave today a little bitten up, a few pounds heavier, a few shades darker, and filled with memories of a much needed mother/daughter vacation in the sun. My daughter leaves with a few new Facebook friends. I'll just stick with the memories, and adhere to the words on the tee shirt I won the other day: What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico.

This Just In...

I tried. I really tried.

Thinking there might be something happening in the world that could be of greater interest to my readers than a daily account of my Mexican vacation, I went on a news site this morning. Christie Brinkley and her ex (her second ex, that is) have both gone public with the accusation that the other is a narcissist. Beauty ads are being banned left and right because Photoshop is being used to do what no face cream or mascara can. Republican presidential candidates are still making themselves and each other look ridiculous, and Obama is keeping a low profile. A Jet Blue pilot had a psychotic episode mid-flight, which was surprising to the CEO of the future defendant company, who insists the guy was never psychotic before.

Yes, the most newsworthy event of the past twenty-four hours is my surprise win in the water balloon contest at the pool. Somehow, I beat all the guys and my daughter -- who is still a bit cocky from her near victory in the football throw -- and snagged myself a free tee shirt. Not to mention the admiration of all the other chicks; I feel like Betty Friedan in a bathing suit. Actually, I kind of look like Betty Friedan in a bathing suit.

Me after my water balloon victory! No Photoshop, totally unretouched!

Today promises to be as eventful and exhausting as yesterday was. Beach yoga begins shortly, and I'm hoping the three Advil I washed down with my very weak coffee about an hour ago starts to kick in. I think the jet ski ride with my daughter driving did me in. Or maybe it was my rather graceless dismount, still a source of great amusement for her. (It's one of many items on the list she's compiling of "things to tell my siblings about mom;" right after the one about me almost walking face first into a wall. Don't ask.)

Another day, another adventure.  No worries -- I'll keep you posted.

Burning the Other Cheek

It's bad enough that I have a raging sunburn on the bottom portion of my butt cheeks. Worse still, the folks down here who have spent top dollar to escape the sad realities of life for a week had to walk by and feast their eyes on those chunks of middle aged flesh poking shamelessly out of my bathing suit bottom.

My heart goes out to them. At least they can save some pesos; they got their whale watching excursion for free. For years, on family trips to Mexico, we spent hundreds of dollars on pointless and tedious excursions just to break up the monotony of seemingly endless days in the sun. As if we actually came down here for the purpose of expanding our horizons and soaking up local culture. At any rate, experience has made me wiser and far more frugal. I have discovered that a well placed umbrella makes the agony of a beach vacation far less excruciating, and even helps cut down on the cost of sunblock. OMG! I'm becoming cheap. Is extreme couponing just around the corner?

Today, since we've managed to be so careful with our pesos (and because we're a bit overcooked), we're going to head into town to do a little shopping. The new me is determined to haggle, to refuse to pay anything close to whatever ridiculous price the vendors ask for some worthless silver trinket. So what if they have ten kids to feed back in their tiny house in the village? So what if they have to trudge for miles in the heat carrying enough jewelry to fill a small store. At least they get to live in paradise. Am I missing something?

Yesterday, as my daughter and I strolled along the water's edge in an effort to stay cool, we saw a Mexican gentleman walking on the dry sand with no less than twenty Mexican wool blankets piled on his shoulder. I wondered how many blankets he could possibly sell in a day to sweating tourists who have no room in their suitcases for such a bulky item. I wondered whether he wakes up in the morning pondering how lucky he is to be living in paradise. And to think I went into a tailspin because I thought I might have to clean a bathroom at work. (As it turns out, I just need to make sure somebody else does it. Phew!)

Will I continue to resist paying hundreds of dollars on excursions to nowhere? Yes. Will I haggle today with the silver vendors, the tired looking souls who work long days in the heat just to scrape two pesos together? Probably not. In a few days, my singed butt cheeks will be sitting in first class on their way back to reality, and the folks who had to see them will have long forgotten the unpleasantness of the view. The blanket vendor will still be walking back and forth on the sand, the silver vendors will still be playing the age old bargaining game with well heeled Americans and Canadians.

Just another day in paradise.

Life's a Beach

In the heat of the tropical sun, my sweat is a pungent mix of guacamole and tequila. I am a walking fiesta.

We have tucked two days of togetherness under our belts (which, at the rate we're going, will not fit at all by the time we leave), and we are still proclaiming the trip to be a complete success. No, this is not some kind of drunken I love you. It is early in the morning, I am completely sober, and the cool ocean breeze promises to keep me hours away from the delirium of heat stroke.

It doesn't hurt that I just found out it's cold and dreary in Chicago. Heck, I'm feeling so optimistic that I'm fairly certain global warming will resume just in time for our return north. Life is good -- as long as you don't waste time worrying about the future. And, really, who has time to worry about the future when your days are as busy as they are down here. Eat, walk, nap, eat, nap, water aerobics, eat, nap. It's not surprising we've been in bed by nine each night.

Today we are going to pick up the pace a bit. As my daughter pointed out, there are only five tanning days left, and we still have to squeeze in some shopping, parasailing, ziplining, and a few death defying spins on a wave runner. Oh, Monday mornings. Why do they always have to be so stressful? And don't even get me started on the Javier issue -- the stunning twenty-four year old who seems as smitten with my daughter as I (and all the other old ladies here) are with him. He asked her how old she is. "Fifteen," I replied, loudly enough to drown out her response ("almost sixteen"). Save me.

The truth is we just needed this time together, my youngest daughter and I, to get reacquainted, to reassure each other that in spite of all the changes we've endured over the past few years the important things have not changed. The configuration of our family is in constant flux, not just because of divorce but because her two older siblings have, as they should, moved out and moved on. She cannot wait to do the same. I, on the other hand, despair at the thought. But, as I said, the important things have not changed, and I don't think they will.

Anyway, why worry? And, like I said, who has the time? The sun is finally peeking over the mountaintops and making its way toward the beach. Our senses are about to be bombarded -- by the aromas from the kitchen, the touch of the tropical sun, the songs of the sea birds, the salt on the rim of my margarita glass. And the spectacular views. Cloudless skies, sparkling ocean, and, best of all, Javier.

The fiesta that is day three is about to begin, and the scent of it will soon be oozing out of my pores.  Life is good. 

Birds of a Feather

Day one was a success. 

Even the travel was auspicious. In a matter of days, I went from being asked to clean toilets to sitting – quite unexpectedly – in first class, where I could feel the envy of all the common folk as they trudged by me to the back of the plane. Where I would be the first to sneer and tattle if one of them dared to sneak into our private quarters and try to use our exclusive potty. Clean toilets? Pshaw. I OWN that toilet.

The nicest thing about first class, besides the leg room, is getting off the plane first, particularly in Mexico, where nobody appears to be in any hurry. We whisked through immigration, watching gleefully as the throngs behind us took their positions in the line that would no doubt take hours to move. Seasoned visitors to Mexico, we grabbed our suitcases, relied on my daughter’s proven magic touch to press the button that would determine whether we would need to have our bags searched – man, she’s good – and managed to avoid the hundreds of sly and quite insistent time share sellers as we made our way to our waiting prepaid shuttle, which, miraculously, pulled away only half full just after we took our seats. Within an hour, we were at the pool, eating guacamole and getting down to the serious business of tanning.

My daughter has inherited my flea-like attention span, so it didn’t take long for us to tire of sitting around and we ventured off for our first of many walks along the beach. We are a potentially lethal combination – a premenopausal bitch and an almost sixteen year old girl. Each of us had dealt silently for several weeks with the fear that a week alone together, without friends or other siblings as buffers, could shatter the delicate balance we’ve worked so hard to maintain. But as we strolled along, squealing as the icy waves broke over our feet, laughing at the two skinny legged birds trying to run from the water each time it rushed up on the sand and wondering out loud why the hell they just didn’t use their wings and fly, we both knew it would be okay.

We allowed ourselves, without much protest, to be dragged into a football throwing contest by the very adorable too-old-for-her and way-too-young-for-me activity guys at the pool, and I was quite proud to see how she could use her charm to secure a promise of a prize (a tee shirt, folks, just a tee shirt) from the really cute one even though some ringer came in at the last minute and beat her. That’s my girl! He’s even tossing one in for me. I batted my eyes at him but I don’t think he noticed.

As we stumbled into bed at nine o’clock, we high fived each other and officially proclaimed day one to have been a success. Sometimes we both forget that we have wings. Silly birds. This week, we will remember to use them.

The "Do Do" List

Sometimes you just have to wait for a sure sign to know when it's time to quit. For some of us -- those of us who can be rather dense -- the "sure" sign is preceded by a veritable ticker of "pretty sure" signs that, for whatever reason, get ignored.

Like manna from heaven, I received the surest of signs today that it was indeed time to move on, that my fledgling career in retail had run its course. The sign was actually item number one on a "to do" list my newly appointed barely out of diapers assistant manager was kind enough to put together for me -- the latest masterpiece from her on the job management training program. A "to do" list? Really? I couldn't imagine what I had been missing. I am a masterful saleswoman (with the numbers to back me up); I show up on time and never leave early; I open the tills in the morning and close them at night without losing a dime, and I do the endless and largely repetitive calculations with efficiency and accuracy. I speak the language of retail, of margins and plans and UPT and ADS and SPH and DNS. Impressed?

Anyway, back to the list compiled by the kindergartner turned assistant manager, a list that looked jam packed except I was so mortified by item number one I have no idea what else was on it. Clean the bathroom, it said. I had to read it again just to be sure. Now, aside from the fact that I spend every moment I am in the store either conning people into buying things that look awful on them or performing various forms of slave labor and am usually too busy to even pee, I have no intention of ever cleaning my own bathroom, much less anyone else's. That's why God created cleaning ladies. Come to think of it, my cleaning lady gets a lot more money to clean my toilets than I get to apply my well-educated brain to the intricacies of sales spread sheets. Maybe I shouldn't be so hasty.

Nope, I know myself too well. I can't even look at a toilet with the seat up without feeling nauseated. And I can't even venture into the stock room after certain folks who will remain nameless have availed themselves of the facilities (a luxury apparently reserved only for high level management). So I have carefully considered my options, and have decided it is time for a career change, one that will not require me to go anywhere near a toilet brush or a can of Lysol. I did, for a moment, consider the possibility of snatching the assistant manager's toothbrush and taking it for a quick swish around the rim, but, as appealing as it seemed, it would take me dangerously close to the pee and poop stained porcelain. The nightmares couldn't possibly be worth it.

I will have to be extra frugal now if I am to continue to save for the best double wide out there. No more astronomical hourly wage, no more deeply discounted stretch pants. And, if I happen to meet the man of my dreams, forget about my Say Yes to the Dress fantasy shopping extravaganza at the venerable Kleinfeld's. I hear they sell wedding dresses at Costco now -- I hope my entourage won't be too disappointed.

Onward and upward. Not sure what I'll include in the new and improved resume, but I have a few ideas: BA, JD, and Don't Do Toilets.

Cruise Control

It's the middle of the night, and I've woken drenched in sweat. Maybe a hot flash. Maybe.

I had been dreaming that I was on a cruise. Every man who has ever claimed to love me was there. A nightmare, obviously. My subconscious doesn't trust my judgment though, so on the off chance I settled happily into dreamland thinking I was on some sort of floating paradise, the ocean outside my porthole was littered with icebergs. Subtle.

Love. Disaster. Sometimes it's difficult to know the difference. I was in every scene, but more as an extra than a key player. Men -- the men in my life -- waved their penises at each other (no, not literally), puffing their chests out, ruffling their feathers. They pumped their fists at each other but kept their eyes fixed on me. Like pins in a voodoo doll, the punches left visible scars on the guys but landed deep in my own gut. It's so nice to be loved.

Had I not woken in a sweat, I imagine the dream would have ended with me watching helplessly from the deck of the ship as the men in my life, the men who have "loved" me, jostle their way into the nearest life boat, throwing punches all the while. I toss a few kicks and jabs of my own, but they land in air. I scream but nobody hears.

Except for the noticeable absence of strategically placed dispensers of hand sanitizer, the nightmare was frightening in its "realness." No wonder I was sweating. I listened for the sound of Celine Dion belting out My Heart Will Go On; my pulse slowed and my body cooled when all I could hear was the sound of Manny snoring. I had made it through. Somehow, I had caught a life boat after all.

So now what? I am off the sinking ship, the one where "women and children first" somehow turned into "every man for himself." I am adrift, sometimes, and the water is still littered with hidden mountains of razor sharp icebergs, with men who will show love in odd ways. But I am learning to navigate, to steer clear of what lies beneath the tips.

A Busman's Holiday

Yesterday I did a little shopping. Sure, it was therapeutic, but I'd like to think it was a valuable bit of career training. What better way to figure out how to be a good salesperson than to see things from a buyer's perspective. I take my job very seriously, so playing customer for a while seems a small price to pay.

The training began when reluctantly dragged myself to meet a friend at a favorite boutique where another friend works. It's kind of hard to get away with the "just looking" line when you are the only two customers and you've known the owner and the part-time sales person for years. And, truth be told, we were soooo not just looking. We were on a mission. We wanted cool new stuff. Oh yes, and I wanted to become the best retail specialist I can be.

Lesson number one, which I don't think will work very well for me in the large suburban shopping mall, is to greet your customers with a genuinely warm and gleeful hug. From the moment my friend wrapped me up in her comforting seller's arms, I started undressing myself with my own eyes, gazing over her shoulder at all the enticing new spring items beckoning me from the walls and the tables and the strategically placed racks. Let go! I wanted to tell her. I have work to do! 

To be sure, there are a few customers out at the mall whom I've come to know and enjoy, and though I may not run over and give them a big bear hug, my smile and warm greeting are uncharacteristically genuine when they show up. And I can tell they are happy to see me as well. Not just because of my sparkling personality, but because I exist, for however long it takes, to show them cool new stuff that will look good on them and make them feel happy. For a few moments at least. 

Unfortunately, customers who want to "play" are few and far between, and all too often folks come in chatting on their cell phones, studiously averting your gaze when you greet them so even the most dense among us will get the message to butt out. If I am in a particularly nasty mood, I will purposely badger people like that, knowing that, at best, they're just going to head right for the sale rack anyway and pick out some ratty old tee shirt for a ridiculously low price. Hellooooo! There's a reason that thing has been marked down to "if you take me, I'll pay you." It's an eyesore, an abomination. As unwelcome in the store as the nasty cheapskate buying it. 

Lesson number two, which definitely can work in my store at the mall, is to lead the customers to the skinny mirrors. Though the owner of my favorite little boutique assured me yesterday that what you see in her mirrors is the absolute truth, I am skeptical. There is no way in hell I actually look as fabulous in everything as I did in those mirrors.  But that's okay. I am a professional at seeking out skinny mirrors, and I avoid reality like the plague. Note to self: lead difficult customers to fitting room number three. Where camel toes and back fat become virtually invisible -- especially if your eyesight is not what it used to be. And for goodness sake, steer clear of three way mirrors. Talk about a sure fire way to ruin any woman's day.    

Lesson number three: attract customers who think spending money is fun. Customers who don't approach a little shopping as if it is a serious financial decision. Customers who will buy it if they like it, and not obsess too much about how much they don't need it. Honestly, who really needs any of this crap. This is a lesson I have already mastered. Most of my best sales are to me.

I cannot wait to try out what I learned yesterday. Or at least try on what I bought. As soon as I find the right mirror.   

Unfriendly Skies

I was feeling some sympathy for the couple kicked off an airplane before taking off for home from their Caribbean vacation, although I have to admit I felt a little less generous when I saw them interviewed on television.

Good looking, both doctors, the pair made the ill advised decision to appear on camera with their two little girls in tow. The two year old who had thrown the tantrum to end all tantrums -- and interfere with air traffic -- was relatively quiet. Her older sister, however, squirmed and stretched and resisted all of her mom's meek efforts to keep her still, making her well educated, well heeled parents look a bit incompetent. Apparently, they don't teach you how to control your children in medical school.

I have been that desperate and despised parent on the plane. Years ago, when I was hugely pregnant and running through the terminal holding my almost one year old face out in front of me and tripped, cleverly using her head to break my fall, I had to spend the next two hours on a flight to New York attempting to muffle her screams. The flight attendants were annoyed and supremely unhelpful. I was mortified, but far more concerned about how my parents would react when they saw the golf ball sized bump in the middle of their grandchild's forehead. Frankly, I would have been relieved if they had kicked us off the plane.

More than twenty-two years have passed since that miserable day. My parents went easy on me -- possibly because they remembered with a mix of pity and dread the time I had visited and lifted the same child up only to bang her head against the dining room chandelier and proceeded to bang my own head against it with considerable force so I could gauge how severely I had harmed her. They were horrified, and encouraged me to stop and phone the pediatrician. He told me to put my feet up and have a glass of wine. Which worked wonders for me, but sent my despairing parents into a total tizzy. First some masochistic head banging, then alcoholism. I ask you, if you can't control the behavior of a thirty year old, why do we expect any parent to be able to control a toddler?

The other night, my almost sixteen year old daughter became upset with me -- with good reason -- and refused to look at me, much less speak to me. I was devastated, lost, felt as if I had been left on an island all by myself. My youngest child was acting out, tormenting me in a way that made the idea of dealing with a two year old screaming up and down the aisle of an airplane sound like a walk in the park. There was nothing I could do to make it stop; I could only hold my breath and wait.

I am not a big fan of waiting though, so I used the only tool at my disposal -- my words. As she silently ate her dinner the next evening, I chatted. She listened, but said almost nothing. She told me it would take her some time; I said what I wanted to say, and I left her alone, telling her where to find me if she needed to. It did not take long at all; like her older siblings, she is kind and forgiving. I am very lucky.

As parents, we all make mistakes, and our children are more than willing to point them out and punish us. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Doctor should have left the kids home and taken a much needed vacation. Certainly, they should have left the kids home for a national television appearance. Then again, there are lots of things all of us should or should not have done. At best, we learn from our mistakes, and forgive ourselves.

A Maxwell House Moment

Available upon request!

A Maxwell House Moment (Brooklyn Style)

Coffee commercials always make me cry. I am a sucker for sappy sentimentality; I get teary eyed just thinking about the one where the son surprises everyone early Christmas morning. But sometimes, the most tender moments happen in real life -- sort of a corollary of you just can't make this shit up. And so it was, this morning, when my mother phoned and truly raised the bar for what ad agencies might tout as "the best part of waking up."

"I had an incident the other day," she began, "but I'm fine." Her way of reminding me I have been a wayward child, woefully out of touch. I would have tried to regain some points by telling her how relieved I was that she was fine, but she uses a special caption phone for the deaf and has yet to master the art of awaiting the print out of a response. I settled in with a sigh, knowing there would be a fairly lengthy back story before she ever got to "THE INCIDENT."

So I worked on my sudoku while she went on at some length about some young man who continues to show up drunk in the apartment building, reportedly the son of some people who live there. Blah, blah, blah... "so on Tuesday mawning...." Shit. Tuesday. It's Thursday. My mother had some horrifying INCIDENT more than forty-eight hours ago, and I knew nothing of it. She might be fine, but I was toast.

I put down my Sudoku book. "So on Tuesday mawning I opened the daw to the apawtment to get the newspapah." Oh no! Did she bend down the wrong way? Throw out her back again? I waited silently. It's not like I was part of the conversation. "And I look down and there's a BODY crumpled up on the flaw, right outside my daw." A body on the flaw by the daw? And she's telling me this as matter-of-factly as if she were complaining about a slight twinge on her spine. I gasped, which probably doesn't show up on her caption phone -- not that it matters.

"Crumpled up, in a puddle of urine." I didn't know whether to be horrified or grossed out. "So I tried to close the daw quickly but the newspapah got in the way." Tragic. "But I managed." Phew. At least the unconscious or possibly dead person outside her door didn't take the paper, and he'd have to regain consciousness and get through a heavy, dead bolted door before harming her.

"Well, I was hahrified. Just hahrified." That seemed reasonable. "But I decided that befaw I did anything, I was going to enjoy my cawfee!" I was speechless, which, again, she would have no way of knowing because she doesn't wait for responses to show up. "I had just made it, and I like to drink it when it's fresh." Of course. So she lingered over her coffee, which, I can tell you from years of experience, took at least twenty minutes, and then went back to the door to peer through the peephole and see if the body was still there. I was kind of guessing it was, although the suspense built up a little bit here because, as it turns out, you can't see the floor from the peephole and you have to actually open the door, which she did, just a crack. The body was indeed still there, but had made its way into a seated position. Like any good Samaritan, mom slammed the door.

Anyway, I think she called 911 before she had her second cup, but I'm not sure because I was feeling a bit weepy from the tender coffee commercial moment. At least I know where I get my sense of compassion and good will. But back to the back story, which now included the young Orthodox Jewish neighbor who happened to come into the hallway and see the "body" and rushed into his apartment to get some latex gloves (naturally, a doctor) and take the guy's pulse. And the other neighbor across the hall, who recognized the "body" as the perpetually drunk and stoned son of the people in 2-J. So off they went to 2-J -- my mom, the nosy lady, the Jewish doctor, and the body -- to 2-J. As it turns out, my mom knows the couple in 2-J ("a lovely couple; not Jewish, but very nice people").

As far as I know, somebody cleaned up the urine, and my mother was able to finish her coffee and read her newspaper. And she feels kind of bad for the lovely though not Jewish couple in 2-J because they are stuck with a drunk for a son. But at least he comes to visit. 

Not So Rapid Transit

Like everybody else, I give myself a lot of extra time when I am headed to the airport to catch a flight. I know that no matter how prepared I am in advance to put my laptop in its own bin and remove my baggie full of liquids from my carryon and take off my shoes and my belt and my oversized metal watch, there is bound to be confusion ahead of me in the security line.

And that’s all okay. I get a warm fuzzy feeling when the TSA agents watching the mysterious x-ray monitor make a catch – a pair of scissors, a bottle of water, a blow dryer that could easily be mistaken for a pistol. Or when agents watching the stuff come out the other side of the screening belt are astute enough to notice traces of a mysterious white powder on the handles of, say, a diaper bag. You can never be too careful these days, and things only promise to get worse. I have been dieting and exercising furiously in anticipation of the day when we must all shed everything and pass through security buck-naked.

But there are some things that just shouldn’t move slowly at the airport. Like the line at the Starbucks. Which is where I got stuck in a holding pattern for about a half hour the other day while the slowest person on the planet handled the drink orders. As if things were not moving at enough of a snail’s pace, the slowest person on the planet took a break from the rapidly building line of cups to fill the napkin holders on the cream and sugar table. The trip from behind the counter took several minutes; the loading – which appeared to be happening one napkin at a time – took an eternity. I could hear my flight being called in the distance, but there was no way in hell I was leaving without my already paid for latte and my friend’s half-caff with a hot soy topper, which, unfortunately, was missing the soy topper. Oh, if only there had been more time.

Frankly, I would still be fuming about the Starbucks fiasco had I not raced back to the gate to discover that my travel companion had, after presenting his drivers license to the curbside check-in guy, been granted a boarding pass with a woman’s  name (Jill Ocean!) on it. And – as we were already at the gate and he was still holding the same boarding pass – we quickly surmised that the highly trained TSA agent with the high tech flashlight who examines everybody’s ticket and identification before they even get the privilege of disrobing for the screeners had failed to notice that this man was clearly holding somebody else’s boarding pass. Let alone the same boarding pass he had just put all sorts of official looking circles on a moment earlier when the real Jill Ocean had passed through. So much for warm fuzzy feelings.

Oh well. At least we can be fairly certain that neither he nor anyone else was travelling with a hidden water bottle, or with explosives in his shoes. In his underwear, maybe, but definitely not in his shoes.

Out of Order

A friend emailed last night to ask whether my day had been as bad as hers. "Yes," was my response. Yes, I supposed, even though I have no idea what made her day so rotten. Yes, I supposed my day was at least as bad as hers had been, but I was pretty damn sure neither of us had as bad a day as the old friends of mine I saw yesterday, at their fifteen year old son's wake. Days don't get any worse than that.

When a child dies, everything else seems meaningless. Divorce, petty disagreements, even premenstrual bloating (and who says I lack perspective?). The funeral home was already packed by the time I arrived, but the ever increasing number of live bodies was insufficient to mask the telltale smell of tragic loss. It's a smell I associate with embalming, even though I have no real idea of what embalming smells like. Like the smell of old age that assaults you when you enter a nursing home. Or Old Country Buffet. There is no mistaking it, no question about where you are.

If the world is to be divided into his side and mine as we trudge into year three of our divorce proceedings, this wake was situated well inside my husband's camp. The grieving father is a long time work colleague, the mom a person I always enjoyed seeing but only really saw at work related events. That was the nature of our relationship -- the occasional  social engagements, long and often revealing conversations over multiple glasses of wine, well intentioned promises to get together some time, just on our own. As it turns out, yesterday was the first time I have seen these folks in several years; and it was the first time I have seen many of the other mourners, people I had grown accustomed to seeing in black tie, not funeral black.

Like everyone else in the room, I struggled to make sense of it all. To figure out why parents were burying a child, why things had happened in the wrong order. And, I struggled to figure out where I fit in, suddenly an outsider in this room filled with my husband's colleagues and their spouses. Greetings were awkward; an open bar would have been nice. (The child's mom confided that she had taken an occasional trip outside to grab a swig from a flask; I offered myself up as a companion for her next break.) As I stood in a surreal circle that included me, my husband, and his companion of the past two years, I thought for a moment that maybe a foray into the next room to view the body would be less uncomfortable. It wasn't. Not by a long shot.

I'd met Sam when he was little. What I recall as remarkable about him was that you would never know by looking at him that his heart wasn't in mint condition. Despite a lifetime of worries and surgeries and constant contact with a pediatric cardiologist, his parents struggled to give him as normal a life as possible. He lived doing what other kids do, and he died playing basketball -- doing what other kids do. This wake was a celebration of Sam, filled with his fifteen year old friends, some crying, some standing around feeling out of place, some writing messages to Sam with markers on large posters taped to the wall. It wasn't just me; nobody felt right being there. There is nothing right about the death of a child.

Like many of the adults in attendance, I went home to hug my children -- either in the flesh or over the phone. The mom and I promised each other we would get together, as soon as things calm down. Maybe on a not so bad day, some time down the road.