Taking it All With A Grain of Sand

Not too long ago, I took an evening walk on a beach. The heat of the day had dissipated, and, ditching my usual beach attire for jeans and a sweater, I strolled, listening to the waves crash against the sand, marveling at the stars that don't tend to sparkle so brightly at home. I felt, at once, as if I had reached the end of the world as well as some new beginning. And then, I fell into a hole.

Damn sand castles and, in this case, apparently, an extra large lagoon. When I first lost my footing, I had a moment of fear, fear that I had come across the handiwork of the one child in history who has actually succeeded in digging his way to China. I had not intended to venture anywhere near that far. But my free fall was blessedly short, and, with my butt imprinting itself on the floor of the lagoon and my legs flailing in the air, I laughed until I cried.

Or cried until I laughed. What's the difference, anyway? Yesterday, I was so irate at the way a certain cable operator and Internet provider was treating me I decided to go out for a drink. Okay, it was a medium Diet Coke from McDonald's, but still. So, to make a long story short, and not to cast undue aspersions on what I am sure is a very nice company with a one word alliterative name starting with a "C," I was frantically trying to pay my bill over the phone. For some reason, this bill always slips beneath the radar -- possibly because it's the only one I don't have scheduled on line. I am sure they try to alert me each time I pass through the grace period for missing a payment, but since I never answer my home phone, the sudden cutoff in Internet service (the phone they can take, as well as the television) always catches me completely by surprise.

So after a hard day of retail I came home to discover that I would have to keep trying to read my emails on my tiny little phone (bad enough) and my daughter's English paper, which she had reserved for the last minute, could not possibly be written without an Internet connection (catastrophic). And speaking of catastrophic, I still had to call our new insurance company so I could answer the questions my soon to be ex husband could not answer for me, like why I change anxiety pills more often than most folks change their underwear. But that's another issue. Sort of.

Anyway, the customer service lady with the sickeningly sweet voice at the headquarters of the alliterative one word named cable operator and Internet provider told me I could not make the payment over the phone until my husband called in with his security passcode and officially authorized me as a user on the account, which would enable me to have access to some very top secret information. She told me this at least seventeen times, as I kept explaining that I did not want any access to top secret information, in fact I had the fucking bill in my hands. She also carefully explained to me that this was quite different from popping the payment in the mail, because there would be a charge for the service. Apparently it was irrelevant that I was willing to add the charge to my payment. Something about some top secret information I think. And sure she'd have a supervisor call me, but he would tell me the same thing.

I told them I couldn't reach my husband. I thought about telling them he was dead, but he'd probably have to give me his security code for me to tell them that, and that would be lying. I tried to call him and he didn't pick up. I sent him a quick text: Can you call? I received an immediate response. "Yes." I waited; nothing. Like now? I texted back. Yes, like now. I waited again; still nothing. Hasn't he already tortured me enough? I'm waiting, I texted again, this time adding a smiley face so he would not think me to be a pest, still. I'm on hold with them right now. Huh? They called to alert him that someone claiming to be his spouse was trying to pay his bill? On hold with Comcast? Oops. I mean the alliterative one word cable operator and Internet provider.


Well who the heck is on first? The very important supervisor called, just then, and he patiently explained to me as if I were a mental patient (was this one of my children?) that the procedures had changed but he would make this one time exception for me. "Would you like us just to restore your service immediately and give you some time to reach your husband or would you like to pay?" WTF? As much as option one sounded appealing, I explained to him (this time treating him as if he were the mental patient -- HA!) that I wanted to pay both the past due balance and the next one, and the fee. And have my service restored (which, apparently, he had already done). He seemed stunned, but he accommodated. Probably because he realized I was drinking and driving (I had to shut him up for a second so I could order my Diet Coke).


Mission accomplished. Until my soon to be ex reached me to ask me why Comcast would care about what drugs I am taking and to remind me to call the insurance company. We compared notes on our mutual recent prescription histories and I started laughing, that manic kind of laugh, a sure indicator that it was almost time for some new meds. He hung up on me as soon as he could, and is probably drafting a custody motion as we speak. Or calling DCFS. Whatever.

On the morning after the walk on the beach, when I shook out my jeans in the room, sand poured out of the back pockets of my jeans. Not just a a little, mind you; at least two cups worth if I may use my limited experience as a baker of banana bread as a gauge. A souvenir of my near descent through the earth's core, my grainy postcard from the edge. I laughed until I cried.

Swooney Tunes

I had a dream last night, a sweet dream that as I lay on my pillow allowing gravity to work its magic on my eyelids, a kind looking man with a guitar serenaded me. The songs all seemed to have been written for me. I was, in turn, Clapton's long-haired blond, Morrison's brown eyed girl, a psychedelic green eyed lady. I was anything and everything the lyrics claimed I could be.

There is something about a song being sung for you. Even if it wasn't written for you, or written by anyone who has a notion of your existence. It says more than an aisle full of Hallmark cards, touches the soul more than the most perfect box of long stemmed red roses. It is -- or was, at least, in my dream -- as if somebody is seeing the best in you, the parts of yourself you don't realize exist. It is a mirror held up before you, a reflection of yourself you have never noticed before.

When I woke, naturally, there was no guitar player serenading me, and my eyelids had once again won the war with gravity. It was three o'clock in the morning and the only loving eyes peering into mine were Manny's -- unseeing ones, no less, the only serenade his gentle congested breathing and an occasional drawn out fart. Piles of laundry still lay stacked, unfolded, on my dresser, the bottom third of the detached bifold closet door in the hallway caught my eye. Reminders of unpleasant tasks to do, of things occasionally falling apart. No guitar player, not even a damn kazoo.

I trudged off to the bathroom, hoping when I looked in the mirror in the dim light I might catch a glimpse of the girl in the songs. Understand why somebody would tell me I looked wonderful tonight. Reality bites. There were no long blond locks, no sultry brown eyes, no passionate green ones. More Eleanor Rigby than Sexy Sadie. I closed my eyes, tried to conjure up the kind looking man with the guitar, tried to see what he saw when he serenaded me into the mirror of his guitar.  I kept my eyes closed as I made my way back to bed so I wouldn't lose the image.

Unfortunately, in my experience anyway, the dreams that recur are the unpleasant ones. The ones where somebody is trying to kill you and you're running and going nowhere and you cannot scream. The ones where your mother is still sneering at you because you're fat. The ones where you're naked and being rescued by a fireman. (Not to be confused with the ones where you are naked in someone else's birthday suit and being rescued by a fireman.) There's certainly no reason to believe the kind looking man with the guitar will return any time soon to sing me to sleep.

I suppose if I want to start seeing the best version of myself, I'll have to take up a little air guitar and start singing my own songs. What the heck, I'm a blogger, maybe I'll even come up with some original lyrics. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I might as well start writing my own music.

Distant Shores

You call this a beach?

I have no idea where "Dr. Beach" received his degree, but I really must call his credentials into question. There is no excuse, after all, for shoddy research.

The self-proclaimed expert (is there any other kind?) has taken it upon himself to compile an annual list of the ten best beaches in America. Clearly, the guy has not done his homework. I have not yet had the opportunity to scan the lists from years past, but I am guessing Coney Island has never made the cut. Dr. Beach, my Aunt Fanny. Somebody graduated at the bottom of his class.

Though I grew up on Ocean Parkway, one of the main thoroughfares leading into Coney Island, I must admit I did not spend much time there. We weren't beach people. Maybe it's because we lived on Avenue H, a good distance from the end of the alphabet which led into Surf Avenue which led to the beach, much closer to the bridges and tunnels that lead into Manhattan, my mother's idea of Mecca. Don't get me wrong; I love the big city. But the mystique of the broad stretch of shoreline to the south always captured my imagination, and whenever I had the chance, I would ride my bike down there, just for a glimpse of that other world.

Coney Island is one of those places I always picture in black and white, like images of Soviet era Moscow or Europe during World War II. Odd, since Coney Island is probably one of the most colorful places on earth. It is a melting pot, jam packed with immigrants, just spitting distance from Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. A logical place for people to stop and lay down new roots after their long journeys. The famed Boardwalk looks the same now as it did when I was a child, and, based upon all those black and white photos, the same as it did in its earliest years. It is gritty, utilitarian, crowded, even after beach season has ended. It is as uneven as the population, as weathered as the overly tanned faces of its die hard sun worshipers.

It is the home of the famed "Cyclone" roller coaster, the more modern yet nostalgically named minor league baseball team, the Brooklyn Cyclones, and, perhaps, most significantly, the original Nathan's Hot Dog Stand. The place where Nathan's is still just a stand, as it was back when people outside of the New York area had no idea what Nathan's was. When the ambrosia of a hot dog charred on the outside and accompanied by crispy, greasy, salty french fries in a paper bag was a distinctly local phenomenon.

In my adult life, year after year, I have jetted off to beautiful sandy beaches where the sun shines every day and well heeled folks sit under thatched palapas drinking umbrella drinks and eating guacamole and seafood salads that cost more than a year's worth of subway rides to Coney Island. If you are fortunate enough to grow up on Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn, you know what real luxury is, the privilege of biking to a beach, a beach worth far more than the price of admission (which is free), a place where, on a hot summer day, mismatched towels lay corner to corner forming a mosaic as varied as the folks lying upon them. A place where high fashion, surgically toned bodies, and miracle suits don't matter much; how could they, when one of the greatest pleasures of life -- strolling on the jagged boardwalk shoveling in a Nathan's hot dog and fries -- beckons even the most steadfast health nut.

My favorite time to visit Coney Island has always been early fall, preferably on an overcast day, to watch the greenish gray waves churning against the boardwalk's support beams. To watch the lone fisherman, or the lone beach lover trying to catch one more moment of the waning magic. To grab a hot dog and fries when the lines are short, before pedaling back north, toward the magic of the big city just around the corner.

Freed Birds

For twenty-three years, one month, and four days, I have been on call. For twenty-three years, one month, and four days, there has always been some little person at home who depends on me, if not for his or her life, for a ride.

Out of habit, I suppose, I stationed myself at home today at 3:30, knowing my newly minted sixteen year old daughter would arrive soon and want to go somewhere, require my services. I had been there, seen it with my own eyes, watched her come in from her road test (which, by my calculations, took about three hours) and get directed quite unceremoniously to the driver's license picture taking station. I was well aware of her impatience, her frustration that she still needed to return to school for two hours before taking her first solo spin behind the wheel.

Yet there I was, at home, waiting, somehow believing I was still relevant. I was upstairs when she came in. "MOM!" she called. Oh, yay, she needs me. Delighted, I nearly tripped over a large sleeping dog as I raced downstairs to greet her and offer up whatever it was that was expected of me. "I'M GOING!" she yelled, well before I had made it all the way down to the first floor.

"I'M COMING!" I called, skidding around the banister and trying to appear indifferent as I slowed to a jog for my grand entrance into the kitchen. But she was already halfway out the garage door, her black and white canvas sneaker all I could see as she bolted out for her maiden voyage. Be careful I said, to nobody in particular.

Well, good riddance. I have waited a long time for a taste of this kind of freedom, that peaceful, easy feeling you get when you reach a certain place in your life where your time finally becomes your own. Ha, she may think she's the one who's been set free, but look at me. Nothing to hold me back, this eagle is ready to stop telling tales and get out there and take flight. I'll show her what it feels like to be cut loose.

By the time I figured out what I would do to celebrate, it was, as it turned out, five o'clock somewhere, so I decided to go for a drink. Mike, the Starbucks barista, seemed puzzled to see me so late in the day. "Are you partying today?" he asked. Oy, he should only know. Pity party for one. I've been canned, my services are no longer needed. Yes, I am celebrating my obsolescence. Taking a page from my daughter's book, I grunted at him. Screw it, he must know by now I'm a morning person.

It will take a while, but I am sure I will begin to enjoy the freedom. Soon, I hope, when an ambulance from the fire department speeds by me, my mind will not immediately jump to the conclusion that something has happened to my child, my baby who certainly cannot be old enough to be driving. Things will return to normal, I am sure, and I will instead just crane my neck to check out the cute fireman behind the wheel.


Woohoo! I'm as free as a bird now, and this bird you cannot change. Once a mom, always a mom. But  I'll figure out how to use those wings. Eventually.

Semi Sweet Sixteen

Happy Birthday Sweetie!!!!
Grunt!!!

For weeks, conversations with my youngest daughter have been charged with excitement as she has engrossed herself in the official countdown to the moment at which she (hopefully) receives her driver's license. Precise, down to the minute. (There's an app for that.)

"Yep, in eight days, four hours, and eight minutes," she told me last week, "it's ba bye!" She says it with an almost spiteful cock of the head, an evil grin on her face, and a nasty little wave. If you can call the quick flapping of four fingers a wave. 

"I can't wait," I tell her. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." And I give her my best approximation of the spiteful head cock and evil grin and nasty little four finger wave. These are quality conversations we have, usually in the car as I sit with my foot poised on an imaginary brake as she practices her driving and we take great pleasure in shouting all sorts of obscenities at other drivers who don't necessarily do things in the most intelligent way. We laugh, although she doesn't think it's all that funny when I yell butthead and the convertible top happens to be down. 

As of tomorrow, though, no more chauffeuring. No more putting everything and everyone on hold in case I am summoned for a pick up. No more hanging around at home waiting for instructions. It's no wonder I'm depressed. She claims I wasn't this upset when her older siblings got their licenses. Well of course I wasn't. The nest was still full. Sure, maybe I felt a pang or two, but it was such a long time ago, who can remember. As much as she hates to hear it, she is my baby -- the last of the three birds -- and when she flies, well, it's just gonna be me sitting around by myself on a bunch of twigs. I am terrified. 

My youngest and I, we have stuck these last few years out at home together, just the two of us. Sometimes, I feel as if we are not so much mother and daughter as sisters, even friends. Often, I know, she feels as if it is more like caretaker and mental patient -- you can guess which one she is. I told her soon she will be picking old mom up, dragging her off to doctor's appointments, sitting in on them so there can be someone with a functioning brain present to process the complex information. She told me she doesn't think that time is too far off. Charming. 

I wonder if her new license will affect our mornings together. I cherish our routine, and I would miss it terribly. While she is still asleep, I stumble off to Starbucks to write and pour down my first gallon of caffeine. On my way out, I pick up her drink -- a tall white mocha with whipped cream -- and race home to deliver it so she can enjoy it while she primps. I look for the light under the appropriate door -- depending on traffic lights and train crossings, she's either in her room or at her bathroom sink -- and knock softly. She opens the door a crack, just wide enough so I can catch the stab of her glare. Morning sweetie I say, smiling my most genuine smile of the day, as things generally start going downhill for me well before noon. She opens the door a tiny bit wider, just far enough so she can gently grab the cup from me. I am still smiling when she grunts and slams the door in my face. Okay, that's harsh. She closes the door emphatically. Still smiling, I mutter to myself as I head downstairs to pop some Advil. Butthead.

Well it's not like she tells me to go fuck myself or anything. Yes, it could be a lot worse. She is much more chipper when she comes down for breakfast. I attempt to make some idle chatter. She doesn't respond, but, again, she doesn't tell me to go fuck myself, so I just figure she's listening, hanging on my every word. There's kind of a twenty minute window during which she likes to leave for school, and I wait patiently for her to give me my three seconds' notice of our departure time. This usually happens when I'm in the middle of something, or, um, indisposed. 

I continue with my attempts at idle chatter in the car. Sometimes I get a nice chuckle, and she starts talking in spite of her gut instincts not to talk to crazy stupid people. Sometimes I get an eye roll. Hey, it's something. Usually, I get nothing, that is until I drop her off with a chipper have a good day sweetie. Without fail, I get a nice grunt in return. 

Thankfully, she cannot park at the school until she is a senior, and I know her well enough to know she will choose a ride with her idiot mother over driving herself and having to park far away. I like to think it's because, deep down, she will miss our morning conversations. I know I will. 

Color Stories

Day two back in retail has come and gone, and it has helped me recover some long repressed memories. Cheaper than therapy, even if I do use my discount to spend more than I earn most days.

"All I know is I'll never go back into retail," was what I had said, way back in April, and not just to myself. To several people, actually, friends who just think me too fragile to hear I told you so. At least I'm happy I can remember something. My short term memory is still a disaster; yesterday, each time I pulled an item off a rack, I had the darnedest time, no more than three and a half minutes later, trying to figure out where I had found it. Which doesn't seem to make much sense, given that the store I now work in is organized by "color stories."

"Oh, that goes in purple my young colleague told me, clearly amazed at my ineptitude. I did a spin, trying to keep up with my head. Everywhere I looked there was purple. Sure, there was a section earmarked for purple and green and brown (I think that was the combo) but that was for garments where the purple and green and brown were dominant and also for very particular shades of purple and green and brown although I couldn't really tell you what shades those were. To make matters worse, there's a nasty trick called a onesie -- and item that, due to popular demand, has become, in the store, one of a kind.  But there's no marker in the purple and green and brown section, say, to let you know that no matter how dominantly purple and green and brown that item is you will not find it here. So you keep looking until somebody young enough to be your grandchild grabs it from you and looks at you as if you're the biggest idiot on the planet and how dare you call yourself a hot anything and places it, with an emphatic clang of the hanger, with all the other forlorn onesies at the front of the rack. Not at the very front, mind you, because that's reserved for something else (which escapes me right now), but somewhere near the front. As if.

Color stories abound these days. White Girls' Problems. Ya got that right sister. Why the hell would anyone waste time on the big important shit when you can pretty much get through life sweating the small stuff? Fifty Shades of Grey. You'd think everyone was reading War and Peace, so fierce is the look of concentration on the faces behind the Kindles. Kindles, bibliophiles' answer to the brown paper bag. White Skinny Jeans. Okay, well that's not a blog or a Twitter or even a story. Well, maybe a horror story. My horror story on day two of my briefly interrupted retail career, much of which I spent -- when I wasn't trying to learn my color wheels -- squeezing my saggy ass into tight white jeans. If I wanted everyone to see that my legs look like sausage links I'd just go naked, for goodness sake. Why would I spend two hundred dollars on a pair of white jeans. Excuse me, that's "premium denim" to those of us in the biz.

On day three, I think I'll be learning how to make "connections" with customers. I already have a leg up; most of them are white, so at least I can kind of guess what their problems are. And, I think I've learned that being able to squeeze your ass into white skinny jeans is power, so I envision myself carrying armloads of "premium denim" into fitting rooms and coming out with just as many armloads of new best friends. Frankly, based on my observations yesterday, the best way to make a connection with a customer is to leave her alone until she clearly wants your input. But, then again, I also tried to put a fire engine red top back in the orange section, so what the heck do I know?

Maybe I'll stick it out in retail a little while longer, figure out the color stories. Who knows, there could really be a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. 

Shlock, Paper, Scissors

Off the top of my head, I can think of two things that really don't interest me: Kate Gosselin and coupons. 

I also tend to steer clear of things that, though they might be of great interest, seem threatening, like other women's blogs. Especially in the "mommy blog" genre; I live in fear of reading something written by some other neurotic middle aged woman, someone who shows herself to be wittier, more clever, far more insightful, and possessed of a far more sophisticated turn of phrase. Hey, stranger things have happened. 

So this morning, as I sat with my older daughter (a rare treat, thank you NATO protestors) munching on bagels and half listening to the Today Show, I heard the dreaded term "mommy blogger" and raced for the mute button on the remote. "STOP!" My daughter was clearly not as engrossed in her "work" as she pretended. "Don't you know who that is?" Well, of course I know who that is. No idea actually. I bought myself a little time. I correctly identified the sickeningly sweet Ann Curry and some nondescript hot blond  about to discuss a blog which was unfairly pulling thousands of readers away from mine. 

On closer inspection, I noticed the caption indicated the blog was about couponing. Totally different audience, not a competitor. Low brow shit, stuff I couldn't even come up with if I had half my brain removed. I told my daughter we could watch. "It's Kate Gosselin, mom." I know she was thinking you idiot, but she was discreet about it. Kate? With the eight? The woman whose made zillions by airing her brood's dirty laundry? I had two questions. Why the fuck would she need coupons, and what did she do with her old face? It's not that I remember exactly what she looked like, but I was quite sure I had never seen this woman with the puffed out apple cheeks, perfectly arched eyebrows, and plump lips before. Except maybe in a drawing in a plastic surgeon's office. But I've never been in a plastic surgeon's office -- not even for a date. I won't even go into the long perfect blond locks framing the waxy face. I know hair grows, but in my experience, not like that. 

Back to the coupons. I started to get concerned; maybe this was some stiff competition after all. Might people go straight to Kate, bypassing all my unique and probing analysis. I listened closely when Ann announced she had discovered something quite fascinating from Kate's blog. Apparently, an in-store coupon for Target (Tar-zhay) was different from one offered on-line. Mon dieu. OMFD!

Shit. I'm hangin' up my keyboard. I'm getting some hair extensions and botox injections. And I'm buying some scissors and digging through the recycling bin for all those fliers I've tossed so I can start doing something productive with my days. 

Dorks in the Road

There is nothing quite like a trip down memory lane. Especially when the memories are kind of icky. It reminds you to take stock, revel in how far you've come.

There was no mistaking the deep baritone, a voice I hadn't heard in about two years. I had been riding my bike, and was stopping into Starbucks for s little caffeine boost before heading home. Those who have been with me since the bitter beginning of this blogging journey might remember him -- Pete the dermatologist (not his real name, not his real specialty, naturally). I like to think of Pete as Phase Two of my cyber dating escapades. Like Phase One, Pete was a valuable learning experience. If anything, I learned that dating a nice Jewish doctor is not all my mother had cracked it up to be.

Since I hate to travel alone, let's take a little trip down memory lane together, to the days before I moved "up" to the likes of Pete. Phase One of my cyber dating experience -- let's just call it the Neanderthal period -- as many of you might recall, was, to say the least, a rude awakening. When you get married in your twenties to basically the first guy who made it past the third date, you have no idea what's out there. And so it was, with a mix of amusement and disgust, that I discovered life's underbelly. Twenty- and thirty-somethings obsessed with screwing older women, forty-somethings who fancied themselves "younger men" but were really old farts to the core, old coots who trolled the dating sites looking for the newest meat. And, always, men who looked nothing like their pictures.

The one that sticks (pardon the pun) in my mind is the original phone sex guy. The one who inspired the seminal (again, pardon the pun) post in the embryonic phase of my blogging. Late thirties, cute, and, in his profile picture, he was wearing the sexiest little beret -- how could I possibly resist?  So we embarked upon a deep and meaningful relationship, i.e. a solid five minutes of IM'ing, and he was clearly ready to take it to the next level. Yes, phone sex. For those of you who don't know the story, here's how it went:

I gave him my disposable cell number (I'm not a complete idiot) and settled in under my covers with my still unfinished New York Times crossword puzzle and waited. And he called. Well, if I had been excited -- and thank goodness I wasn't -- this would have been a buzz kill to end all. The guy in the beret, with the erudite interests and cool location -- the hip part of Brooklyn, not where I grew up -- had a Brooklyn accent!!!! Full blown, with not even a hint of assimilation. But I'm no quitter, so I stayed with it. 

He asked me what I was wearing. Mustering up my sexiest cougar voice, I told him I was wearing a little white t-shirt and a thong. I hate to lie, and I fidgeted nervously with the cracked button on my flannel pj's. He told me to take it off ("it" being the thong and t-shirt, I assume). I told him to hold on. I had to reposition myself anyway so I could find a pen that worked. He waited until I assured him everything was off. Lying was beginning to be a habit. Well, it wasn't a complete lie; I was not, at that moment, wearing a thong or t-shirt. And then, well, without getting graphic, all I will tell you is he started telling me where to touch myself (I couldn't have even if I wanted to since my obese puggle was sprawled across my pelvis) and he kept asking me if it felt good and I assured him it did (mostly because I was excited that I had finally just figured out twenty-nine across). And it went on for a short while and his panting got louder and I thought it would be rude to ask him if he knew a five letter word for a South American river town so I just kept one ear on him in case he required any additional participation from me and managed to finish most of my puzzle. At least he was a screamer so I knew when I could hang up. (From "A Narcissist's Tale," July 2010)

Enter Pete. With the deep baritone that sounded like it echoed from deep within the bowels of, well, something. Maybe he should have been a proctologist. Anyway, as far as I could tell, Pete had just about every personality disorder listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders, and I may have mentioned this to him on a regular basis. Struggling with a few mental disorders of my own, I was seeing a therapist at the time. She kept asking me why I continued to see this guy. Dunno, I'd say, articulate as ever. I did know. Jewish doctor, steady Saturday night date, and, occasionally, he had some skills. Anyway, Pete dumped me, which really pissed me off.

I am cleaning my closets this week. Unfortunately, no matter how much old shit I manage to dispose of,     my clothing expands like gas molecules into whatever space becomes available so it can often seem as if I haven't unloaded a thing. But closet cleaning and unloading all sorts of crap is a slow process, and sooner or later the molecules are spread so thin they burst and you realize you've made some progress.

Yay for me. I did not go up to Pete and tell him what an asshole he is. I enjoyed the brief trip down memory lane, got back on my bike, and just kept moving forward.

Purple Hazes and Miry Blogs

I woke up looking battered and bruised, as if I had been punched in the face. I guess that's what happens when you fall asleep with your cheek pressed against the "caps lock" and the "shift" keys.

There's not much I can do except wear my two new purple stripes with pride until, hopefully, they fade. The last thing I need is more visible scars. "What the hell happened to your face?" was the greeting I received from a casual acquaintance in Starbucks this morning. My hand immediately flew up to my cheek, although for all I know she was talking about all the new wrinkles and the deep black circles that have sprouted since I last saw her. I told her I slept funny. Luckily, she changed the subject. Otherwise I would have felt compelled to return the meanness, maybe ask her what the hell had happened to her ass (or maybe why she had kept her jeans in the hot dryer too long).

No sooner had I survived the somewhat harsh reaction to my face than I ran into my trainer, who just happens to be a bit more into the whole Christianity and "word of Jesus" thing than your average hedonistic Jew. If he was at all taken aback by my latest shiner, he kept it to himself, flipping instead to a psalm he thought might strike a chord in my sinful heart. "From the Old Testament," he assured me, the one I often refer to as the "real book," the one before they started coming up with all the really outrageous supplementary material. I mean, come on, I can buy into the idea of the evil snake and the toxic woman and the weak man, even burning bushes in the dry desert, but blind faith has its limits.

There are many reasons I don't sit around in the morning reading the Bible, not the least of which is I always forget my reading glasses and the print is so darn small. But I indulged my trainer -- as I always do, knowing that, in return, my next session won't involve the slide board -- and skimmed the short verse. Something about being drawn out of the pit of destruction and planting one's feet securely on some rocks (fair enough); something about singing a new song (oy, I can't even sing old songs) and being lifted out of the miry blog. What??? Miry? My blog? Them's fightin' words. I squinted and looked again. Ohhh. Miry bog. Well okay then, lift away. Just don't ever try to pull my ass out of my blog, even if it means I'm going to hell. I was probably headed there anyway, with all the other fun people.

I am all for being drawn out of destructive pits and miry bogs; life can be exhausting down there. And proud as I may be of all my battle scars, I am kind of hoping the purple bruises on my cheek fade by Monday, when I begin phase two of my life as a retailer, this time at a store called Hot Mama. (Could there be a better venue for me? A more aptly named showcase for my Mrs. Potato Head assets?) Yes, between miry blog posts I will again be donating my time (practically for free, as my skillful negotiation techniques failed to win me a higher wage) to the worthy cause of peddling clothing to the hip mom market. I am hopeful that my stud-like personality and spud-like physique will once again prove to be a winning combination and I will be perceived as indispensable -- at least until someone asks me to clean a toilet. Talk about miry bogs.

Luckily, purple is a hot color these days for hot mamas and fashionistas of all demographics, so it shouldn't be too hard to find an outfit for day one that blends well with my bruises. I normally don't go for "matchy matchy," especially when it comes to my face; otherwise I'd be stuck with a closet full of garments that are wrinkled and sallow. But what the heck? At least purple gives my face -- and the clothes -- a bit of pop, maybe an extra boost out of the pit.  

French Fried

I am morally opposed to meetings. Even someone as apolitical as I am has to take a stand every once in a while.

The meeting I attended at the high school last night, which was assembled to help prepare parents for their children's upcoming three week trip to France, did not disappoint. I went under protest, telling my daughter I could not for the life of me understand what I needed to know that could not be conveyed to me in a group email. And I am already prepared, have been counting the days for months in anticipation of the wild three week orgy I will be hosting. She looked at me with disgust (gee, that's new). "You're going because I'm your child and you care about me," she explained. We scowled at each other.

Normally very punctual, I was the last one to arrive when I strolled in at two minutes past the appointed time. There was one empty seat, at a desk for two in the back. I tried to be inconspicuous as I slid into the chair next to the intense gentleman who was already scribbling notes vigorously onto a legal pad. As far as I could tell, I had not missed anything; the two French teachers were silently distributing the first of a stack of handouts, withholding the rest, I assume, until we reached each item on the agenda emblazoned on the white board. Clever; I would be imprisoned until the bitter end. As she handed me my first sheet, Robin (a wonderful teacher, by the way, marveilleuse) asked me if I brought the forms with me. Forms? I vaguely remembered my husband emailing me and saying he would take care of the forms. Vaguely, but clearly enough that I could blame my negligence on an email misfire resulting from my divorce. Luckily, Robin taught my older daughter for four years back in the day, and figured the forms would arrive some time before take off. The guy next to me wasn't as forgiving; he glanced up from his scribbling long enough to give me a look of complete and utter disdain. I smiled. I thought about asking him if he wanted to grab a coffee afterward.

At the outset, things weren't looking too bad. Item one of seven on the white board was dispensed with quickly, and we moved into item (and handout) number two. Telephone numbers -- for the American teachers, for the French teachers, for the hotel in Paris where the group would end up after a two week home stay in a small town. Hmm, the small town my older daughter had gone to had been a red colored blob in the upper right hand corner of the map of France hanging in front of the room; my youngest appeared to be going to an orange colored blob in the lower middle. Who knew? Plus ca change! It even had a different name. At least I had a new subject for my upcoming wee-hours-of-the-morning geography lesson.

I was more than ready for item number three, but the other parents started firing off questions in earnest. "What's the country code for France?" How about the same numbers that seem to precede each French phone number? (I hope I wasn't offering up my answers out loud.) "What's the time difference?" Have you not heard of Google? "What will the weather be like?" It's summer, idiot. In the northern hemisphere. Jeez. "Will the kids shower every day?" That was just downright disturbing. "Does everybody in France speak English?" I'd take a refresher course in Urdu, just in case. Whatever you do, don't count on having to communicate with them in FRENCH.

OMG. I actually kept muttering "Oh my god" to myself. Thankfully, a couple of friends had decided to text me while I sat in this very important meeting, giving me something else to focus on. "Oh my god," I moaned with each new stupid question, as my thumb punched away furiously at the little keys. The scribbler gave me occasional looks. He probably thought I was sexting.

I began to think I had missed something, that we parents had to prepare for this trip because we were actually going on it. How else to explain the minutiae, the details about each day's itinerary, the departure times each morning, the approximate duration of each bus ride? Mon dieu! I might have some serious shopping to do, not to mention some serious dieting so I wouldn't feel self-conscious around all those skinny little French women. "How many Euros should I send with Johnny?" Robin was even looking annoyed. "It's tough to say." "But approximately, what do you think." "It's really an individual decision." "Ballpark. How much?" I would not have blamed Robin for pulling the map off the wall, rolling it up, and beating this woman over the head with it. Mon dieu indeed.

It took a good half hour to get through the twenty-two items on the handout for item number seven (sneaky), a handout I was able to read and digest in about two minutes. While texting. While trading scowls with my desk mate. I was glad we got clarification about bringing liquids through airline security; no, Homeland Security rules will not be suspended for our high school French trip. Shocking.The only interesting tidbit I picked up that I would not have learned from reading the the handouts (because it was in the "boy" packing section) was that boys would not be allowed in the community swimming pool unless they wore a Speedo. Oh, gross. I'd have to warn my daughter to avert her gaze.

My guess is that after this meeting, some parents might back their kids out. French families offer their kids wine with dinner! French people -- teenagers included -- smoke. And, OMFD (oh mon fucking dieu) they go to clubs in the evening, and they will be taking our little darlings with them.

Ooh la la. OMFD!

Night School

Sleep deprivation can be a royal pain in the ass, but I've come to view my insomnia as an educational enrichment program. Ask me anything, as long as it's about the basic geography of Japan, the projected meteorological patterns for the upcoming months in deep dark suburbia (it's going to be warm), or what men want.

Naturally, as a blogger and amateur observer of human nature and life long obsessor about everything I might be doing wrong, I am most fascinated by the articles about dating. Not just the scientifically proven (I'm assuming) mini-treatises about what men like, but about what really turns them off and about what to say and not to say on first dates and, my new favorite, what to wear. No matter where I turn, the articles pop up; go on a dating site once and you are a subscriber for life, kind of like being permanently branded with a scarlet "D." "Dater." "Desperate.""Dopey." "Demented." "D." All of the above.

Somehow I have managed to break all the rules about what to say and what not to say on first dates, and it's probably too late to change my habits now. The way I see it, if someone can't handle the crap that comes out of my mouth on a first date, a second date would be a waste of everyone's time. I am, after all, an old dog. It's not as if I can suddenly grow a filter.

As to what men like and don't like, I just find all the messages confusing. They like women who eat, but they also like them to look hot (slim, but not too skinny -- wtf?) in their jeans. They like the natural look, no make up. Well, show me a man who goes gaga over me when I first wake up in the morning and I'll show you a guy who has no idea where his glasses are. Trust me, I have seen the woman looking back at me in the mirror first thing in the morning, and it's downright scary. Some days, even my blind dog looks frightened. My favorite, recently, was an article that offered up pictures of "too much make-up" versus "the natural look." Funny, the actresses in the "natural look" category have all had so much botox and plastic surgery that the make-up would slide off anyway. Interesting concept. Anyway, I can be slow sometimes, and I appreciated the visuals.

What to wear, though, that seemed to be a topic worth exploring. Rule number one: don't look too sleazy. Well how the hell is the guy gonna know I'm going to be worth the price of a second date if I don't wear the old push up bra, micro mini, and spiked heels? (Mind you, gravity has taken its toll, and a push up bra for me needs to be pretty heavy duty, looking more like a knee brace than lingerie.) Confused, I read on, seeking clarification. Apparently, if you're going to be slutty on top, you need to be modest on the bottom. And vice versa. The article even went so far as to offer up percentages. Yes, percentages about how much skin can be exposed on either half. Gosh I hope this is not an exact science, because I don't really know how to use a slide rule (much less where to get one).

Be comfortable. Interesting. Maybe I can get away with sweats, tee shirts, and flip flops. No more exhausting work outs just trying to squeeze into a pair of Spanx. No more aching ankles from teetering on leg enhancing heels. No more worrying about popping zippers or buttons if I overeat. And men like women who eat a lot, right? This is all coming together. Who said dating is hard? Just plain common sense.

I love my new found love of learning. I cannot wait to see what useful tips await tonight as I toss and turn and seek refuge in the fountain of useless information on my laptop.  Maybe I'll just go through my closet, pair up some baggy tee shirts with tight, slutty shorts so I'll be ready to go out at a moment's notice. If there's one lesson I think I've mastered (in theory if not in practice) it's  this: never pass up an opportunity!

The Dog with the Draggin' Tutu

Pink, no less. And it was a boy dog, a "stud." Either that, or a bitch who lifts her leg when she pees. And why would you lift when you can just do a squat?

We were all "draggin'" stuff yesterday -- logo tee shirts, extra water bottles, high energy snacks. (Yes, I view a box of Dunkin Donuts munchkins as a high energy snack.) And plenty of dogs, more than a few in pink tutus, all of them in pink somethin', be it a leash, a bandanna, or a spare tee shirt. The humans, all decked out in shades of pink as well, walked and jogged in support of women and their loved ones who have been affected, somehow, by breast cancer. The dogs walked and jogged in loyal and unquestioning support of their humans, not really giving a shit about breast cancer. Taking an occasional dump, maybe, but definitely not giving a shit.

It's been a ritual for at least five years, maybe more, participating on Mother's Day with my daughters and our friends in the Y-Me Race for the Cure. Rain or shine, every year, a picturesque slice of the Chicago lakefront becomes festooned with pink balloons, pink tents, pink banners, men, women, children, and yes, dogs, in pink, from head to toe, snout to tail. Even pink port-o-potties. All of us pounding the pavement together, raising our legs in solidarity to stamp out a disease that takes so many women from us much too soon.

It was one of those days, yesterday, when you just didn't know what you'd see next. Several reports were issued in my neighborhood of a particularly strange sight: me, toting large cobweb infested sports equipment and other artifacts out of my garage, me, wielding a big ass broom and sweeping up mountains of dried up leaves, dust, and, oddly, spare change. After receiving several panicked phone calls from friends, I confirmed the rumors (experience dictates that there is no point in denying; folks around here are ruthless, and will ferret out the truth if it's the last thing they do), and wondered why people found it so surprising that I was doing what comes naturally on a sunny Sunday in May -- spring cleaning. "What got into you," one friend asked, concerned. Gosh, it's not like I was vacuuming! (The last time that happened, my beloved Leo freaked out, his drooping tail signaling his alarm. To this day, I don't know if it was the shock of me pushing a vacuum or fear that something bad had happened to the cleaning lady, the weekly bearer of exotic dog treats and issuer of extra special hugs, but I've stayed away from the damn thing ever since.)

Even my daughter seemed to have been swept up (pardon the pun) in the strangeness of the day. "Is it okay if I clean out the car while you do the garage?" she asked me. She stared at me, worried, waiting for a response, but I was speechless. I suppose she was somewhat motivated by the prospect of taking ownership of that car in twelve days when she gets her license, but still. Cleaning it out herself? Without even being asked? The day was magical from the get go; it was becoming downright miraculous.

For about twenty-three years, Mother's Day has been, in my mind, the most important day on the calendar. Coincidentally, my oldest child is twenty-three, and, yes, this does suggest a bit of self involvement on my part. But I don't think I am all that different from a lot of folks -- females, in particular -- who fail to grasp the enormity of motherhood until they actually experience it from the mother side. And, if you're like me, you spend the rest of your Mother's Days not only expecting to be treated like royalty by your own children (good luck with that) but also trying to make it up to your own mom, dispensing gifts and "I love yous" the way you never did before.

It was a day of small miracles for me. Time with both daughters and some good friends; a gift I had really wanted (okay, I wasn't subtle, but I never am); a morning text and an evening phone call from my son in Japan, just to say hi and wish me a happy Mother's Day. Male dogs in pink tutus, grown men in tee shirts depicting boobs and sporting logos such as "BFF: Breast Friends Forever." And I never thought I liked "breast men."

The breast cancer walk seems to inspire lots of incongruous behavior, lots of small miracles. Maybe, one day, miracle of all miracles, there'll be a cure.

HAPPY MOTHERS DAY TO ALL!!!!!!

Like No Other

Before he left town yesterday, my son gave me a stack of books he thought I might enjoy.  One caught my attention more than the others -- possibly because he removed it from the top of the stack and handed it to me, telling me the author was one of the best he's read. He gets his subtlety from me.

It was a book of short stories called Self-Help by a woman named Lorrie Moore. I flipped to the table of contents. It looked to be, at least in part, a collection of ironic instruction manuals for folks who find themselves in unfortunate situations.  The Kids' Guide to Divorce was the first title that jumped out at me. Uplifting. How to Talk to Your Mother. Can't I just stick with email? Lord this woman had better be as talented as my son thinks she is, or this was going to be an awfully depressing read.

"If you read anything, read the first story," my son told me, knowing I have the attention span of a flea when it comes to reading these days. That sounded manageable. I looked to see what the first story was called. How to Be an Other Woman. He must have seen my face twist up. "Really," he insisted. "You'll appreciate the writing." I gave him a look, but he was already in the other room. WTF?

During last night's bout with insomnia, I picked up the flimsy little paperback and began to read. My son doesn't lie. At least not anymore. Well not about important things. Anyway, the writing didn't disappoint; the descriptions were brief and vivid, focusing in on scenes so seemingly genuine I could feel the satiny sheets, sense the silent alarm going off in the lover's head as he tiptoed out of bed, hear the click of the lock on the door as the narrator found herself, once again, alone. How to Come in Second could have been the title; better still, How to Not Place at All. Not exactly the kinds of things that would fly off the shelves in the Self Help section of the bookstore. Unless you really believe in aiming low so you don't get disappointed.

I had dinner with an acquaintance the other night, a woman who, tragically, became a widow last year at the age of forty-nine. Friends and family are encouraging her to date. She thinks they must be right, even though the idea terrifies her. I encouraged her to do what she wants to do when she's ready, knowing full well that she won't really know when she's ready until she dips her toe in the water, or, better still, dives right in. She listened as I babbled about the pros and cons of testing the cyber dating waters. Finding yourself alone after the death of a loving spouse is certainly different from finding yourself alone after deciding to divorce. But loneliness (not to be confused with "aloneness," which isn't always such a bad thing), no matter how you get there, sucks. Saturday nights, whether you spend them in a zombie like state with your dog on the couch or out on the town with all your intact couples friends -- before you watch them all go home, in pairs -- leaves you feeling like you have a hangover well before Sunday morning  arrives.

Looking back on my first forays into the whacky world of on line dating, I launched into my own little How To speech. I encouraged her to look upon dating, at least initially, not as a search for a life long soul mate but as temporary therapy. What she needed was to take baby steps. I suggested to this woman who seems convinced she has nothing to offer, that nobody will cater to her imperfectness as her husband did, that she give it a shot, if only to enjoy the momentary exhilaration of being told she is attractive (which she is). Even if much of the gushing is total bullshit, it beats being put down (especially if the one putting you down is, well, you). She might even want to have coffee or a drink with one or two of them, the nicer ones, men who, like her, might just benefit from spending time with someone who makes them feel attractive, valued, special. Even if it's just fleeting. Aiming low when you enter into the world of on line dating is actually a sensible thing.

Granted, I've been at the dating game (and the loneliness, and the "aloneness") for long enough now that I can set my sights a little higher than a temporary feel good. Compliments, even the sincere ones, are nothing more than band aids. Not bad, mind you; just not enough.You start to want to be number one, for there not to be an "other," whether it's other women or "guy pals" or something really hard to compete with, like golf. Pedestals are precarious, and nobody can expect to last on one permanently, but a day here and there would be nice. Someone to like, who will like you a lot back, warts and all, would be nice. To feel essential and not merely like an "other" would be heavenly.

There's a learning curve to all of this, and for some of us it's steeper than others. I hope my dinner companion figures out sooner than later that she deserves to be treated well. And if she has to tolerate some excessive flattery along the way, there are far worse things. How to Accept Compliments would be a most valuable read.

A Fête Accompli

The disapproving look on the waiter's face suggested that I may have been a bit too hasty when he came over to see if anyone wanted something to drink. "YES!!!" I said it with more conviction than I have said anything recently, and so loudly that the hearing impaired octogenarian foursome at the next table took a break in their own screaming conversation so they wouldn't miss anything good. Sloppy drunk. I know that's what they were all thinking.

I covered my tracks quickly and, as always, with grace and cleverness. God forbid anyone should think I was desperate for a mind numbing buzz, I explained to the waiter that we were celebrating multiple special and happy occasions, milestones and accomplishments that all called for toasts. The alcohol was just a formality, an ingredient I certainly didn't need in my double martini when I was already giddy on life. (I'm not a complete idiot; I stopped short of actually saying that.) "My son is on his way to Japan tomorrow," I bragged. "To teach English." The waiter seemed impressed. Apparently he knew someone once who went to Korea. Well we're practically related, I was thinking, toying with the idea of inviting him to sit down and join us.

Repressing my basest sarcastic urges (at least he knew Korea was just a missile's throw across the water, which I had only confirmed during my two A.M.  Google tutorial a few nights earlier), I continued in warm and fuzzy mode. "And we," I said, motioning to my husband who, coincidentally, was sitting as far from me as he could at the round table, "are celebrating our twenty-sixth anniversary today." Now the waiter was clearly getting swept up in the joy and excitement that had just been seated in his station. Before he could tell us that he knew someone once who was married for twenty-six years, I pointed to my daughters on either side of me, letting him know that we were within a couple weeks of both of their birthdays. He looked like he was about to break into song. Heck, I even tossed in my half birthday, telling him exactly how old I was so he would not need to waste time asking to see my ID.

All fixed. The old folks at the next table had gone back to their plates of dry fish and steamed vegetables, and things seemed relatively calm at our table. My husband was no longer glaring at me, and the kids had stopped trying to sink under the table. I could see all their heads. They were even laughing. Well, they were laughing and rolling their eyes at each other the way they usually do when they think time is running out and soon they're going to have to have me committed, but they've been doing that for years so I'm not too worried.

The drinks arrived. We toasted our son's impending departure, wishing him all the best. I tried to keep my wishes for his speedy return to myself, but somehow I said it out loud. Oopsy. We toasted our daughters' birthdays, and I managed to repress my mixed feelings about my youngest getting her driver's license in two weeks. And my husband and I raised our glasses to each other, toasting our twenty-sixth, each of us silently hoping that there would be no twenty-seventh. (We were together a long time; I have no trouble knowing what he was thinking.)

Dinner was easy. Returning home to watch helplessly while my son packed and to wait anxiously for him to give me little assignments so I could feel important was the hard part. The six complementary desserts our waiter had brought so we could top off our happiness had diluted the calming effects of my martini, and I was feeling downright weepy. At least when my idiot neighbor stopped in and somehow got to talking about how certain kids were screwed up and explained to my kids that "that's what happens when families break up," I watched with pride -- and glee -- as my children cracked up. Their laughter was genuine; it made me realize that even with our newly reconfigured family, they are going to be fine. Not perfect by any means, not perfect like all those children of intact families, but certainly fine.

In two hours I will take my son to the airport, stand by helplessly as he checks in, and wait and watch on tip toes and with a craned neck as he makes his way through the security line and disappears through that silly damn x-ray machine. The tears that just couldn't come last night will finally push their way to the surface and cloud my vision as I make my way back to the parking garage. I will indulge myself in a good cry, dedicating a portion of it to my father who, as it happens, passed away fourteen years ago this very day. I will be sad, as I always am on this day, that my dad was not around to see his grandchildren grow up, to see how great they all turned out. And then I will comfort myself, as I always do on this day, with thoughts of him watching over us, and enjoying the moments.

And, as is always the case, the tears will stop, I'll take a big swig of my coffee, and I'll drive off into the sunrise, ready for another day in Paradise. And, when I have time, as is always the case in the wee hours of the morning, I will start planning my visit to Himeji, Hyogo Prefecture (say that three times fast), Japan.

Picture Imperfect

Once upon a time, somebody who was very, very bored created a list of appropriate wedding anniversary gifts for each year. For the first, it's paper. For the twenty-fifty, it's silver. For the fiftieth, if you're lucky or crazy enough to make it, gold.

I suppose everything in between is just filler, ordinary scratches on the marital bedpost until you reach a milestone. Or maybe just run out of space. Today is my twenty-sixth. Well, our twenty-sixth. My fifty-second and a half birthday, our twenty sixth wedding anniversary. So confusing, every year. There is no gift guide for half birthdays, no doubt because normal people don't even acknowledge them, and there is no asterisk on the wedding anniversary list to guide those of us who remain technically married after having torn our union asunder, technically married until our divorce attorneys soak every ounce of blood out of an already bloody mess.

The gift for number twenty-six is, according to the guide, pictures. Funny. For the first it's paper, just blank paper, as far as I can tell, an empty page on which a couple barely out of diapers can start to write their story. A quarter century after that, it's a picture. An image, maybe, that says it all better than any Hallmark card can. An image that's taken a lifetime to create -- or, as is the case for me -- about half a lifetime.

As it happens, tonight we are all having dinner together -- our three kids and us. Not, mind you, to celebrate our wedding anniversary; as disturbing as that would seem to most people, just imagine the "ick" factor for our children, who, much to our bafflement, do not seem to look forward to any occasion that involves putting the two of us in the same room. No sense of humor, those three. We are, in fact, gathering together to toast our son, the one brother, on the eve of his year long stint in Japan. To wish him well, to celebrate his new adventure. As parents, we are sending him off with a mix of joy and anxiety; joy that he his pursuing his passion, anxiety at the thought of his taking flight, growing farther away from us. Gosh, sounds a lot like the ambivalence our parents felt twenty-six years ago this very evening. Well, except for my mother, who still had her head in the oven about the whole damn thing. Not a hint of ambivalence for her.

I expect to feel the same thrill I always feel when my three children are together, falling easily into the banter they have always enjoyed with each other. They are good to each other, even though they are different in so many ways. The gap in age between my youngest and the other two means nothing; they love and admire each other, would do anything for each other, flourish in each others company. They have united to brace themselves against the blow of their parents' failed marriage, and they have remained loyal to each of us as well, no matter how much pain we have caused. I think I can speak for us both when I say we feel blessed. Undeservedly blessed, at times.

Back to the picture. I thought about giving my soon to be ex a picture from this past weekend's wedding, a snapshot of his beautiful kids. Unfortunately, I am in most of the pictures, and he is not, which just seems, well, a bit inappropriate for purposes of an anniversary gift. I thought about giving him a picture of just me, to rub in his face the gorgeous (ha) wife he let slip through his fingers. Unfortunately, I couldn't find one, and anyway, that's not entirely the way it happened.

October 2003; the tiny black mark on his head
is not an accident; it's where I had plunged the pushpin!

Then I looked at my bulletin board over my desk, the one I reserve for pictures of my children as well as a few of  me with good friends. Tucked in the upper left hand corner was one of me and my husband, taken at our son's bar mitzvah almost nine years ago. It's posed, and as I recall, we were supposed to look like a loving and proud couple. We are both pulling our heads back; if you drew a line around us, it would look like a heart being tugged apart. Proud as we were, we were never able to look all that loving. We were, however, always able to make each other laugh,which is what we happen to be doing in the picture. Another picture sits framed on a table nearby. We and our three children are wrapped in a group hug, pulled in close. An intact heart, glued together always by our three finest accomplishments.

October 2003

Those are the pictures I am going to hand him tonight. They are the images I'd like us both to have as we discreetly mark the odd anniversary, and as we offer up a heartfelt toast, together, to our son's latest adventure.

Disorientation

Somewhere near Tokyo is what I had been telling people when they asked where my son would be teaching English in Japan. Frankly, I had no idea of the name of the town, but how far could it be from Tokyo, or anywhere else for that matter in that tiny little archipelago of a nation? My son was appalled by my ignorance, more appalled knowing that even if I had been accurate and said somewhere a bit south and west of Osaka, nobody -- including me -- would have known the difference.

When I was growing up in New York, my mother and my brother used to give me geography quizzes each weekend as my father would drive us from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Not so much quizzes as the same question over and over, week after week. "East River or Hudson River?" they'd routinely ask, except on the days dad inexplicably decided to forego the relative speed and convenience of either riverside highway and buck the city traffic by driving up through the middle. Really, I never got that. But at least I could avoid the humiliation of getting the river wrong.

You would think that a child of slightly above average intelligence who sat in the back seat of a Cadillac with large, clean windows at least once a week for the journey from an outer borough into the real city would eventually be able to distinguish between the two rivers bordering the north-south sliver of island metropolis. I'd like to think I at least knew, when we came out of the Battery Tunnel at the lower tip of Manhattan, that we were at the southernmost point, since the street numbers -- once you got to them -- went from low to high. South to north. There was no reason to believe the urban planners had done it backwards. Life in the big city is hard enough.

The aptly named East River indeed ran up the east side, while the less obviously named but much prettier Hudson bordered the west. Heralded by the welcoming outstretched arm of the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, the Hudson, on a sunny day, was a crystal and twinkling blue, the shores of New Jersey looking nondescript across the wide expanse. No big buildings, no sign of Snooki and her gang, just what appeared to be a giant suburb. Until you hit midtown, that is, to see the beginnings of the somewhat spectacular cliffs of the Palisades and, after that, the lighthouse at the base of the majestic George Washington Bridge, but, truthfully, we rarely headed that far. The views along the murky East River (officially not even a river but a "tidal estuary," as my brother loved to point out) were not quite as scenic, at times even unpleasant -- no offense intended to the residents of Long Island City.

With a fifty per cent chance of getting it right, I was pretty much wrong about half the time, much to my brother's amusement and my mother's frustration. Dad, my most steadfast cheerleader, always seemed not to care. Either he knew it didn't matter, in the grand scheme of things, or he was confident that, as with everything else, I would figure it out one day. Both, as it turns out, were true.

Granted, I know very little about the geography of Japan, very little about anything Asian, except maybe the food. All I know is my son is going to be so far away he might as well be on another planet. Culturally, that might not be so far from the truth. But insomnia in the wee hours of the morning can occasionally be a gift, and, this morning, I took advantage of that gift and decided to give myself a little geography lesson.  Looking at the map on my laptop, I cut myself a little slack on the Tokyo thing. Certainly less than a day trip. Sapporo in the north seems like it would be a bit of a schlep, but I'm sure the beer is available in Himeji, the town where my son will be living for the next year. Hiroshima and Nagasaki seem perilously close, but I worry far less about the ancient radiation there than the relatively fresh stuff emanating from Fukushima in the northeast.

The good news is Himeji is more southwest than northeast, and hopefully the ocean breezes have blown away enough of the nuclear cloud to render Himeji relatively free of radiation related illnesses. I was a little dismayed to notice that North Korea appears to be only a short boat ride away to the west, but as long as the lunatics over there keep shooting blanks I'll try not to give it too much thought. Bottom line: Himeji is far away, and I will have to try very hard to not count the days until my son's latest Japan adventure comes to a close. Selfish, I know, but I've done worse things.

For Mother's Day, I am getting a trip to Japan. Funny, it's the Far East, but I'll travel westward to get there. And I thought the whole East River/Hudson River quiz was confusing!

Dog Days of May

I believe dogs have a sixth sense, and Manny, my blind puggle is no exception. It's just that his sixth sense is actually only his fifth, since he cannot see. A mere technicality.

He knows, I believe, that this is the one year anniversary of the worst day of his life, the day I carried his best friend, Leo, away, and never brought him back. Sometimes I think I should have taken him with me that evening, given him the closure that I got as Leo looked at me with his trusting, soft brown eyes and wagged his weighty tail for the last time. But that would not have been fair to Leo, for whom the feeling of unconditional love wasn't exactly mutual.

Though I hate to admit it, the worst day of Leo's life was probably the day I drove off empty handed and returned with his odd looking new little brother. Like any older sibling, he resented the intrusion, the sudden sharing of his long held post as king of the castle. But Leo, a lab through and through, was always kind to Manny, or at least subtle in showing his annoyance. He never bit, never shoved, rarely even barked at the little pain in the ass (and believe me, there were times I would have barked and taken him in my powerful front paws and tossed him across the room, if I could have). Leo was kind to the core, and was just never much of an alpha male. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but he peed in a squat until he was about two, and continued to do so well beyond that, as long as none of the other guys were looking.

To be fair, in the months Leo was sick, Manny seemed to know, and became much more respectful of his privacy, his need for personal space. That sixth sense -- it kicked in almost immediately. He would stay away from Leo's food, he cut down on the frequent bark alerts when he thought there was something interesting enough outside to drag Leo to the window, he would stop spooning with Leo for naps, reluctantly skulking off to a less cozy location.

I wonder to this day whether Manny's eyesight had been failing him for a while, and I failed to notice. Manny had spent his entire life following Leo around, looking to him for guidance. When Leo was the first one barking at some fascinating scene out the window, Manny would race over, barking wildly before he even reached Leo's side. We often joked that he had no idea what he was barking at, but if Leo had seen it, it must have been a dilly. Maybe Leo was more than his mentor; maybe he was Manny's eyes.

Manny has decided to commemorate the anniversary of Leo's death with an ear infection. There's a part of me that is terrified, for both me and Manny, that he will lose his sense of hearing as well. Stranger things have happened. Come to think of it, he doesn't appear to hear me most of the time; maybe, like his blindness, it's something that's been brewing for a while and I've been so preoccupied I have failed to notice. I remain optimistic, though. There is no reason to believe Manny will be adding deafness to his list of disabilities (which, in addition to blindness, includes morbid obesity and unbridled stinkiness).

At the very least, he retains his sixth sense, and I expect that he will be quite subdued today, joining me in silent remembrance of our loyal friend.

You Should See the Other Guy!

At least I decided to go with the black dress. It went so much better with my black eye than the red would have. Especially once the bleeding stopped.

My reaction after I opened the rental car door into the top of my cheekbone was sufficiently unsettling that even my three children stopped picking on me for a moment. I could hear their stunned silence as I stood there, holding my hands over my left eye as my entire head throbbed. I felt like a toddler who had just fallen, mouth open in preparation for a good cry but unable to make a sound. My daughter pulled my hands away, and her reaction was calming. "Oy. You're bleeding!" Great. It seemed unlikely that I would be able to get a same day appointment for a blow dry, and now I was going to be a stringy haired mess with a huge shiner for my cousin's wedding. So much for the momentary high of people I haven't seen in a while telling me I looked great. As gushingly full of shit as my favorite cousins can be (okay, they're my only cousins, but they'd be my favorites no matter what), that would be a white lie beyond even their capabilities.

As quickly as my children sprung into action to get me some ice, my mother shifted effortlessly into 'nurturer in chief' mode, making me weepy with her compassionate and constructive commentary. "Why on earth did you do that???" she asked, giving me that look she's so good at, the same one she gave me when she first saw me sporting my freshman fifteen. How does one respond to that? Because there wasn't a train coming that I could throw myself in front of, so this was the next best option? 

Looking like a battered woman has its benefits. People -- even your children -- take pity on you. My daughter insisted on taking over the driving duties for the weekend. She said she wanted me to rest. I'm pretty sure it was more of a safety issue, but I was perfectly willing to relinquish the wheel and start drinking as early in the day as possible. I warned my soon to be ex that, in his absence, I was going to blame him for the shiner, finally give everyone the long awaited opportunity to nod and tsk tsk knowingly. (Goyim, they beat their wives. I could already hear the smug whispers.) My ex was generous about taking the heat; "they won't believe the car story anyway," he pointed out.

At the wedding, not only was I able to dance like a wild woman and blame it on the hallucinogens some hotel doctor gave me for the pain (who would know there was no hotel doctor?), but my children -- all three of them -- joined me on the dance floor. All it took was a quick snap of my head toward the parquet tiles, and they followed me as if I were Mother Goose, my three loyal subjects somehow feeling beholden to me for all the years of unconditional love, paying it forward. More likely they wanted to be there to pick me up and whisk me off as soon as I either tripped on my big clumsy feet or passed out, but I'll take it. There's a hint of devotion there, and I'm happy to grab onto it. It was nice to be able to dance, nicer still to have my three kids (and an occasional cousin) as partners.

I was even able to play the pity card at LaGuardia airport, not generally known for its smiling customer service. As infrequent flyers (or maybe just idiots) continued to hold up the security screening process -- when TSA agents repeatedly warn folks to make sure their pockets are completely empty before they go through the creepy x-ray machine, apparently what they mean is empty except for whatever any given person happens to still have in his pockets -- the agent monitoring the metal detector reserved only for crew waved me and my children over, rescuing us from the ridiculously long line. He even smiled and looked the other way when I told the college girl in front of us I was temporarily adopting her and she should come with us. Battered women are entitled to shelter for themselves and their offspring, and also to expedited airport screening. Good to know.

My eye is now an attractive reddish purple punctuated by a little brown scab just above the cheekbone. Today, the black dress wouldn't match so well. I might just have to go shopping so I can accentuate the new eye color.