Clean Carpet, Clean Slate

Even as I wrote the words I could hear my mother admonishing me: don't give it a kenahora. Literally translated (and correctly spelled, if there is such a thing in Yiddish), it's something about keeping the evil eye away.

Sometimes mom would anglicize it for me, her way of dumbing it down: don't give it a canary. No matter how you say it, the lesson has stuck with me. If you boast a good thing, assert it as an absolute truth, you will jinx it. Rarely have I dared to test the correlation; the last thing I need is a gratuitous wink from an evil eye. Alas, if I could only turn back time and press the delete button, unsay what I said about my dog never getting lost or hit by a car when he squeezes himself through an escape hatch in the fence. True, he is not lost and he did not get hit by a car, but the evil eye does not pay all that much attention to tiny details. The evil eye winked, and whatever unkosher snack had lured Manny's head through the small gap was being expelled, once every hour, in a hideous trail through the floors of my house.

So while the guests at my impromptu "say sayonara to my son before he heads back to Japan" gathering enjoyed pizza and watched a not-so-enjoyable football game, I kept a watchful (and if I do say so myself, benevolent) eye on Manny as each new hour approached, hoping to confine his projectile vomiting to small and easy to clean spaces. I was impressive at first. I folded up the edge of a brand new rug seconds before he puked where the rug would have been; I got him off the couch and over to the wood floor just in time for episode number four. As the hour got later, though, my reflexes slowed. By then, to make matters worse, it was just insidious yellow bile, which is particularly insidious when it comes out in random spurts on beige carpet.

At eleven twenty, exactly twenty minutes after the offices of our new vet five minutes away closed, I decided to check the Internet for some insight into what might be ailing Manny. (I had not yet made the connection between the burrowing under the fence and possible food poisoning, so I was going with the flu.) A quick Google search led me to a headline about a deadly dog flu virus that had already killed six dogs in Michigan. Michigan is only a centimeter away from Highland Park, Illinois on the map. I panicked.

The good news about driving to the vet at midnight was I wouldn't have to struggle to get up at two thirty to drive my son to the airport. I cancelled the alarm I had set. After a bit of physical exertion (I had to carry Manny downstairs while my daughter managed to get the queen size mattress off the top of the car, but that's a story for another time), Manny and I were on the road. As nice as they are at the veterinary hospital, I have not been there since I put down my other dog two and a half years ago, unless you count the brief visit to pick up his ashes. As if that weren't enough to stir up all sorts of bad feelings, for the entire time I spent waiting in a cubicle for them to examine Manny I had to listen to two different dog owners moan and cry non-stop while they went through the heart wrenching process of losing their best friend. I clapped my hands over my ears but drywall is thin, even in a fancy pet hospital.

Nobody seemed to take me seriously about the Michigan dog flu (do they not teach geography in veterinary school?) but everybody agreed that Manny was definitely not feeling so great. I think that portion of the visit cost about three hundred dollars. Tempting as it was, I passed on their offer to keep Manny there so they could monitor him and hook him up to an IV, choosing the far cheaper option of taking him home and hoping the anti-nausea meds would take effect.

We arrived home in plenty of time for me to lift Manny out of the car and drop him -- rather unceremoniously -- on the couch so I could get ready to drive my son to the airport. The good news is I was so exhausted I forgot how miserable I was that my son was leaving and he didn't have to deal with my sniffling. The bad news is I have gotten no sleep and there is now a large mattress taking up a lot of space in my little garage and there are vomit stains all over my carpet. But the other good news is I met a really nice eighty-nine year old man at the Home Depot (my new Bloomingdale's) who seemed to know a lot about stain removal and introduced me to a miracle product that will not only erase circles of vomit from my carpet but also clean grease off pots and get rid of brown marks in coffee cups and completely dissolve permanent marker stains. He even demonstrated the marker thing, right there in Aisle 2. I am not being glib. His advice and his kindness made my day, and I am betting he felt pretty good about being able to help. Win win.

Manny is still very lethargic but I am too exhausted to worry, yet. I have constructed a makeshift blockade with patio chairs in the yard to keep him away from whatever enticing little carcass still lies on the other side of the fence, and I have vowed to never again give myself a kenahora. No more canaries; this evil eye crap is definitely for the birds.

At least I can enter this little adventure in the 2013 column, and move into 2014 tomorrow night with an unstained slate.

A HAPPY AND HEALTHY NEW YEAR TO ALL!

Sensing Direction

Blind as he is, my dog adjusted to our new home fairly quickly. There are different walls in different places, and he inches along them, just as he did at the old house, occasionally slamming into one. Just as he did at the old house. He is finding his way, and he is more than willing to suffer the occasional low speed setback.

He is far more cautious when it comes to stairs. His conveniently flattened face can withstand endless collisions with plaster, but he somehow knows not to take chances with vertical tumbles. He can sense the plunging empty space of an approaching downward staircase, and he moves with caution, using his paw to locate the edge. He senses the oncoming hurdle of an upward staircase well in advance, and lifts his forepaws alternately in a bit of canine ballet as he anticipates a climb.

A keen sense of smell is certainly an asset, but, for Manny, navigating the world is mostly about preparation, approximation, and risk assessment. He gets lost a lot but he rarely gets hurt. He is on constant alert, readying himself to the extent he can for obstacles. He never seems to know exactly where the obstacles are, but he allows himself a generous margin of error when he knows he is getting close. He gets sloppy when he can afford to, takes extra precaution when the stakes are higher. He knows he is safest when he is by my side, but he savors his independence and is willing to sacrifice a little bit of security for an occasional adventure. He is, in that way, not unlike the rest of us.

When I was in my early twenties, I bumped into a lot of walls. I always caught myself (or allowed someone to catch me) before I went off a cliff, but I was determined to assert my independence. More often than not, I had no idea where I was going or what I was looking for. My parents wanted to protect me from whatever was out there, and I occasionally took them up on it. Security has its appeal, but so does independence. If we are lucky, we can have a bit of both. We all have different comfort levels, we all struggle to find the right balance. Thirty years later, I still get bruised, still find myself way too close to the edge before I turn tail and seek out safer ground.

In our new house, Manny has chosen a favorite spot on each level, a spot where he can feel independent and secure at the same time. He goes where he knows I am close by, where he can hear me and I, in turn, can hear him. Sometimes, when he goes in the yard, he disappears around the side of the house for a long time. I know what he is doing. He is digging, desperately clawing through a chunk of earth so he can squeeze under the fence into the neighbor's yard. Last night, I found him there, with his head already halfway through. I dragged him back into the house. I will try to patch up the hole, and he will keep digging. It's a dance we did at the old house.

I will keep my eye on him, even though I am fairly confident he will not get lost or hurt. He will make his escape, come out on the other side of the hole -- if not this one, another one -- and savor his newfound freedom. And then, as he always did at our old house, he will make his way around to the front door, and wait, as long as he has to, for me to let him back in. Briefly energized by his taste of the world outside, he will be relieved to be safe again, and will once again settle in to one of his favorite spots, staying close but not too close to me as I go up and down the stairs.

Home, for Manny, is where the lady with the food is. No matter where we end up, Manny will wrestle with his yearning for a bit of independence and his need to feel save, and loved. He will take an occasional chance, and he will suffer an occasional setback. But, with a little preparation, approximation, and risk assessment, he will, somehow, seek out his comfort level and find the right balance. He is not unlike the rest of us.

Quiet Reflection

It occurred to me yesterday that the only person with whom I had any interaction on Christmas day was the guy at the drive-thru Dunkin Donuts window. Texts and emails don't count, and frankly I'm not sure the quick, relatively wordless transaction with the top half of a guy handing me coffee through a small opening in a wall counts either.

To say I enjoyed a traditional Jewish Christmas might be a bit of a stretch. I did not exactly go to the movies, although I did watch The Shawshank Redemption on DVD. Nor did I venture out for Chinese food, although I did microwave a package of frozen vegetables that included a little packet of Asian style sauce. The dog and I walked into town, which was eerily empty except for the cluster of cars surrounding the movie theatre. It's a Jewish neighborhood; I assume the underground parking lot was already full.

I am relieved to have Christmas behind me. It's not my holiday, but I couldn't help feeling like a bit of a loser knowing that most other folks were either stuffing themselves silly with sugary cookies while opening presents or lying on a beach in Puerto Vallarta. Or at least out with friends for a movie and Chinese food. I have no burning desire to be engaged in any of those activities, but still. Now, to top it all off, I have to endure the days leading up to New Year's, days filled with way too much free time that I will no doubt use to conduct a pointless referendum on my life.

Reflection sucks. I thought about that as I looked in the mirror this morning, squinting at the reflection of my "just got out of bed" face. Horrifying, but it could be a lot worse. They say the Lord works in mysterious ways, but sometimes her logic is astounding. Like the way she has our eyes begin to struggle with up close vision just as our faces fall prey to gravity and reduced elasticity. The Lord's embargo on plumping facial oils coincides with our difficulty in seeing anything closer than arm's length. Which is why I sometimes practically press my face into the glass, just so I cannot see the wrinkles.

It's the other kind of reflection, though, the hours pondering the things I have not yet accomplished and the things I would really like to accomplish in the coming year but am pretty sure I won't, that makes the horror of the reflection in the mirror seem like child's play. All the should'ves and the shoulds, the self destructive focus on personal failures, real and imagined -- the kind of reflection that makes me want to take the mirror I have conjured up and smash it to pieces. Again, the Lord's ways aren't mysterious at all; there's a reason she has us drink ourselves under the table on New Year's Eve and wake up on New Year's Day with a throbbing hangover. It's all about survival; in our frantic search for Advil and coffee we forget about our false promises, at least for another year. It almost makes me rethink my disdain for organized religion.

At least I am interacting with humans again, now that Christmas is over and stores are open. My conversation with the Starbucks barista seemed downright meaningful compared to the limited exchange at the drive-thru, and later today I will visit the cable company service center to discuss an entirely inane situation. The conversation will be unproductive, but it will no doubt be very long. I am purposely going today, not waiting until after New Year's, when I will have forgotten all my reflections and my resolutions to be nice.

Winter Staycation

This week, the population in my zip code will shrink considerably as a good percentage of my neighbors fly south for winter break. I will be able to stroll into any restaurant at any time and get fed immediately. I will be able to run into the local high end grocery store and have my number called before I have time to come to my senses and wonder why I would spend so much on a thimble full of pasta salad.

If the traffic situation in town is any indication, many of the snow birds have not yet left the nest. Even though the weather has been unseasonably warm for days, parking spaces remain empty a mere block or two from all the shops while long lines of cars clog narrow lanes to wait for spots that might open up within feet of the drivers' destinations. I shovel my own driveway now. I park off the beaten path. I have to admit it all makes me feel a little bit superior.

Given the choice, I have always preferred to tough out a bit more winter before I treat myself to long days of bone soothing warmth, but still, it's hard to avoid an occasional pang of jealousy every time I see a taxi pull up in someones driveway and pop open the trunk. Months of waning sun have left my skin dull and an odd shade of faded olive. I have thrown myself into a new skin care regimen, taking comfort in the notion that I am at least preserving the status quo as far as my wrinkles are concerned. The highly trained esthetician behind the counter assured me that all the peptides and enzymes and exotic sounding botanical extracts would literally glue the crevices in my cheeks together. She squeezed her fist for emphasis; it looked as if I would need a crowbar to pry her fingers apart. The glue has not worked as quickly as I had hoped on the crevices in my cheeks but I remain optimistic; at the very least, my face feels kind of sticky.

This weekend, while many of the neighboring nests have begun to empty, my new nest has had a bit of a population explosion. All three of my children have converged under my tiny roof. Unfamiliar jackets, wet from walks in the icy rain while the lesser souls await perfect parking spots, hang over the backs of every available chair and newel post. The driver's seat in my car never seems to be where I left it as offspring at opposite ends of the height spectrum take it for spins. As if the seat position isn't solid enough evidence of who drove last, the cranked up radio station that startles me when I turn on the ignition confirms my suspicions. I woke this morning to find a motley collection of blankets strewn in the vicinity of the family room couch and the detritus of late night snacks littering pretty much every surface in the kitchen. The dog is confused. I couldn't be happier.

For lunch yesterday, we dined at Chipotle because my son can't get Chipotle in Japan. For dinner we dined at the nearby Jewish-Mexican restaurant because, well, where else can you get delicious and authentic Mexican food in a place owned by Spanish speaking guys named Isaac and Moishe? Who needs the hassle of holiday travel to Puerto Vallarta with all these delicacies so close to home? If I get really desperate, I can always try a spray tan.

By the time all the snow birds return with their already fading tans, the fleeting swell in my nest will be gone. We will shrink back to normal size -- just me, one daughter, a blind dog. My son will be back on the other side of the planet, where burritos are painfully scarce but people seem to live really long. A diet of fish and rice may have something to do with that, but frankly I think longevity without a steady supply of Mexican food is highly overrated. My older daughter will return to her busy life and I will once again have to settle for an occasional quick visit and a lot of quick texts. My youngest will once again be stuck here without siblings to lean on as we recapture the still unfamiliar rhythm of our new household. She will count the days until she gets to fly off on her own; I will too, but probably with a bit more ambivalence.

I will begin to get over the pangs of jealousy as I see the taxis returning to the neighborhood and depositing all the weary travelers on their slushy doorsteps. I will get over my own shrunken nest, or at least get accustomed to it. My innate impatience will help me to save money at the overpriced local grocery store as the crowds reappear and I will feel even more superior than I do now when everybody is back in town and I have to park even farther away from where I need to be.

And I will look forward to my own escape to warmer climes in spring, an escape that will seem particularly sweet after months of snow shoveling and long cold walks. Mostly, I will look forward to the next time the population explodes in my house and it becomes filled with wet jackets and tossed blankets and dirty dishes and the sound of my three grown children laughing together -- even if it's about me.

Number Crunching

It was not until late in the evening yesterday that I realized it was December 12th. Exactly a year from the day on which my divorce was finalized, a day that should be memorable if not for the official ending of my twenty-six year marriage then at least because of its numerical symmetry -- twelve-twelve-twelve.

At the time, friends had come up with all sorts of creative ideas about the significance of the date. Three twelves add up to thirty-six, which is twice eighteen, or "chai" in Hebrew, which means life and signifies "good luck." The date would bring me double good luck -- at least that was the theory. Some of the formulas were darker. Three sixes is the sign of the devil. Three twelves -- well, that couldn't be good. Maybe I was just trading the devil I'd known for a new one; maybe the new one wouldn't be so bad. 

Anniversaries always tend to spark reflection, and the first anniversary of my divorce is no exception. I was grateful it took me so long to remember, that I did not waste an entire day mulling over my disappointments and my lingering uncertainties. In fact, I was already well into a glass of wine by the time I realized what day it was, and the haze cast a rosy glow on the occasion. Not a celebratory glow -- I have never thought a circuit court judge's stamp on a fat document laying out the details of a major upheaval in the lives of a bunch of folks about whom I care very deeply was cause for revelry. It was simply a glimmer of optimism, a recognition of how much has changed over the course of twelve months, and how we are all still standing.

Divorce, no matter how necessary it might seem, does its damage. As intolerable as marriage may have been, we have all -- my children, my ex, and I -- endured our own personal versions of hell in the aftermath of its termination. With other unpredictable crises adding to the mix, I often wondered how any of us would make it through, and, though I can only speak for myself, I am pretty sure we are all still wrestling with demons. Then again, so are most people. We are just not that special.

In my wine induced haze I thought about how a year ago I never would have believed I would be where I am today. I have survived countless emotional roller coaster rides, and I have figured out how to navigate new frontiers with my children and with my ex husband without the benefit of a GPS. I have worked where I no longer thought I was competent to work, and I have filled the white spaces of my resume with a hefty dose of positive spin. I have cleaned out and sold the house where my family took shape -- enduring some minor setbacks along the way, and have journeyed down memory lane countless times without becoming paralyzed by "what ifs." I have moved to a new place and created a brand new space for me and my youngest daughter as she prepares to leave whichever nest we happen to inhabit. I have downsized in terms of square footage, but I have realized that my little house gives me a sense of warmth and coziness I could never quite achieve as I puttered around in my spacious "great room." Things break and I fix them. I have grown fond of physical labor, and I go on shopping sprees to Home Depot instead of Bloomingdale's.  I wield a mean hammer.

Twelve-twelve-thirteen. Thirty-seven, a prime number. I'd like to think that signifies something good.  Statistics would suggest I am well past my prime, but I can't for the life of me figure out when that happened or what was so "prime" about it. Screw the actuarial charts; I'm perfectly willing to believe my prime is yet to come.

Trigger Happiness

On the day I moved, one of the movers handed me the key to a file cabinet I had never bothered to lock. He had taken the liberty of locking the drawers for me, presumably just to keep them from flying open. I thanked him profusely, and carefully put the key away for safe keeping.

Safe keeping and ready accessibility, just as I did with my extra checkbooks and my favorite scarf. All the items that, weeks later, remain safe (from me) and, if they are readily accessible, it must be to someone else. I cannot for the life of me remember where I put any of these things.

Despite repeated promises to myself that I would shed all that is unnecessary, relocate with only the bare essentials, I have spent the better part of the weeks since my move unpacking boxes filled with things I could certainly live without, many of them things I had forgotten I even had. Occasionally I muster up enough stoicism to toss an extraneous memento, steel myself against the onslaught of old memories that, unlike those of the short term, don't get lost but simply remain dormant. Memories that spring to life with the slightest provocation, memories coated with the kind of silver lining that eludes the more recent ones. The kind of silver lining that will make the already forgotten breakfast I had this morning seem, one day, to have been a royal and happy feast.

I think ahead now to my next move, and have learned to cherish the much maligned but surprisingly utilitarian phenomenon of short term memory loss. No matter how many times I dash out to replenish supplies, garbage bags are disappearing at an astonishing rate. I assess every component of every new arrival in the house, and I eliminate every unnecessary item immediately, racing to avoid any triggers of sentimentality. Birthday cards, thank you notes, pretty packaging, coupons, gratuitous refrigerator magnets and pens. My trash can runneth over, but my storage spaces seek some arbitrary but constant level. When I move again, I will have accumulated very little in the way of useless stuff. All but the most significant short term memories will remain buried, and when, one day, the assault of silver lined images of my past begins in earnest, much of the clutter will be gone.

No doubt, though, I will one day enjoy a few "eureka" moments -- when I find the key to the locked file cabinet drawers, my extra check books, my favorite scarf. I will open long inaccessible file cabinet drawers filled with insignificant things, my misplaced checks will have long been replaced, and the scarf will be a relic of some "what was I thinking" kind of fashion. But, like it or not, finding these things will be like reaching into a grab bag of surprising treats. Treats that remind me of a time that, by then, will seem to be a time of youth and adventure and simplicity.

At the very least, recovering these mundane bits of my present will coat the hectic and exhausting days of this move in sparkling, untarnished metal. I will remember fondly the time I left the house where my kids and I grew up and began to build a new chapter, a chapter filled with ordinary and sometimes downright infuriating moments that will one day make me smile.

Postcards from Heaven

I received a text from my dad just before I woke the other day. I had never gotten a text from him before -- it had not yet become popular when he died, in the late nineties -- but this one was brief and clear, as real as any text I've ever received. "Go to Starbucks," it said.

Most of the time, he watches over me quietly. He was never one to meddle. Occasionally, though, he hovers close, makes some noise to get my attention. I got out of bed and made a mental note to listen to him. Even when he was alive, he would rarely butt in; I could forgo the drive thru Dunkin Donuts only minutes away from my new home and brave the cold, just this once.

Like the scraps of paper on which I tend to jot reminders, my mental note was nowhere to be found when I finally headed out for coffee. It didn't turn up until I returned home and dropped the still full cup of Dunkin Donuts brew on the stairs as I tried to balance several other items on my arm and save myself another trip down. Trying to hang on to the rest of my load and keep the dog from lapping up the lethal liquid as it trickled down the steps, I remembered my dad's text. This was his handiwork; a minor catastrophe just to remind me I should have listened.

I would make it to Starbucks. I made another mental note. Again, the mental note was quickly misplaced as I began to obsess about a particular phone call I awaited that would reassure me a certain pesky item of business had been worked out. I busied myself with more unpacking while I made a concerted albeit unsuccessful effort to not think about the phone call and managed to forget about the text with pretty much no effort at all.  To pass the time, I attacked the stack of framed wall hangings the movers had encased in bubble wrap that was as impenetrable as a steel safe. Impenetrable as a safe, maybe, but nowhere near as secure, I realized, when I heard the tinkling of falling shards of glass that used to be my downstairs bathroom mirror. Dad, again.

This time he had orchestrated a minor catastrophe that was far more likely to get my attention, and not just because of the prospect of seven years of bad luck. It was the mirror we had purchased and hung in his honor, finally heeding his complaints about the naked and useless wall over our powder room sink. Back then I didn't necessarily lose mental notes; I just ignored them. But my husband and I had scored a funky (and, come to think of it, quite hideous) frame in a market somewhere in Mexico City, and we both knew immediately what we would put into it and where it would go. Dad, as usual, was right. It was good to have a mirror in the downstairs bathroom, and the hideous frame and the story of our adventure in acquiring it amused him.

The broken mirror certainly got my attention, at least momentarily, and, again, I promised myself I would make it to Starbucks, even though I was no longer in the mood for coffee. My back hurt from mopping up coffee that had managed to drip its way down every step (thank goodness I didn't get a large) and blood continued to flow from the place where my hand had encountered a particularly sharp edge of glass. What I really needed was a stiff drink.

I remembered the elusive mental note. I thought about my dad, and I thought about how I always knew he would make things turn out all right. He was my fixer, my safety net. He was the guy waiting with open arms for me in the pool, his dark hair slicked back after he dove in and swam under water the entire length of the pool and back while I teetered on the edge, marveling at his power and his grace. He would coax me gently but he would wait as long as it took, and he would catch me, and the water would feel strangely warm as long as his arms were wrapped around me. And we would race down the length of the pool and back, and he would stay just close enough to me to let me know that he was not so much winning the race as leading me in.

He must have seen me teetering the other day when he sent me that text. Go to Starbucks. It wasn't that he thought I needed caffeine; he just wanted to remind me he is there, waiting for me in the pool. And as long as he is there, everything will somehow turn out okay. All I have to do is listen. So I went to Starbucks. Nothing spilled. Nothing else broke. And the phone call came almost immediately, reassuring me that the latest pesky item of business had been worked out.

My new home is taking shape. As I continued to unpack yesterday, I stumbled upon a DVD my brother had sent me years ago with home movies from our earliest days. I fast forwarded to a random frame. My father was holding me tight while my brother jumped up and down at his feet, just itching to torment me. I made what appeared to be a half-hearted effort to squirm free. Even then I somehow knew my dad would make sure everything turned out all right.

New Tricks for Old Dogs

You know what they say: big hands...big feet; big feet...big shoes. Something like that. Maybe they also say new house, new car. Well, maybe they don't; I think I'm the one who said that, but who cares? After all the time I have spent trying to find my own voice, I might as well listen to it. 

So I did, and there you have it: new house new car. And new beginnings, at least according to the artsy wall hanging given to me by friends earlier this week. Sounds like a plan. Nevertheless, as what seemed like an inordinate amount of time between signing the contract to sell the old house and officially closing the deal winds down, I feel woefully not ready to begin anew. My body aches from weeks of sporadic packing and irrational bursts of heavy lifting, but I remain overwhelmed by mental lists of tasks as yet undone and unanticipated piles of stuff that continue to reveal themselves no matter how hard I work to clear everything out. I have begun breaking small promises I made to myself only weeks ago. Maybe I'll rent a storage locker for a few months after all. Maybe I don't need to toss all the things I haven't used in years. After all, I might need those crystal goblets one day. Or maybe I'll get the urge to hop on the recumbent exercise bike, now that it's no longer buried under mountains of old clothing.

It's difficult to imagine starting anew when I can't seem to wrap up the old. The past clings desperately to every surface of my existence, refusing to loosen its grip. Progress is slow; it's like trying to clean up a raw egg that's cracked on the counter. Eventually you win the battle, but the viscous mess puts up a pretty good fight. 

My new friend Rodrigo, along with a revolving posse of relatives and friends, has been helping me unload some of the big ticket items. I busy myself moving small things while they carry out old cribs, tables, chairs, beds; furniture that is no longer of any use to me, some that I have forgotten I ever had. Still, I feel wistful, and take comfort in the shrinking but conspicuous clusters of useless items that still litter the floor, the shelves, the closets. I noticed Rodrigo's wife staring at a set of six thick glasses and a matching pitcher I had purchased years ago somewhere near Guatalajara. I remember staring at it in the market, thinking I just had to have it. I have never sipped from the glasses, had long ago removed the set from a prominent spot on my kitchen counter. Once, I killed a fly and I had to scoop it out of the pitcher. Rodrigo's wife looked as if she had struck gold as she carefully carried her newly acquired set of glassware to her car. I'm sure I'll get over it, but today I kind of miss it. I even considered calling her to tell her about the dead fly.  

Though the new house is filled with the promise of brand new beginnings, it is also quickly becoming filled with the things that got away from Rodrigo and the occasional charity pickups, the things I just can't let go. Nobody's perfect, and there's no such thing as a totally clean slate. The new car seems filled with promise as well; there's no more hideous death rattle when I start it up, and there's no more ragtop blindspot to make lane changes and backing out of parking spaces death defying. The blind spots that await as I move forward, well, neither the new car or the new house filled with old things will help with those. 

Manny, my blind dog, was not thrilled about the extra effort he had to exert to hoist himself up into the higher seat of our new ride. He gave me that look, the one that says Really? First the new house and now this? But, as he always does, he gave his hind quarters a zesty shake and he persevered, resigned to blanketing the unfamiliar upholstery in his smell and his hair. 

He sniffed. I sniffled. "Yes, really, Manny." Big hands, big feet, big shoes, big gloves. New house. New car. New blind spots. New beginnings. That's life. No worries, though. The cookie jar is coming with us. 

Head in the Clouds

When clouds are pasted onto the horizon in the still dim light of early dawn, they can look like mountains. As I drove eastward this morning toward the rented townhouse that I have been slowly filling with the stuff I can live without temporarily but cannot leave behind -- a motley collection of coffee mugs, crystal goblets, uncomfortable shoes, cocktail dresses -- I imagined that I was visiting my vacation home. A small chalet, maybe, tucked away from reality on the ledge of a rocky slope.

In a few short weeks, the rented townhouse will be my reality, no longer just a haven where I can escape for a brief visit. The house I have lived in for almost twenty years will be emptied of my stuff and filled with somebody else's. A young child whose name I do not know will sleep where my children once slept, unfamiliar aromas will permeate the kitchen, another woman's jeans will be shrinking in the dryer. The worn molding around the front door will become just something else to repair; it will no longer be a fond reminder of a beloved dog unable to contain his excitement when the UPS guy visits, or a squirrel scurries across the lawn, or when a leaf blows by. Eventually, the insidious puggle hairs that defy vacuuming and settle onto every inch of fabric will dissipate, and all evidence of our life there will be erased.

It's odd. What I love most about the townhouse, my vacation home, is that it is a clean slate. Yet, almost every moment I spend there is spent examining spaces and figuring out where and how my stuff will fit. I travel with measuring tape, I envision still unfurnished rooms configured in ways that will seem familiar. I envision puggle hairs floating through the air, scratched walls, carpet stains with known origins. I imagine faded Pepsi stains on the ceiling from the time my son and his friend decided to see what happens when you boil a soda can, V-8 stains in the bathroom from the time I tried to bathe a skunked dog in the sink. I wonder how long it will take for my blind dog to figure out the path to my bed each night, how I will explain the new bedding that still smells fresh.

Technically, my old house, the one from which I am slowly erasing myself, is not the house where I grew up. I lived in several homes before I landed there, in that house more spacious than any I had ever known, in a suburb I had never intended to live in, living a suburban life I had never really imagined living. In many ways, though, it is the house where I grew up. It is where my family took shape, it is where I started to figure out who I am. It is a place filled with wonderful memories and a place where I learned many lessons, some of them painful, most of them useful. There was life before that house, and I hope there will be much life after that house, but the meat of my story happened there. It is changing hands, and it will soon be spruced up and coated in new paint, but it will always, in some fundamental way, be mine.

My townhouse in the mountains will likely be temporary, as fleeting as the backdrop of jagged cloud formations in the distance this morning. Maybe it will become more than just a pile of brick and mortar to me, maybe it won't. There are no mountains, but there is plenty of new terrain.

All Hooked Up

I am sitting in the kitchen of my cute little new townhouse while the cable guy marches up and down the stairs in his fluffy white shoe covers and sighs an occasional exasperated sigh while he attempts to get me set up for what I hope will be long cozy hours spent as a certified couch potato.

I pretty much gave up on the cable boxes in my old house years ago. At least now things are happening, now that I am getting a fresh start and a brand new account number. No matter how huffy this cable guy becomes, moving to a new house promises to be a lot simpler than waiting in line at the world (world meaning my world as opposed to the real one) cable headquarters for hours hoping that this time -- just this one time -- when you get to the one window that is open to folks other than those trying to save a stamp by paying their bill in person the clerk behind that window doesn't decide it's time to go to lunch or pee or go in the back room and do a word search puzzle.

Much to my relief, the cable guy looks nothing like Jim Carrey. He looks a bit like Colombo, actually, not quite as adorable as Peter Falk but just as disheveled, with a thick end of cable tubing hanging out the side of his mouth instead of a cigar. He stops by every so often to give me a progress report and ask me the same questions he's already asked more than a few times, and each time he seems to be really deep in thought. Just one more thing, I keep expecting him to say as he pivots back toward me and shakes his head before moving on again to solve the mysteries of the universe. My universe, that is.

Just about every day now I visit my cute little new townhouse, even though I don't officially need to move out of the old one for more than a month. Other than the kitchen table that my daughter and I managed to stuff into her car and the five carved wood coyotes that have stood watch at my front door for years, there is no furniture here. There is diet coke and water and wine, and plenty of toilet paper. Within a few hours, there will be cable. (I'm considering telling him not to bother with the wireless, since I had no trouble logging into somebody's unsecured network.) All I need now is one comfy couch and I am set. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how or why I have accumulated so much other stuff over the years. There is so little I really need.

Yesterday, I took a walk in my new neighborhood. I am only minutes from some of my favorite stores, which is a shame since there's really nothing I need to buy. Still, it's nice to window shop, even to wander through shops stocked with expensive items that serve no purpose that I can think of but are certainly pretty to look at. Nowhere near as pretty as the view of the lake, though, just a few short blocks away. I paused at the edge of a bluff thick with tangled tree branches and autumn leaves, listening to the sound of the gentle waves and marveling at the flat crystalline surface of the water as it prepares to freeze for the long winter. As useless, I suppose, as many of the luxuries for sale in town, but that view, well, you just can't put a price tag on it.

The houses, which became noticeably bigger the nearer I got to the lake, were all quiet. I wondered about the people inside, even wondered a bit about their "stuff." No doubt there is a lot of it, and, to be fair, the most useless stuff can be enlightening. Even the Halloween decorations give me clues about the nature of the beasts inside.

I am guessing I will fill the rooms and closets and drawers and any available nooks and crannies in my cute little new townhouse with more than water and diet coke and wine and coyotes and toilet paper. Some of it will be useful, most not. As is my custom, I will have no Halloween decorations. (I stand not on principle but on pure laziness.)

Inside, I will try my best to keep it simple. As simple as hooking up a new cable account. As simple as a fresh start.

Shell Games

Early on, I realized I was not hard wired for fantasy. Fantasy in the literary sense anyway.

I was in first or second grade. This I know because I had not yet left behind the old fashioned rows of linked wooden desks with attached seats and obsolete holes into which boys from previous generations dipped the long hair of girls sitting in front of them. By third grade, many of the classrooms in P.S. 217 in Brooklyn had been updated with modern laminate desks, free standing shiny rectangles into which you could stuff your notebooks with covers decorated by Peter Max and textbooks protected by optimistic book covers bearing Ivy League insignias, and, more importantly, from which you could easily extract assorted candies you had purchased during lunch at Morty and Eddies across Coney Island Avenue to help get you through the afternoon. By 1967, a jawbreaker was always within easy reach; there was no need to surreptitiously lift the creaky hinged wooden flap and pray the teacher wouldn't notice.

The scrap paper in those days was so thin and soft it almost felt like cloth. I remember those grainy five by seven sheets of yellowed paper that looked as if they had been shaved off an ancient and decaying bit of tree bark. Once a week, a story would be piped in over the public address system, and, when it was over, the teacher would distribute the flimsy pages and ask us to illustrate what I suppose would be our version of a "take away." I remember thinking the stories were a bit silly, but maybe I was just missing the point.

One week, the protagonist in the story was a fellow named Mr. Turtle. If there was a message in the tale I couldn't tell you, but Mr. Turtle, as I recall, had a wife and some kids and spent his days doing the kinds of mundane things that most dads did. If Mr. Turtle had a first name, it was never revealed. It was the same for Mrs. Turtle, which made more sense because she was a minor character.

As always, I did my best to color the best picture in the class. To me, anyway, my figures looked lifelike, and everything appeared to be drawn to scale. My coloring was precise; I never went outside the lines. My rendering of Mr. Turtle was so realistic it could have been mistaken for a photo of a neighborhood dad, maybe even mine. I was proud to print my name on the back.

The teacher collected the drawings and held them up for everyone to see, one by one. The deeper she got into the pile, the more mortified I became. Everybody else had drawn Mr. Turtle as a turtle, not a human. It had never occurred to me that a turtle would do things that a person would do -- eat breakfast at a table, drive a car, speak English. It had not even crossed my mind that someone named Mr. Turtle would actually be a turtle. When the teacher got to my picture, she looked concerned. The boy behind me, the same one who had squeezed my hand on the first day of school so hard it made me cry, snickered. I wanted to crawl into my inkwell.

All these years later, as I try to write a novel, I feel like that little girl who wants to disappear into the inkwell. Fiction, to me, is as far fetched as the most fantastical fantasy, at least when it comes to creating it. Somehow, every character is a hodgepodge composite of me and the people I've come to know along the way. As hard as I try to escape reality, it shadows me with every keystroke. The stories I write are remarkably similar to my own stories, then and now.

I fear I am destined to be a turtle without a shell, exposed, at risk, unable to imagine life as anything but a turtle.

Lost in Space

Almost everything about the house seemed perfect. Walking distance to town, close enough to the high school in our old town so my daughter doesn't need to adjust her alarm clock but far enough away to at least give me the illusion of a fresh start. A third bedroom in case an adult child stops by. A fenced in yard for the blind dog. A brand new refrigerator, updated bathrooms, polished wood floors.

There was one major drawback: no storage space. None to speak of anyway. Every inch of the place was designed for living in the present, with just enough square footage devoted to closets that would keep us well stocked with necessary food and clothing. There was no basement crawl space where I could put the excess furniture and boxes containing who knows what, stuff that has travelled with me from home to home, some of it more than once. There were no extra nooks or crannies where I could hang unworn clothing that I have promised myself I would wear one day, where I could stow folded sweaters that I might one day unfold. One day, maybe, when hell freezes over.

It was love at first sight, except for the tiny problem of squeezing a five bedroom house filled with enough crap in the basement to fill up another handful of rooms into a wildly efficient vertical apartment. Really big square peg, really small square hole. Spatial reasoning isn't my thing, but I felt fairly confident this was not going to be an easy fit.

The rent was just a smidge on the wrong side of my upper limit, but the owner admitted she would rather negotiate a bit with a person she liked than grab the full amount from someone who didn't strike her as an ideal tenant. I could tell she liked me. We bonded over lots of topics -- kids, colleges, New York, favorite restaurants. By the time my older daughter stopped by with her posse to offer up a second (and third, and fourth) opinion, I knew I was golden. We had our cell phones out, and we were showing each other pictures of our dogs. I could almost hear the reverse cha-ching of her mental register knocking off a few bucks.

I couldn't sleep that night, so I counted, um, rooms. And square feet. I thought about what I could take with me and what I would have to leave behind. It occurred to me I could take just about everything I need, and what I could not take was the stuff that has been languishing so long in the far reaches of my basement and closets I can barely see it under the dust. And even if hell does freeze over, I probably won't have much use for sweaters that have been folded so long the creases would defy even the most heavy duty steamer.

Not a drawback at all, the lack of storage space. Come to think of it, it's one of the most attractive features, and I should probably pay a premium for it. But I won't. Not after we've shared pictures of our dogs.

Atone of Voice (and Deed)

A Christian friend asked me recently why, if we Jews know our slates will be wiped clean on Yom Kippur, nobody has ever invited him to get in on the action. A reasonable question, I suppose.

Naturally, my first instinct was to get defensive. I get defensive when somebody asks me what time it is. Not wanting him to think I would ever try to keep the secret to everlasting life to myself, I explained to him that I don't really believe slates are wiped clean on Yom Kippur, as if by some heavenly "delete" key. "It's the day of atonement," I told him, "not absolution."

"But what about the people who really do believe?" His religious convictions are so powerful he considers his beliefs to be knowledge, unassailable fact. We've had this argument many times; he will never accept my position, that beliefs are a matter of opinion. I envy his certainty.

Synagogue sanctuaries burst at the seams on the High Holidays, and even the most secular Jews believe strongly enough in the power of God to seal their fate for another year to fast on Yom Kippur. The promise of forgiveness is worth even the price of admission to temple that day, which is steep. If I were terminally ill and somebody charged me an arm and a leg for some alleged (but as yet unproven) miracle cure, I'd be reaching into my wallet faster than you can say chopped herring on a bagel. (I may not make it to the Book of Life, but I always make it to the "break fast.") I'm a cynic but I'm not a complete idiot.

For me, it's more about hope than belief. And though I may possess way more than a scintilla of doubt about the whole story, there's a piece of me that thinks it couldn't hurt. I know that good people who have fasted and apologized up the wazoo die every year while unreformed sinners live on, but it's only human to try to increase your odds.

I don't fast, I don't recite Hebrew prayers all day, and I rarely even go to temple any more. But I reflect -- a lot -- and I make lots of mental lists of my sins -- real, imagined, or even unimagined. And I silently apologize to God -- wherever she is -- and sometimes I even repent out loud to folks I believe I have offended. Whatever the case may be, I know full well that the sincerity of an apology can only be measured by the behavior that follows, and as arduous as a day spent in temple while on the verge of starvation might be, the real work lies ahead.

When I see my Christian friend today, I will not invite him to temple (that would be like inviting him to a stranger's house). But I will share with him my own secret to, if not life everlasting, a life that feels more right. Acknowledging sins, reflecting, and apologizing are positive steps. And if your intentions are good, you can at least let yourself off the hook, even if God or the folks you've offended don't.

Which is, as they say, not chopped liver.

A Love Well Earned

I moved the miniature pewter vase out of the way so I could get a better look at the picture.

“That’s Stanley,” Elaine announced from across the bedroom. I like Elaine a lot. It was unlike her to point out the obvious, that the handsome man in a tuxedo standing next to her in the picture was Stanley, her late husband.

I gave her a watered down version of the exasperated look I generally reserve for my mother. “Yes, I know.”

“No, that’s Stanley,” she said, pointing toward the picture. “And that’s Stanley,” she said, pointing toward the large pewter vase tucked into the shelf on her nightstand. Funny, it looked exactly like the one I had moved to get a better look at the picture.

Urns. Two urns. Filled with Stanley’s ashes. How fun! I couldn’t wait to see my mother’s reaction. (She was in the room with us, but she can’t hear a thing.) I pointed to the large urn on the nightstand and tried to be as deliberate as possible as I mouthed the information. “Stan-ley’s-ash-es-are-in-there!”  She looked horrified. I was delighted.

I had always liked Elaine; now I was simply in awe. She had just sold her house in New Jersey and was showing us her new apartment in Manhattan. It was a daunting move for a woman in her eighties, even one as lively as Elaine. But she was not alone. She had brought her dead husband with her. A little creepy, maybe, but it seemed to make so much sense.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask, like which part of Stanley is in the tiny urn, but I settled on “why two?” Elaine explained that the large urn by the bed, the one containing the bulk of Stanley, was there for bedtime chats. A bit one-sided, I would imagine, but chats involving Stanley and Elaine were always a bit one-sided. I remember marveling at how quiet he was compared to his entertaining wife. Once, I told him I thought she was awesome. “She is the best,” he said, gazing at her with the kind of love in his eyes I had thought only existed in fairy tales.

Elaine explained that the little one traveled with her. Not everywhere but on big trips, so Stanley could always be by her side. Or at least in her purse. They had planned it this way. Ultimately, their ashes would be scattered together, maybe into the ocean from the deck of one of their favorite cruise ships. But as long as one was alive, they would continue to travel, together. And if Elaine went first and Stanley ended up on a cruise with another woman, he was to cast her ashes off the deck into the wind so they would blow into the bitch’s eyes.

It’s a great love story, the story of the two urns. It’s about two well-heeled people who had all the trappings of a great life but had all they needed just by being together. There was no funeral for Stanley. No speeches, no tearful tributes, no chapels packed with people wearing black and not knowing what to say. Just a quiet ride back home with his wife.

Stanley stayed in the apartment while Elaine, my mom, and I went out to dinner. Walking to the car, Elaine confided that she wished Stanley could have been with her to enjoy her new city life. No doubt she went home and told Stanley the same thing.

And, no doubt, he listened to her intently and didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. That’s Stanley.

Passage of Rites

The Jewish holidays are upon us, a bit early this year, but, as always, I am prepared to break with old traditions and create a few new ones.

I began bending the rules last night, showing up at my house while some potential buyers were taking a third look at my house. The broker struck up a conversation with me. He wanted to know what my older children were up to, and he lit up when I told him my son was in Japan. Ah, the Asia connection. He is from Shanghai, as are his clients, the young family still kicking all the tires in my house. Though he has never been to Japan and I have never been to Shanghai, we managed to find some common ground. Neither one of us speaks Japanese, and we both agree that Tokyo is very expensive. I feel very close to him now. Maybe he will put in a good word for my house.

Temple is not on my agenda this year, but I'm okay with that. As long as I connect, somehow, with being Jewish, I feel as if I am celebrating the holidays. We all need to connect with our heritage, even on ordinary days. The young mom from Shanghai looked hopeful last night when she asked me if my neighbors were Asian. She explained she thought they might be because they seem to enjoy gardening. They are not Asian. Her disappointment was obvious.

I spent this morning making deep spiritual connections with the handful of Jews who had snuck into Starbucks while the others are putting on dark suits for temple. We talked of blintzes and tsimmes and cholent and gribenes and schmaltz and our grandmothers' homemade chopped liver. Beats the crap out of listening to a long winded sermon. The other day, I found myself elbow deep in sticky challah dough, helping my friend whip up a few loaves. You haven't lived until you've tasted homemade challah. (You also gain an appreciation for the upper body strength of an old fashioned bubbe.) My daughter and I polished off half of it last night before we went to a restaurant for dinner. We felt satisfied that we had connected with our Jewishness. At the restaurant, she had capellini, I had tilapia, but the folks at the next table were eating matzoh ball soup. Again, we felt satisfied. We had connected with Jews. The holiday spirit was intact.

Some traditions remain unbroken. Tonight, I will have dinner at the home of good friends who, for years, have adopted my family for the holidays. I know exactly what I will eat, from the gefilte fish through dessert. As always, some of the usual guests will be absent. This year, my children are dispersed to various continents, but they'll all be with me at dinner, at least in spirit. They always are.

Hey, it wouldn't be a holiday without some breaks with tradition. As long as nobody takes away the brisket, I'll be all right.

Daily News?

At least online dating sites worry about you when you fail to keep in touch.

There may be a problem with your profile read the ominous caption. Oh no! If memory serves me, I didn't say anything inappropriate, was careful to keep the ugliest truths about myself pretty well buried. Maybe I had been hacked. Only a day earlier I had received an email, supposedly sent by a friend, alerting me to an article about how to eliminate belly fat. Fairly certain he does not have a death wish, I believed him when he said he had not sent it.

Assuming I would once again need to change my email password, I opened the email. Maybe you should change your pictures. Oh dear; the dating site was calling me ugly. Maybe you should complete or edit your responses. Oh dear; not just ugly, but dull. And all this time I had been thinking there was something wrong with the guys!

Well, since I really have no interest in trying to optimize my online dating appeal, I'm back to the drawing board (or should I say keyboard) on search engine optimization for my blog. Earlier this week, a discreet "pussy" in the title and "beef jerky" in the text had nominal effect on my readership statistics, so it's time to explore new strategies.

I pondered this the other day, my fingers dancing idly over the keys -- a writers version of air guitar -- while I half listened to the morning news (and I use the term news very loosely -- it took me a week to learn that Yosemite was burning but I knew Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones had split within thirty seconds of the door slamming behind her). Anyway, like manna from heaven came the teaser and then the story about the woman who decided to have sex with her husband every day for a year and then write about it. Seriously. For this, she lands on the morning news. I was thinking I could do that, and I bet I could write about it better than she could. Yes, I could have sex every day for a year with her husband, especially since she admitted right there on television that she's cutting him off. Well, so I thought, until an excerpt of the interview with him came on, and he said something so grammatically incorrect any interest I might have had pretty much dried up.

  
Bad idea anyway. If my kids already find my writing humiliating, I can only imagine how they'd feel if I wrote that I had sex at all much less for three hundred sixty-five straight days and had told them to stay out of the room because we were having a "Santa meeting." Yes, the entire world knows these kids believed that mom and dad were meeting with Santa in their bedroom. Every day for a year, mom came out with her hair looking like it had been in the Cuisinart and dad's fly was always open and the kids think they were meeting with Santa? Forget about the humiliation; how about the years of therapy? Going forward, on December 24th, while all the other kids in the neighborhood are trying to figure out where their parents hid the presents, this mom and dad will be trying to find their kids, who are hiding under beds, trembling, praying that weird Santa dude can't fit down the chimney.

Maybe I should shift my focus back to the dating site. New pictures, new responses, maybe even a link to my blog. It may not optimize any engines, but it could stir up a little activity, let the online dating folks know they don't need to worry about me.

Routine Maintenance

On an occasional summer evening, my father would carry one of our small television sets out onto the postage stamp that was our fifth floor terrace -- our grounds -- and settle in to watch the Mets game.

Maybe it happened a few times a year, maybe only once. I can't remember. But I can still see the flickering light of the screen, my father looking as if he had won the lottery as he sat in a folding chair with his trademark cigar hanging out of his mouth. It was a rare and glorious tweak in his evening routine.

Last night, I sat alone on my deck watching the flickering lights of passing cars flash through the narrow gaps between slats in the fence. The air was still, the sun was down, and the night was making those sounds it makes that are just loud enough to remind you your ears work. If I listened carefully I could almost hear the din of the spotty reception on my father's portable television, the rich thwack of a bat connecting with a ball, an announcer's voice escalating with the excitement of a line drive, a crowd collectively holding its breath as a fly ball sailed toward the fence.  The simple pleasures of baseball and a summer evening. The sheer exhilaration of monotony.

He was a master of simple pleasures, my father. Humble and hard working, he came home every evening tired but content. He would drop his keys on the piano bench, give me a hug, wash up before dinner. Once in a blue moon he would defy my mother, push back her tight schedule for fifteen minutes so he could have a Scotch on the rocks. Usually not, though. She was not a fan of tweaks in the routine.

It was the time after dinner he enjoyed most, when he would sit in his chair in the living room and light up his cigar and unfold his New York Times. The television was always on for background noise, and I would often sit with him. That's when he taught me how to do the crossword puzzle. In pen. How to fold the newspaper just right, how to pick a section and just go at it. How to make sure you had a few solid across words and down words figured out before you inked anything in. Somehow, the answers would come.

This weekend was all about simple pleasures for me. Lazy afternoons in Midwestern lake water finally warm enough to swim in, a stint at "stand up paddle boarding" -- the closest I'll ever come to surfing, nasty food at a beach concession stand, and an afternoon wandering through the local annual art fair in punishing heat. I watched couples holding hands and young families bickering, chatted with artists trying to keep cool in their stalls, kept my eyes out for something extraordinary, a work of art that didn't remind me of something I had seen the other day at Target. My friend and I each settled on wearable art, pieces we could hang around our necks rather than on our walls. More bang for our buck.

It was a tweak in my routine, this weekend. Time spent outside, away from chores that beckon from every corner at home (whether I do them or not), watching the flicker of people passing by and listening to noises that seem to have no purpose other than to remind us that our ears work. Less monotonous than exhilarating, I suppose. I felt as if I had won the lottery.

This would have been a perfect weekend to unplug the television and take it outside, fiddle with the rabbit ears, watch the flickering lights of the Mets game. Or, if they were not playing, to sit in the living room doing the Sunday puzzle and listening to the white noise of my mother banging around in the kitchen. To inhale the delicious aroma of my father's cigar and enjoy the simple pleasure of a routine tweaked only because it's summer, and summer doesn't last very long.

SEO is Not an Airport in Southeast Asia (So What Else is New, Pussy Cat?)

Recently, I applied for a job that required both writing and marketing skills. I thought I could easily fake the writing skills (though apparently I could not) but I knew from the get go the marketing thing would be an uphill battle.

Before I learned one of life's most basic truths, i.e. that in matters of love it's all about pleasant facial features, buoyant breasts, and perky butt cheeks, or, for purposes of this blog that will become clearer later, it's all about tits and ass, my mother taught me to rationalize away my unpopularity with boys by reassuring myself that I was simply too intimidating. As a matter of self preservation, I've fallen back on a bit of that kind of thinking each time I fail to land a job, but with age comes at least some wisdom and I know, deep down, it's not true. Frankly, this whole job search experience is starting to make me feel fat.

Still, I persevere, and continue to look inward so I may identify my shortcomings and, maybe one day soon, get the equivalent of a fat envelope in the mail from a prospective employer. My writing, I think, is as much a part of me as my crooked nose and my double jointed thumbs, and absent surgical intervention, it's not going to change any time soon. But marketing, that's something I can learn. I am no longer as behind the eight ball as I was when I first applied for the writing/marketing job; I at least know now that S.E.O. refers to search engine optimization, and not the airport in South Korea. I even sort of know what a search engine is, and I can guess what optimization is all about.

Which brings me to this blog post, which is really nothing more than a computer science experiment. It's not just my job search that's been making me feel fat; my blog stats are doing more than their fair share to make me feel like an ugly duckling. I can tell myself my prose is intimidating all I want, but, really, is that what keeps thousands of folks from stopping by for a quick read as they cruise through the blogosphere? I think not. It is time for some soul searching.

Well, not really soul searching so much as careful research, or at least a bit of scrolling. I scanned my list of posts, looking for the ones that, oddly, have thousands of hits (as opposed to the more typical two or three). The key to S.E.O. had to be buried somewhere within those posts. Not buried at all, as it turns out. The answers jumped out at me before I even needed to squeeze my eyes together and concentrate really hard. Genitals. Boobs. Vagina. Dick. Beef jerky. S.E.O. is all about key words, and the words that are most key are all about sex. Okay, I'm not sure about beef jerky, but I think the rest of examples are pretty solid.

Yes, back to the experiment. I want to see if peppering my prose with sex words will increase my readership. I thought calling the post something like Girl on Girl Sex or World's Largest Penis would be inappropriate, not to mention slightly misleading. So I took a more subtle approach with key words in the title (do the math, folks, I'm not going to discuss it further) and I'm hoping the tossing in of a laundry list of body parts throughout the body of the post will add some further optimization. And I'm going to wait and see whether I suddenly become popular, or whether no amount of S.E.O. can save me from the ugly truth about why nobody likes me.

No worries, loyal fans. I remain armed with rationalizations, like the quote one of you just sent my way:

“Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes.” -William Gibson

Yep. Thousands and thousands of them. 

Amazing Grace. Kind of.

A young friend posted some advice I really like on Facebook. "If you work really hard and are kind, amazing things will happen." I like it, but it sounds like an awful lot of effort.

I'm not saying I don't buy into the hard work and kindness thing, but let's get real; sometimes no matter how committed you are to busting your butt and smiling your way through it you just end up banging your head against the wall and that can take the wind out of your sails, to put it mildly. Although, come to think of it, it's true that amazing things usually happen. Amazing as in wtf? Amazing just isn't always good.

So I think I'm going to ease into my new found (or maybe newly rediscovered) philosophy and aim for kind of hard work and trying hard to be kind. Same words, different order, more or less indistinguishable. It's like Tokyo and Kyoto; same letters, different order. Both capitals of Japan at one time or another, more or less indistinguishable. (I wonder if there's any such correlation when they're spelled out in Japanese.) Anyway, compared to sitting around on my ass and watching mold grow in my bread drawer -- watching the grass grow requires dragging my ass outside, which, these last few days, seems like an awful lot of effort -- just about anything I do will more than qualify as kind of hard work. And compared to snarling at anyone who attempts to talk to me, just about anything I do will more than qualify as trying hard to be kind. 

This morning, I have already begun my quest for the good kind of amazing. I resisted the temptation to roll over and play dead when the dog woke me at four, and instead not only got out of bed but made it. I overcame the urge to step around the growing pile of clothes on my bathroom floor and sorted through it all. I've even replaced some light bulbs, and it's not yet six o'clock. If that's not working hard, at least kind of, I don't know what is.

As for trying hard to be nice, most normal people aren't awake yet, but I said please and thank you when I got my coffee in Starbucks and didn't growl at anybody when they unlocked the doors forty-five seconds past five o'clock. A Herculean effort, if you ask me. And I got plans. I'm going to respond to emails I've ignored and texts I've forgotten, and I'm going to give a thumbs up sign to just about everything that shows up on my Facebook news feed. If that's not kindness, I don't know what is.

We'll see how all this pans out. If anything quasi amazing in a good way happens, I'll kick things up a notch and start putting in some real effort. Maybe stop job hunting in my underwear and actually get dressed and pay attention. Make things happen instead of hoping for a miracle. Hmm. It's a concept.

The kindness thing might be a bit more of a challenge. A fellow Starbucks morning regular just told me the forecast for tomorrow is something nobody has ever attributed to me: pleasant. Ouch. And he sees me at my best time of day.

I'm just not going to let stuff like that get to me. I'm committed to kind of hard work and trying hard to be kind, and I'm remaining optimistic about the good kind of amazing. I told him to go screw himself, but I said it with a smile.

Walk of Shame

For years, I had been certain that I would always be a runner. I would never become one of those old ladies in a matchy matchy sweatsuit walking through the neighborhood for exercise. At least I still don't own a sweat suit. Heck, my socks don't even match.

So I walk, except when I'm feeling particularly irrational and decide to take a half hour run that will no doubt incapacitate me for days. This morning, with my jet lag about half cured and my sanity (such as it is) half restored, I set out on a walk and noticed almost immediately that the face of the neighborhood has changed. Today is the first full day of elementary school here in deep dark suburbia, and everywhere I looked children were walking. Not just elementary age children, but larger children. The streets had been overtaken by a new demographic; there was not an adult in sight.

When I realized an inordinate number of the female children appeared to be pregnant, it occurred to me that even though I have yet to purchase a matchy matchy sweat suit I am indeed old. Young mothers and fathers in their thirties are looking prepubescent to me. These children smiling politely at me as we passed each other on the sidewalk were really just being smug. I knew exactly what they were thinking. How quaint that she is still trying to take care of herself. That will never happen to me. Where is her matchy matchy sweatsuit, and what the heck is the deal with her socks?

Insolent little brats. I had half a mind to bend down and have a little chat with some of the smaller children, let them in on their parents' dirty little secret. Luckily, my knees were feeling a little to stiff for bending. Otherwise I would have told the little tykes how excited mom and dad were that the first full day of school had finally arrived. Those hugs at the school house doors might be sincere, but the murmured I miss you's, well, not so much. Trust me kids, mom and dad have big plans for the day that do not include you, and if you want to know how to make them cry, just whisper three o'clock in their ears.

At least those thirty somethings who still look like children will soon have their comeuppance, sooner than they can possibly imagine. One day they will know what it feels like on the day their youngest child sets off, in her own car, on the first day of her last year in high school. They will know what it feels like to go out for a walk (because it hurts too much to run) before their child leaves the house in the morning just so they can resist the temptation to leap across the kitchen floor and grab her by the ankles and beg her not to go.

On the back end of my walk there were still a few large children straggling home, smiling broadly, looking nauseatingly happy. I'll let them have their fun, and I'll comfort myself with the knowledge that when the clock strikes three, their lives will be hell and I'll be the one doing a victory dance.

Maybe I'll buy myself a comfy matchy matchy sweatsuit today, and when three o'clock rolls around I'll throw it on and do what nature intended for us to do at that hour -- take a nap.

Umbrella Policies

My father, a master of the silly one-liner -- which can only be appreciated when repeated zillions of times -- used to love to pose this question: What do they do in China when it rains? 

My long anticipated Japan visit is over, and I could certainly use some ancient secret Chinese wisdom to figure out not only what to do when it rains but when things in general just seem crappy. Returning from a trip is always difficult. My re-entry this time around -- to quote a friend who put it better than I could ever hope to -- feels a bit like landing in a shit storm without an umbrella. Unfortunately, my father may have clued me in on garden variety rain, but he never told me what they do in China -- or anywhere, for that matter -- when there's a shit storm and no umbrellas.

As with most things, I am left to figure it out for myself. For starters, if I am being blown around in a shit storm, I'd just as soon take a pass on the umbrella. Odds are, if everything else is going south, the umbrella will be blown inside out, and I have yet to see anybody win a battle with an inverted umbrella. It's a waste of energy, you end up getting drenched anyway, and you inevitably make a complete ass out of yourself in the process. Shit storms don't scare me; umbrellas do. I'll just take my chances walking between the rain drops and and dodging puddles and staying a safe distance from the curb.

Reality check! To slip between rain drops and avoid puddles and tuck yourself a safe distance away from splashing vehicles you have to be little, particularly your feet. On a good day, my feet are disproportionately large for someone of my small stature. Add in long plane rides and lots of salt and my feet look like flippers. Shoe shopping in Japan was demoralizing; I watched with envy as my daughter, whose feet are each about the size of my big toe, struggled to fit into the larger sizes. I looked at the size conversion chart; they don't even make shoes big enough for me in Japan. Now I know why Cinderella's stepsisters were so bitchy. I can do without umbrellas but not without shoes. Winter would really be a bitch.

Plan B. If I cannot make my feet -- or the rest of me -- smaller, maybe I can just disappear. I could become invisible, out of reach of the storm, and what better place to start than with my blog. I messed around with the settings until I figured out how to remove it from view, and with just a couple of mouse clicks, my ramblings went underground. They were there, somewhere, but nobody would be able to find them. A few disgruntled emails from my loyal followers confirmed it; they could gain access by invitation only, and I had clearly not invited them. Good riddance to everybody, I thought, no more positive reinforcement, to be sure, but no more negative comments to rain on my parade. All well and good, until I realized how much I rely on my writing to get me through my most confusing moments. It's much sturdier than an umbrella, something I can actually rely upon in a shit storm. A couple of mouse clicks later, I was up and running.

What do they do in China when it rains? They let it rain. They don't fight it, they just go about their business and let it rain. Makes perfect sense. Storms move, and like all dark clouds, this too shall pass.

La Belle Japan

For our last dinner in Japan -- at least this time around -- we chose an Indian restaurant in Kobe. Nothing puts a smile on my daughter's face (or mine) faster than the sight of a single loaf of naan so big it hangs off all the edges of your plate. Knowing you don't have to share it makes it all the sweeter.

We have yet to eat a bad meal here. Our choices have run the gamut -- from Japanese to Chinese to Mexican to Spanish to Italian to Nepalese to Indian -- not to mention all the baked goods and ice cream. There have been a few service snafus which seem to have nothing to do with language barriers (my son is sufficiently fluent to articulate accurate orders) and everything to do with cultural differences. Like yesterday, when the item I ordered for lunch was, as it turned out, only available for dinner. Apparently, when our waiter discovered this, he chose not to make waves, just resigned himself to the fact that I would not be eating lunch. Don't even get me started on the shaved ice and noodles incident. Let's just say if my my son had not been there to remind me to be polite, a Japanese waitress at the top of a sacred temple mountain might have been wearing a syrupy ice cap on her head. A Shinto temple does nothing to ward off a Jewish mother's unholy thoughts.

We have discovered it is often helpful to a have a native Japanese person with us at meals, someone who can reassure the staff that though we look like typically American boors, we are essentially decent people and worthy of solicitous service. My son brought a Japanese friend last night to the Indian restaurant last night, so we had our buffer. Folks from the Asian sub-continent living in the Far East are generally less suspicious of us than the Japanese natives seem to be, but still, our guest helped us to let down our guard. And, much to our delight, she had the capacity to be as boorish and rude as we can be, which gave us a pretty wide berth. The food was great, and dinner was a blast.

Visiting Japan can be a lot trickier than popping into your average European country. Yes, there's more than enough preconception about the "ugly American" to go around the world over, but when East meets West it all escalates. We look different. Different in a far more fundamental way than the way I'd look different standing next to a six foot tall blond beauty in Iceland. Babies and young children stare at us, our Caucasian features not something they see every day. We behave differently. We hug instead of bow. We complain when something bothers us. We put our feet up on coffee tables, our elbows on dinner tables. The differences are superficial, but the superficial is often what gets noticed the most.

I have found that the discomfort and the suspicion can be mutual, no matter how unwarranted. And it often is, in fact, unwarranted. In my two visits to Japan, I have spent time with more than a few of my son's Japanese friends, and their friends, and so on. Like our dinner guest last night, they have been, as a rule -- after some initial awkwardness -- as goofy and flawed and as possessed of unique personalities as anybody. Maybe not as impolite, but I suppose that's not such a bad thing. It is my hope that they see the uniqueness in us as well. Lord knows my children would not want the Japanese thinking they have anything in common with me.

As we left the Indian restaurant last night, our waiter invited us each to ring a giant bell hanging over the bar. It would bring us good luck, he told us, something to do with the Hindu elephant faced deity Ganesh. I'm all about good luck, and I'll take it wherever I can get it. And I'm a yogini, which theoretically makes me all about Ganesh. I wheeled back and gave the heavy bell a good whack. The chiming seemed endless; it sounded like a royal baby had just been born or something. My children and our dinner guest were far more gentle and polite. I didn't really get that. If ringing the bell brings you luck, why not ring the crap out of it?

I apologized for offending, but I really didn't mean it. I have a feeling Ganesh, protector and supreme guard against obstacles, heard me loud and clear. There was no cultural divide, no suspicion, no misunderstanding. When I rang the crap out of that bell, there was nothing lost in translation.