A Royal Flush

Everybody told me things would be different once the divorce was final. I assumed that meant better, which kind of gave me a chuckle yesterday evening as I sat on the cold porcelain in a restaurant ladies' room wondering why the automatic flusher was on overdrive, spraying water I'd rather not think about in a nonstop trajectory toward my butt. I couldn't concentrate; my biggest fear was that my date would send someone in to see if I was okay. (It takes at least a year for most women to be able to poop anywhere in the vicinity of a guy they're dating, much less even admit to pooping at all.)

Cold is unpleasant. It tends to make me feel creaky, certainly does nothing to enhance performance in any area. Heat is soothing. For months I have been attempting to nurse my chronically aching hip back to health with intense heat. On particularly bad days I leave the heating pad in the microwave just a little bit longer than the instructions warn against, and I have the burn marks to prove it. It works, getting burned. At the very least, it makes you forget the other pain.

My last (and favorite) pad, the one with the snug straps that fit perfectly around me so I could wear the soft, moist, searing cushion as I wandered around the house studiously ignoring the aroma of burning flesh, fell prey to my overly zealous nuking. With a loud pop, it  exploded, oozing a nasty smelling blue goo that made me wonder what kind of poison was seeping twice daily from the porous pad into my charred skin. I pitched it, and it was probably for the best. I returned to the old pad, the one I could at least hold up by gripping the end straps with one hand, the one that smells faintly of oatmeal when you heat it to the max. Oatmeal is good for you, and so, I assumed, must be the heating pad. Who cares if my hip kept getting worse? When dysfunction is a way of life, you already know that real therapy can take decades.

It's not that I hadn't noticed, over time, a certain lack of  payoff for the agony of third degree burns. And it's not that folks haven't mentioned to me, more than a few times, that I should ice the injury. It's just that old habits, even bad ones, die hard, and we all tend to have a few that we cling to for reasons no rational onlooker can decipher. In my defense, cold is unpleasant and heat is soothing and I am not a masochist. That's why I vacation in Mexico, not Alaska. And it's why my entire body stiffens in January, my otherwise uninjured shoulders cramping from huddling against the frigid air. It's why I walk around the house in sweats and a down jacket all winter as I try to be budget conscious and environmentally responsible (in that order) about gas.

Given my druthers, I'd sooner eat the toxic blue goo than hold ice against my body in the dead of winter. But, like most folks, I'm rarely given my druthers -- don't even know what they are -- and decided the other day that maybe the miracle icing remedy I had recommended to my daughter for pain in her feet was something I should take from preaching to practice. So, while she discovered the laying-on-of-hands type miracle of rolling a frozen water bottle back and forth under the arch of her foot, I improvised with a package of frozen peas and a large foam roller to try to strengthen the fraying muscle attachments in my midsection.

Praise God (or Bird's Eye) I'm cured! Not completely, but the difference is astounding. And Manny the blind puggle couldn't be more content to wait for the frozen pea pellets to explode out of the bag so he can leap face first into walls sniffing out the surprise treats. Hmm, carrots have Vitamin A, they're good for the eyes. Maybe some frozen ones....

Anyway, it's almost February and, though it's taken a while, we're finally in the deep freeze. I've been divorced for about a month and a half, and up until now things haven't seemed all that different, certainly not better. Maybe I just need to stop letting myself get burned and start looking at things differently. I'm definitely pitching the heating pads and stocking up on frozen vegetables. And there's something to be said about wearing ski pants instead of a bathing suit on vacation, especially at my age. Come to think of it, maybe the toilet in the ladies' room with the enthusiastic flusher was really just a bidet and I should appreciate the spritz.

I may like it hot, but I'm learning to change my tune. Baby it's cold outside, and I kind of like it.

Present Tense

I've been shaking things up lately. Some mornings I go to Dunkin Donuts instead of Starbucks. Some mornings I even make coffee at home. I never plan it in advance; my long standing morning routine has yielded to a daily pre-dawn whim, and I kind of like the uncertainty.

I am living in the present now, no matter what I do. Maybe my return to such a basic yogic philosophy will actually draw me back into a full yoga practice, maybe it won't. My immersion in the moment prevents me -- saves me really -- from planning too far in advance. And by too far in advance I mean mid morning.

My morning Starbucks routine had become so regular, so utterly predictable, that a missed appearance would prompt all sorts of questions and occasional odd behaviors from the other pre-dawn diehards. After a particularly long absence of three days, the fire chief wondered if I had been on vacation. My favorite barista (who is friendly with my manicurist and knows when I get a bit lax in my grooming) wondered if I had been ill. The other guy, the one whose name I'll probably never know, had actually stolen my seat on my favorite couch. "I figured you had stopped coming," he told me, offering to get up and move. I assured him I was flexible and could be perfectly happy in a different chair. What's a little white lie between insomniacs?

For a while, the predictability of the routine, the familiarity of the crowd, the cozy camaraderie of folks who relate to each other only as silent temporary cohabitants in a commercial space, provided me with comfort and a powerful feeling of belonging. But as the relationships started to seem clingy (and by clingy I mean simply an increasing expectation we seemed to have of each other's presence) my fear of commitment began to kick in. My desire to be beholden to nobody, to fly under the radar and avoid owing a piece of myself to anybody (other than my children and my blind dog), gave me pause in the morning. Loyalty has its price.

The allure of the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru became overwhelming. No attachments to furniture, no small but dependable crowd awaiting my arrival to complete the circle. No need to get out of the car, and the coffee -- which is sixteen cents cheaper -- tends to be less bitter. On weekdays, it opens at four, so there's no need for delayed gratification. I was becoming hopelessly hooked, invigorated by the mystery and newness of a a fresh attraction. My car seemed to take the turn automatically, and life in the moments of my slightly altered mornings was good. Really good.

Until the other day, when I showed up particularly early on a Sunday and the guy at the window decided to strike up a conversation that went beyond the coffee transaction. "You on your way to work?" Manny and I both gave him a blank stare, wondering why I would be on my way to work at five o'clock on a Sunday morning with my dog in tow. Although I guess the guy at the window was already at work, and maybe his dog was on the floor and I just couldn't see him.

"No. I'm just an early riser." I felt slightly threatened by the friendliness -- the last thing I need is a new relationship -- but the guy had such a genuine smile I didn't want to be rude. Which worked out fine, because the conversation pretty much ended, and he just told me to have a nice day. Safe.

Or so I thought. When Manny and I showed up the next day, the relationship had obviously been taken to a higher level. "Hey early bird," said the guy with the genuine smile. I felt trapped, but, always polite, I smiled. "What does your husband think about you getting up so early?" I almost burst out laughing, but I held back from explaining that he really couldn't give a shit since he doesn't live with me and, by the way, he's no longer my husband. I just said he doesn't mind, and drove off.

So this morning I am back at Starbucks, and the old gang is all here, and we shared an uncomfortable laugh about the police who are now occupying themselves ticketing folks who leave their cars running while they dash in for their coffee. Even the law abiding fire chief thought it to be an odd waste of law enforcement time. Especially since, as I pointed out, there are always serious crimes happening here, like when non-White people pass through and need to be escorted out of town.

A little distance has been good for us here at Starbucks. After the brief moment of bonding, we all went back to what we were doing, and studiously avoided even looking at each other. Absence has softened the stifling bonds of commitment, and I'll hang around for a while until things start getting too serious.

Running on Half Full

If my father had seen the needle on the gas gauge in my car plunge as far beneath zero as it could possibly go, he would be turning over in his grave. I was raised to always gas up once I noticed the needle approaching the halfway mark.

I have never been very good at following instructions, and I like to chalk up my refusal to top off the tank at the halfway point to a cheery optimism that defies an upbringing based upon negativity and an obsessive need to ward off impending doom. When I see the needle at the mid point I see a tank that is half full, not half empty. I see miles of happy travel ahead, plenty of time to enjoy the comfort of my seat warmers before I must turn off the ignition and freeze my ass off momentarily while I hook up to the pump. There just seems to be no up side to preparing for the worst.

Last night, as I sped up the tollway after work, I watched with a degree of fascination and dread as the needle alit at rock bottom, and the read-out on my dashboard informed me -- calmly, without flashing or beeping -- that I had zero miles worth of fuel remaining. Several minutes into "zero" -- interestingly, the indicator doesn't move into negative numbers, which is good, because I wondered if I would suddenly start going backwards at seventy miles per hour -- a sign at the side of the road informed me that the "oasis," where I could reward my own tank with an Auntie Anne's pretzel after gassing up the car, was two and three quarter miles away. My cheery optimism was yielding to panic; I had my doubts that fumes could get me that far. I hugged the right side of the road in case I stalled, screaming obscenities at the slow moving traffic ahead of me as the last thing I wanted to do was hit the brakes and lose momentum.

The good news is I made it. The bad news is Auntie Anne's was closed. Nevertheless, my trademark cheery optimism carried me through the disappointment, and, as usual, good fortune prevailed in the form of two almost full pints of my favorite Ben and Jerry's flavors in my freezer.

Lately I have fallen into the trap of my upbringing, forgetting to see the half full side of things. Last night's terrifying journey up the tollway has reminded me to stop the hand wringing and think positive. A month long bout with the flu has me running a bit on the empty side, resulting in a bit of self pity, but hey, the symptoms change every few days so I don't get bored. My bank account runs a bit on the empty side from time to time, but I'm fairly certain there are folks out there who are a lot worse off than I am. Last time I checked the mirror, I seemed pretty well nourished.

I learned some valuable lessons last night. Even when the gas tank is less than empty, it is full enough to carry me several more miles before I have to suffer through the highly unsatisfying and uncomfortably cold task of gassing up. As for the flu, I don't think there are any symptoms left, so there's nowhere to go but up. And the bank account? I'm sure I'll figure that out at some point. As long as I come home every day to Ben and Jerry in the freezer,  my tank runneth over.

Petty Cash

I dreamt last night it was the end of the world. I woke, somewhat relieved, to discover it was just a dreary Tuesday in January.

Not the end of the world, by any means, but the end of a brief period during which I enjoyed the cheap thrill of a falsely positive balance in my checking account before emptying it out to pay quarterly taxes. Time, once again, to stop peeking, just as I refuse to look when the nurse weighs me to kick off my annual check-up. It's only a number I tell myself, but stark reality is something I try to avoid whenever possible. I prefer to gauge my situation -- be it width or wealth -- according to the tightness of my belt.

I balked, not long ago, when friends marveled at my willingness to risk a shift in my lifestyle when I chose to get divorced. Not certain of many things at the time, I felt secure in the knowledge that the benefits of extracting myself from a rocky marriage would far outweigh any detriment I might suffer from the inevitable diminishment in creature comforts. As the divorce process wore on, I took to heart the assurances from those who had been there before, that life would be so much better once I crossed over to the other side. Everybody lies. To quote the latest big "fit" liar, "it's just the way the game is played."

So other than believing creature comforts and material things mean nothing to me and that money is unimportant and that "the other side" would be a utopian world of personal fulfillment and good karma and multiple orgasms and no wet spots and no such thing as back fat, I was pretty realistic about what I was getting myself into. At the very least, now that I am officially a divorcee, I can congratulate myself on making it through a rather arduous journey of self discovery. My new found self awareness knows no bounds. In one of my more recent eureka moments, I learned that I am, in fact, a shallow materialistic bitch who thinks anybody who claims money can't buy happiness has never flown first class. (Warm nuts; can't beat 'em!)

Nevertheless, my new hand has been dealt, and it is what it is (duh; as if it would be what it isn't) and I am determined to make the best of it. The truth is I have lived most of my days without warm nuts dissolving in my mouth and without experiencing multiple orgasms and without a three way mirror to illuminate my back fat. And, as with anything else, personal fulfillment and good karma are attainable, as long as you aim low. Happiness transcends economic status; happiness is much more than a warm nut.

Maybe I have become a Marxist. It's all about leveling the playing field; it's just the way the game is played.

Bootstrapping in the New Millenium

I have decided that finding ways to cut expenses will be a lot easier than finding a job to support my lavish lifestyle of unexpected vet visits, soaring gas prices, and the lingering prospect of seeing the roof that hangs over my head suddenly hanging from my bedroom ceiling fan. Sure, I'll continue to hand out business cards and obsess about a resume font that muffles the scream of "underachiever," but there's considerable (and immediate) gratification to be had from watching how small cuts can add up.

The land line that I have not answered in years is gone, as is the fax line (the number for which I cannot for the life of me remember). One barely functioning DVR is enough, and I can skip Starbucks every other day and brew my own bitter coffee at home. New items in my closet bore me as much as the old ones do after one or two wearings, so I carry a mental picture with me of my overfilled shelves and refer to it when I get the urge to take advantage of my employee discount at the shop. Car washes are out, and I have found that giving Manny a canine "whore's bath" every once in a while can cut down on the need for "professional" cleanings. Especially when I have a cold and can't smell whatever it is he rolls around in in the yard.

Watching the expenses go down has become so satisfying that I've even begun to consider cutting back on necessities, like manicures, eyebrow arches, and haircuts. I can't even tell you the last time I had a pedicure. And, while January brings its usual crowding in health club parking lots, I have decided to cut back on working out. After all, if I cut back on food at the same time it's a wash, and I figure my stress induced fidgeting during the day and sleeplessness at night can be enough of a calorie burner, at least while I get myself on more solid financial footing.

Apparently I have gone too far, crossing the line from luxury to necessity in my obsessive slashing of costs. Friends don't let friends drink and drive, and health club membership personnel do not let long time members fall off the work out wagon. Horrified that I wanted to put my membership on hold for a few months -- or, worse still, cancel, they offered me a one time deal during which, for a brief time (sort of like the life-saving mandatory waiting period for a gun purchase)  I can continue to pull myself up on weight machines while not necessarily pulling myself up by my own bootstraps. "Do what you need to do," they have told me, "but do NOT try to do it without cardio and strength training." I thought about asking if I could play tennis and shop in the boutique for free, but I decided that might be pushing things.

My first handout, my first foray into an odd sort of welfare state. Yes, I know the freebie is short lived, and I know the gym knows full well that a free month here and there for an old timer will be just as effective in keeping somebody in the door as a free month for a newbie, but I am hardly in a position to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I will begin my pull ups on the dole this morning, take advantage of a bit of gratuitous physical and emotional conditioning that might help me to stand on my own two feet, to pull myself up by my very own bootstraps. And I will confine my cuts, from here on in, to luxuries; necessities, like working out and shelter and clothing and weekly supplies of rich English toffee are officially back on the ledger.

Carmen on the Veranda

Our new friend Carmen is retiring this week. Though we were only in Mazatlan for a short time, I  became accustomed to chatting with Carmen on my several daily visits to the hotel snack shop. She is grandmotherly in a young, smooth skinned way, always smiling, always asking after my daughters if they weren't with me.

For long shifts each day, for I don't know how many years, Carmen has worked the snack shop. My limited experience leads me to believe she chats with everyone, leaves a lasting impression on all the midday grazers who cross her path. She points out cheaper brands of water, offers up suggestions about saving money on wifi (I was a bit too ashamed to tell her my secret, which involved skulking around like a cat burglar with my laptop lid open waiting for the little red dots on the "network diagnostics" screen to turn green), and even gives restaurant recommendations. We passed on her last one, which was described, in an enthusiastic and overwhelmingly positive review on Google, as a Mexican Denny's. We enjoy slumming it, but we have our limits. When Carmen retires, she told us, her first official celebratory act will be a trip to the Dairy Queen in town for a blizzard. Now that (and I say this without a hint of irony) is something I can understand.

When we dragged our suitcases by the little store on our last day, I could not bear to say goodbye to Carmen. My guess is my daughters felt the same way; I watched them cast surreptitious glances over their shoulders as we passed the glass doors, quickening their steps to avoid attracting Carmen's attention. Somehow, it was less painful to say goodbye to the other friendly staffers, none of whom we will likely see again, despite our cheerful cries of "hasta el ano proximo!" (which, I pray, does not mean "see you next to my anus!")  Leaving Carmen just seemed too permanent, and "goodbye" would mean goodbye, pure and simple, even on the off chance we return to Mazatlan some time in the future. I do, however, take some comfort in knowing exactly where the Dairy Queen is, just in case.

Our hotel was far from fancy, though it was certainly comfortable. I laughed at myself when I realized how annoyed I was the afternoon our maid had not left us fresh bath towels. Like everyone who worked at the hotel, she was polite, always smiling, and seemed to work her fingers to the bone. And I'm willing to bet nobody ever brought her freshly laundered, warm bath towels. Yet I truly don't believe she, or any of the others who waited on us hand and foot, would trade places with the pale faced folks from up north who descend like vultures for a week at a time and are often too busy complaining to notice the simple beauty of life. Why would anyone give up days on end of dramatic sunrises over the mountains, sunsets in spectacular kaleidoscopes of color at dusk over the ocean, virtually cloudless blue skies cooled to perfection by gentle sea breezes?

As I do every year, I bought a large handful of useless silver trinkets from a beach vendor, paying way too much but still far less than was asked. It's a win-win. The vendor goes home with enough cash lining his threadbare pockets to feed his family for at least a week, and we go home imagining the incomparable aroma of those freshly made tortillas, practically tasting the homemade delicacies that no Mexican restaurant here can possibly replicate. A "feel good" for all the senses that persists long after the silver begins to tarnish.

Tonight I am planning a trip to Dairy Queen, not an entirely selfless tribute to Carmen but, again, a win-win proposition. I will toast her and all the friendly folks we have met along the way on vacations south of the border as I enjoy, as a lot of them know how to far better than we do, one of the simplest pleasures of life.

Cloudy With a Chance of Pollyanna

I believe in the power of positive thinking. Which is why, at five thirty on my first morning in Mazatlan, I sat bundled up in sweats and towels at the pool, staring at the black sky in search of signs that the weather forecast had been wrong. Even though every source had offered up the same images of weepy looking dark clouds, and even though our arrival the afternoon before under a seemingly impenetrable blanket of gray had done little to dispel the accuracy of the predictions, I was determined to prove them wrong. I would not stand for it; there was plenty of shitty weather to be had back home, for free. Or at least at no additional cost.

So the more I stared, and the harder I concentrated, and the more I pretended I was not as freezing as I had been when I arrived the day before, the more my powers gained momentum. I began to notice the distinct twinkling of stars. I’m no meteorologist, but I was guessing that indicated a significant break in the cloud cover, and my theory was confirmed as the sun began to toss light from its still invisible ascent behind the mountains, revealing unmistakable patches of blue between the thinning edges of what had become innocuous cottony puffs. I gave myself a high five, and anxiously awaited the arrival of my sleepy daughters so they could admire my handiwork.

Not surprisingly, my daughters went on to thoroughly enjoy the glorious day but absolutely refused to give me credit for it. I wonder what they’ll think this morning. The forecast for rain today had been unanimously even more insistent than that for yesterday, and they felt fairly certain my role in willing away adverse meteorological forces would be proved to be nothing more than coincidence. Still, I began my vigil this morning before six, and the fruits of my determination are again beginning to appear in the form a brightening sky even bluer and clearer than yesterday’s. Coincidence my Aunt Fanny. I am a goddess.

So I’ve been giving my powers of positive thinking a bit of extra thought, since I often use empty vacation hours to conduct a referendum on all aspects of my life. There just doesn’t seem to be any reason to underestimate the value of simple optimism. It’s effortless, it costs nothing, and it beats the crap out of believing things will actually turn to shit. If I can apply it to precipitation, I can turn it loose on prosperity, spiritual fulfillment, emotional stability, and good health. Can’t I?

Like most people, I have heard more than my share of horrific stories lately. About parents sending their children off to school in the morning and, hours later, realizing their lives had been forever shattered. About people in the prime of life being told by doctors there is no hope of making it to old age. About people losing their homes, or just losing their way. Unfortunately, no amount of positive thinking can stop a mad man from doing the unthinkable, but as for the rest of the stuff, as long as there’s a fighting chance, a glimmer of hope, I say go for it. Doctors – even the Jewish ones, mom – can be wrong, and if fortunes can shift downward, there’s no reason to think they can’t shift just as easily in the other direction.

Yes, I know, no matter how goddess-like I am, I cannot will away disease, cannot alter the course of tragedy just because I think it's unfair. But today, for the moment at least, I am choosing optimism, no matter how irrational it may seem, and not just because I am on a beach in Mexico (although I admit that doesn’t hurt). Doctors, meteorologists, the NRA – they can keep their predictions of doom. And my daughters can doubt me all they want, but so far, this week, I’m two for two.