The Mother Load

I still think of it as my room, but there's very little of me left in it. The room I grew up in, with its pale pink walls and bright red, pink, and orange bedspread and matching curtains, the worn red carpet, and my piles of stuffed animals, my books, and my state of the art push-button princess phone, is a mere shadow of its former self.

The dimensions are the same -- give or take a half inch from the paint touch ups every few years; the custom made chandelier with the painted globe that, when not lit, gives off a curved reflection of the room's perimeter, is the sole survivor of all the changes in decor. The twin bed is gone, long ago replaced by a convertible sofa that leaves me with severe back pain for a week every time I visit, and the multi-layered painted walls are peeling from the insurmountable pressure of water retention and just plain old age. I know just how they feel.

Techno-granny's computer is set up on my old desk, and her collection of hardcover bestsellers lines my bookshelves. My dresser drawers and my closets have been filled with my mother's overflow wardrobe, and any worldly possessions I left behind were long ago disposed of in a cleaning frenzy. I couldn't even find a spare hanger in the closet for my coat. My displacement is most apparent, though, in the crowded array of framed pictures occupying every inch of spare dresser, nightstand, and desk space. Each photo is of one or more of my children; I make an occasional appearance, but I am clearly no longer the star of my own room. The torch has been passed, and I am merely the behind the scenes producer, essential, maybe, but not the one with the name on the marquee.

I'm okay with it all, though; it's not like she's festooned my old furniture with pictures of somebody else's kids. And let's face it, they're way more photogenic than I am, and who wouldn't rather gaze at images of fresh young faces than wrinkly old potatoes. And the truth is I know my mother still views me the way I view my own children: as a piece of herself, a piece she wants to hold onto for dear life.

How do I know this? Well, first of all, she's a mother. But not just any mother. To clarify things for me, she burst into tears this morning, claiming the biggest tragedy in her life is that she can't talk to me -- her daughter. And this was not a reference to her inability to converse because of her hearing problem, and (I know it sounds cynical, but trust me on this one) it certainly wasn't intended as a warm and fuzzy gesture of love. She was referring to the fact that I don't routinely share with her the intimate details of my fucked up life, depriving her of myriad opportunities to offer up I told you sos and you should haves to her heart's content. And mind you, the crying fit came after I thought I had guaranteed myself a spot in heaven by conversing with her over coffee for a good hour, sharing enough little tidbits so she could feel comfortably in the know and satisfyingly smug. Rarely does a good deed go unpunished.

But she's my mother, and she tends to show love in odd ways sometimes; as usual, the butter knife twisting in my heart filled me both with rage and resolve to do better. I have promised myself to keep her in the loop (via email), and give her just enough information so she can feel as if she's an honorary soldier in my army of white knights. I am well aware that in spite of her need to lecture and remind me how stupid I've been, she is, first and foremost, my mother, and she worries. It's what we do -- even the craziest ones, who shall remain nameless. We'll just call them "mom."

Happy Bird Day

If you have to be a bird on Thanksgiving, it's far better to be an eagle than a turkey. And frankly, I'd prefer not to be one of those talking birds. Oh, how I'd love to be mute and just perch silently on a little branch and watch and listen, take it all in.

My mother dreads big gatherings of any kind, simply because she so desperately wants to be a part of the conversations and cannot, because she is deaf. I think I've probably mentioned that her deafness does not deter her -- certainly not from talking, and, most infuriatingly, not from pretending to hear. But her deafness makes her self-conscious; it makes her feel stupid. There are worse things, I want to tell her. After all, she could be the turkey.

As far as this bird is concerned, I would relish the opportunity to have an excuse to not participate. To not have to respond to the inevitable questions about what I'm doing or how this or that is going. "Fine" never seems to satisfy; people, well intentioned though they may be, always want details. The details of my own life bore the living shit out of me (when they're not just pissing me off), and after I find out whatever interesting news there is to be discovered about everybody else, I'd much prefer the role of spectator. Watching the festivities without the benefit of sound actually seems appealing. I suppose it's easy to feel that way when you're not sentenced to a life of silence.

There is a definite benefit to my mother's deafness this year, at least for the rest of us. With the family all in one room, we will be able to plan her surprise eightieth birthday party right there in front of her, while she smiles knowingly. It's ingenious; because we'll be discussing her, all eyes and smiles will be directed at her for a good part of the dinner conversation, and she will feel very much a part of things, though she won't have a clue why. And it will give us all something to talk about -- a mission, if you will -- and I, for one, will be happy to not be fielding questions about my divorce or my job search or my (ugh) dating life. No doubt my kids will be just as happy to not field the usual questions about school and life thereafter. Win, win.

Now I know that just because I'm going to be planning a surprise party for my mother I shouldn't expect not to be kicked in the stomach about whatever deficiencies I've exhibited as a daughter. It's ironic, but the more attentive I become, the more she feels the need to remind me of how inattentive I usually am. Sometimes it's just more rewarding to be a cold bitch.

I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner with my extended family. And I am thankful, as always, that I am not a turkey.

Early Bird Special

I was a little concerned this morning that my beatific smile and the practically radioactive glow emanating from my cheeks would sound off orange alert bells all over the airport, and earn me a pat down I'd never forget. Okay, well not so much concerned as wild with anticipation, but we'll just let that be our little secret.

No guys, I did not spend the night before getting laid. Nope, but I did pop out of bed before the crack of dawn to head to the health club to work out. Not for me the self-indulgence of sleep in the wee hours of the morning, of sweet dreams filled with chocolate croissants and jelly donuts. I am soaring into a new period of spiritual awakening, and with that comes a life of monastic asceticism, which means a morning journey to nowhere on an elliptical exercise machine. Kind of a virtual pilgrimage.

Even on a virtual journey, there are friends to be made, and my seemingly pointless pedaling was no exception. Monks wander around in lonely silence, but they're not really alone; there are plenty of hooded journeymen right there beside them, on the same endless journey. Likewise, as I pedaled away furiously to nowhere, I was joined by my fellow sleep deprived and sugar starved predawn wanderers, and together we searched for enlightenment (while sharing a chuckle or two).

Let's just call my fellow pilgrims from this morning Mutt and Jeff. (I promised them I would protect their identities, though there was nothing they said or did that would warrant protection.) Mutt did tell me I was the woman with the best ass in the gym, which led me to offer him sex right on the spot, although of course I was only kidding. Of course. Anyway, I revoked the offer when I discovered I was the only woman in the gym. Everybody's a comedian.

Who woulda thunk it? A bunch of driven, monkish, practically nocturnal misfits cross my path while I'm slogging away on some machine well before the sun comes up, doing my best imitation of a rat on a wheel, and they manage to put a smile on my face (and some glow in my skin). And as adorable as they were, they didn't need to smear ash on my face and pretend to be firemen and rescue me from my own self-imposed torture. Now that's talent. No, it's downright enlightened, I think.

As counterintuitive as it may seem, the crowd in the gym at five a.m. is a lot less frenzied than the later crowd -- the ones that snooze the puffiness out of their eyes and take the time to select workout clothes that aren't torn. Maybe the early birds are not as entertaining as the spin psychos who can't spin unless they have their one favorite bike in their one favorite spot; maybe they're not as awe-inspiring as the fanatics who press their faces longingly against the glass doors of the spin room a good half hour before the previous class ends, ready to sprint in and trample anyone who stands between them and their beloved virtual vehicle. Maybe it's because we're all too comatose to flaunt the craziness, but the special brand of quiet compulsiveness we early birds share seems to be good for my soul.

Regrettably, I didn't get my airport security pat down. I could have done without the stinky traveler next to me on the plane but hey, nirvana would get pretty humdrum if you experience it all day long. I'm looking forward to getting back home so I can continue on my elliptical path, with Mutt and Jeff and the other pre-dawn lunatics ready to give me a chuckle if I start to lose my way.

The More Things Change

The other night, my older daughter -- home not to see me but to be wined and dined by her new prospective employer -- invited her old friends over for dinner. They are all graduating from college in a few months, all heading in different directions, but all coming back to Chicago to do it.

Plus ca change. In sweats and jeans and Uggs, they looked the same to me as they did in high school. And after almost four years apart, they are as attached and loyal to each other as they ever were. Sure, there's the inevitable gossip (always pity the person not in the room, and just know that there but for the grace of God go you), but after all these years, it's obvious that these girls are going to be each other's white knights for life. A few new pistol-packing Fionas (remember my beloved, tough talking Fi?) have been added on along the way for each of them, and the old friendships have been tested from time to time, but when push comes to shove, these guys will always have each others' backs.

I'm happy for them. That they somehow figured out how to hold on to worthwhile relationships even while their lives changed, and, more importantly, even while they changed. They're older, they're wiser, they're acutely aware that they're on the verge of having to take care of themselves. Take care of themselves, yes, but able to take comfort in the knowledge that the army of white knights always waits in the wings, keeping a watchful eye.

My younger daughter observed them, I think, with a more cynical eye. She had just returned from two nights away on a high school retreat, an experience billed as "transformative" by the planners and the student leaders and the parents of kids who have gone before. My other kids never participated in the program, and they somehow turned out okay, but all the speeches I listened to as we awaited the arrival of the delayed buses led me to believe that these kids would somehow be special. They would never be mean, they would never betray a friend, they would never even drink or do drugs. All because of two days of guided bonding at a high school love fest.

Well, guess what. Within hours, there were phone calls about exclusive parties, hurt feelings, and even stories about the older kids on the love fest -- the role models -- not being all that nice. So when you're tired from two nights without much sleep and stinky from two days without a shower and realizing that some of that warm and fuzzy feeling from the transformative weekend pulled away with the yellow school buses, it's hard to picture yourself and your current fourteen year old friends coming together seven years down the road like women who actually care about each other. I would imagine my daughter found it so unfathomable that the whole love fest in our kitchen -- that didn't involve forced love notes and and prescribed compliments -- probably seemed a bit nauseating.

I'm sure a good night's sleep will put some of her cynicism on the back burner, at least long enough for her to participate wholeheartedly in the love fest that will be her camp reunion later this afternoon. And seven years of good nights and bad nights and everything in between will probably bring her and some of her old friends back to my kitchen one day, where I'll marvel at how grown up they are, even though they still kind of look the same.

But I'm in no rush, even though she is. I'm selfish; I know that despite all the growing pains -- for all of us -- there are a lot of cherished moments to come, and I don't want to miss them.

Real Men Don't...

I got stood up recently. Just as I combed my last strand of wet hair into a neat pony tail and applied my final stroke of lip gloss. Just as I was about to tackle the pile of clothing items I had tried on and rejected in favor of what I had put on in the first place. Let me tell you, for Mrs. Potato Head, I looked like one delectable complex carb.

Some of you who have been keeping up with my life since the embryonic stages of my blog may remember Pete the dermatologist (whose name really isn't Pete and who isn't really a dermatologist but I always try to protect both the innocent and the guilty). Pete stood me up one Saturday night, and, of course, that was the end of Pete. But the thing about Pete was I had mixed feelings about him. Well, actually, I didn't really have mixed feelings about him so much as dating him. I couldn't stand him, but for some reason I preferred Saturday dinners out to staying home alone, and he just happened to be the person volunteering to sit at the table.

The recent stand up was more of a disappointment, and not just because I had neatened my pony tail (a big deal) and put some thought into my outfit -- which naturally had that shabby chic effect of not looking thought out at all (to anyone who couldn't see the three foot high pile of "no's" on my bedroom floor). I was actually looking forward to this one. Oh well, I've been known to exhibit questionable judgment, so it's not as if I had reason to be shocked. At least I looked good for my pity party.

So it's back to the drawing board on the dating front, and I'm thinking more about an eraser than any drawing utensils, because I've just about had it with men. When your most promising relationship arises (so to speak) out of phone sex, you've got problems. As if on cue, just as I was about to call it quits, I received a very insightful email from a friend (and loyal blog follower)about "real men." Here's how it started:

A real man is a woman's best friend. He will never stand her up and never let her down. He will reassure her when she feels insecure and comfort her after a bad day. He will inspire her to do things she never thought she could do; to live without fear and forget regret.

Well, duh, I'm thinking. There's my problem; I haven't been dating real men. Just real assholes. Curious, I read on, hoping the email would give me some insight as to where I might find the real thing. Blah, blah, blah, the list went on about all the wonderful things this mythical man would do, and I'm starting to remember the advice I've given to others in the past, which is "if it looks too good to be true, it is." So before I got too worked up with hope and horniness, I skipped to the end:

No wait...sorry...I'm thinking of wine.... It's wine that does all that. Shit. Never mind.

Like all fantasies, it was good while it lasted. Next time somebody asks me on a date, I'm gonna politely decline, get dressed up, stay home, and crack open a dependable bottle of red. Maybe even invite a girlfriend over to share. Maybe even order a pizza. No tears, no regrets.

Call Security! Please!

I'm flying Tuesday, so I'm getting ready for what I assume will be a high level of pre-holiday security. My three ounce tube of toothpaste, my mini shampoo, my assortment of lip glosses -- they're all in a drawer, ready to be placed in the one gallon plastic bag I will no doubt forget to remove from my carry-on when I'm busy taking off my shoes and my belt and my watch and putting my laptop in its own bin. And I'm considering a bikini wax just in case I get thrown into the full body scanner or selected for the titillating pat down by the lesbian TSA agent. I wouldn't want to offend.

Ah, if only they decided to use volunteer firemen for the airport security detail. I'd even wash my hair and put on a little makeup. Last week, I was being wooed on a cyber dating site by Chicago cop (obviously not the Jewish site). He really got my attention when he told me one of his best buddies is a fireman up in my neck of the woods. Well, I could already smell the wood burning in my head, devising a plan to meet the hunky cop for the sole purpose of getting an introduction to the guy who could be the one to hose me down. (Don't ask -- I have no idea what the heck I meant by that remark.)

Not that the hunky cop was anything to sneeze at. He appeared to be in great shape, and there is something to be said for a guy who would probably not run you over trying to escape an intruder in the house and might even kill the guy with his bare hands for you. Ha, talk about a fantasy. The guy also mentioned all the time he spends with his kids, who are still on the youngish side. Now there's definitely something sexy about a manly man taking care of kids (my husband used to claim the best way to get picked up in a bar was to bring a baby with you; even if it's not yours). Puppies work too. But let's face it, when you're fifty-one years old and you've already got two out of the house and one who will sprint out the door in three and a half years, the last thing you want or need in your life is someone else's little brats, no matter how big the guy's biceps are. Sexy as the whole caretaking thing might be, I gotta say -- send the kids to mom. So what if she's in rehab -- a couple of thirty day stints and she'll be good as new.

Even my dreamboat fireman would have a tough time convincing me to take on extra offspring. My demands on fantasy man would be pretty extensive, and I'm not sure how healthy it would be for the kids' psyches to have to watch their dad set off the smoke detectors every night, spread ashy makeup all over my face, and carry me out of the house to safety, my head thrown back and my hair sweeping the sidewalk as his concerned eyes gaze at me lovingly. Especially when the kids believe he's left them inside to burn. And of course they'd blame me, the evil stepmother. Who needs that crap?

Yep, children should just be seen and not heard, and, preferably, in a bar or someone else's house. If my fireman ends up having kids in his truck, I'm just going to have to fly solo. But there's no reason to stop hoping a dreamy and kidless one will be waiting for me at airport security, and I will be waxed and ready.

Fear of Flying

Flying has indeed become terrifying for many folks, but sometimes more because of the security measures than anything. When I went on line yesterday, I was confronted with a disturbing picture of an airport security officer giving a man in a business suit what appeared to be a hand job. All in the name of an "orange alert." Maybe it was just his game face, but I could swear I detected a bit of a leer in the frisker's expression. I couldn't see the "friskee's" face, but I would imagine his appearance was not one of relaxed pleasure. Especially since the officer seriously appeared to be on the verge of doing a taste test. Very thorough.

I am by no means a white knuckle flyer, but, up until seeing that picture, I have had no problem with the post 9/11 security delays. I must admit I've done my own secret share of racial and ethnic profiling as I've sat in gate areas awaiting my flight. And, I admit I've often been puzzled by the rigor with which airline personnel will question and search folks who just don't fit the bill, when I know for a fact that several swarthy acquaintances of Middle Eastern descent, Americans who would submit willingly to a little additional grilling, routinely breeze through security without so much as a raise of an eyebrow.

Actually, I think my mother is on some kind of watch list, and I swear I did not put her there. How else can I explain the fact that she gets pulled over for some extra special frisking every time she flies? I remember watching helplessly a few years ago as this elderly, thin, stylish woman had every inch of her mink clad frame patted down by an airport security officer in Paris, who then proceeded to open and search every meticulously wrapped Louis Vuitton package she carried. Maybe they had good reason to believe she was a threat to international security, and not just to her own bank account and to her decidedly unfashionable daughter's psyche. Or maybe they had just never seen so many designer shopping bags on one woman's arm. But wait -- this was Paris! Pick on someone your own size, guys.

Well intentioned policies do have a tendency to run amok. Like the code of conduct at a well-known university attended by a boy I know, who was recently dragged through the mud by some girl who filed a sexual harassment claim against him, and thrown to the wolves by an administration so in fear of reprisals by "protected groups" that it has abandoned every shred of common sense. Hell hath no fury like a woman (or a man, for that matter) scorned, but sexual harassment policies were not, as far as I know, created to avenge your basic teenage blow-off. The complaint described a victim of what appeared to be nothing more than hurt pride; it was about as thin as the paper on which it was drafted. This girl, who was shamelessly airing her sour grapes by maligning the boy mercilessly on Facebook on the off chance the university would choose logic over a politically incorrect decision, was needlessly covering all the bases. The mere mention of sexual harassment, however implausible the case may be, gets academics quivering. I can only hope they don't become jaded by the silly cases, and will be appropriately vigilant when a girl comes in with a real complaint against a guy who has done something a bit more coercive and threatening than failing to call after a "hook-up."

I suppose there's good news in all of this. If I want to guarantee myself a hassle free security check at the airport next week, I'll wrap myself in a burqa and wear a suspiciously bulky vest underneath. And if I get pissed off at a man (like that ever happens!) I'll just sue. Tort reform is a long way away, and if I play my cards right, I can probably get enough of an award to pay for my divorce, with a little left over for a down payment on a trailer.