Laws of the Land

A Florida man recently admitted he knew it was wrong to try to have sex with the family dog, according to a report.

Maybe it's the humidity. In the same week, somewhere in Florida, an elderly man was arrested for riding through town, half naked, on a tricycle. He didn't actually admit he knew it was wrong, but he did admit he was too bombed to know he was half naked. Seems like a reasonable defense to me. And, oh yes, a mother who appears to have murdered her own baby was convicted of lying and sentenced to a week in prison.

Legislators in the Sunshine State have their work cut out for them. They are already off to a flying start, enacting "Caylee's Law," which would make it a felony for a parent or legal guardian to delay reporting a missing child. I think it's already a felony to kill your own child, but that gets kind of hard to prove, so I suppose prosecutors will appreciate being able to hang their hats on a good, old-fashioned technicality. And I bet parents all over Florida will think twice now about neglecting to report the disappearance of a toddler. Thank goodness we have laws.

Maybe it's not the humidity. Right here in Chicago, we have laws criminalizing behavior that most normal folks would not engage in even if it weren't deemed felonious. There is a law on the books, for example, which forbids eating in a place that is on fire. Also, it is illegal to give a dog whiskey, or to fish while sitting on a giraffe's neck. Well there go my weekend plans.

If there's one thing you can say about Americans, it's that we react swiftly. When a would-be terrorist tries to smuggle explosives onto an airplane in his shoe, we require everyone to remove their shoes before boarding. It's gonna be ugly when someone manages to sneak in something a bit more potent than baby powder in her thong. When some guy, somewhere, decides to perch on a giraffe's neck to catch some fish, well, there goes the fun for the rest of us. And when one young mother forgets to report her daughter missing for thirty-one days and the little girl ends up dead, mothers everywhere suddenly have to drop everything they're doing the minute a child disappears and tell the police. Like we don't have enough on our plates.

Should there be a law on the books in Florida making it illegal to party for a month and get happy tattoos and have blood in your trunk and information on your computer about death by chloroform while, as it turns out, your daughter lies dead in a nearby swamp? The jury's still out on that one.

I'll Have What She's Having

I'm starting to rethink my morning routine. My grande coffee at Starbucks is enjoyable, to be sure, but there just might be some more useful alternatives out there.

Yesterday morning, as I sat in the terminal at LaGuardia awaiting my flight back home to Chicago, I watched an orthodox Jewish gentleman perform the ancient (and somewhat baffling) ritual of Tefillin. Right there in the gate area crowded with business travelers and regular folks returning from brief Independence Day holidays, a middle aged bearded man in a black suit rolled up his left sleeve, exposing a pale arm that I'm guessing rarely sees the light of day (and, most likely, has never lifted a dumbbell or a kettle bell). He lovingly removed two black boxes with straps attached to them from a zippered case, and wrapped one around his exposed arm, the other around his head.

I stared, thinking it odd that in this day and age, some guys take biblical commandments so literally. Somewhere in Deuteronomy, men are instructed to bind certain covenants as a "sign on your hand and let them serve as a frontlet between your eyes." (No, I didn't know that off the top of my head; Google is more than an investigative service for potential blind dates.) Anyway, someone back in the day had no concept of "figures of speech," and decided that the only way to keep something as a frontlet between one's eyes was to tie it up there in a big black box even if it makes you look like a space alien.

Well, nobody bothered the strange looking man in the prayer shawl, although I bet if he had been wearing a turban things might have been a bit different. He rocked back and forth and chanted his prayers, as unfazed by his audience as airport security was by him. All I know is whatever he did and said seemed to work. We boarded early and swiftly, the flight was smooth and uneventful, and we landed safely in Chicago forty minutes ahead of schedule. I doubt my cup of coffee was responsible for all that good fortune.

Later in the day, I ran into an old tennis buddy at the gym, a fellow almost-divorcee, who

reported happily that she had been dating Mr. Right for about three months. She feels absolutely certain her good fortune resulted from some prayer she began to recite every morning just before the man of her dreams literally fell into her lap. It's a prayer to all the superior beings out there -- why leave any stones unturned -- whether you believe in them or not. All I can tell you is she looks great, her happiness and her fulfillment seeping out of every pore. Okay, maybe it was sweat, but she sure was glowing, and, again, I'm willing to wager it wasn't just a morning cup of coffee.

Forget about other worldly, mystical powers; my daily dawn Starbucks doesn't even manage to keep me awake past ten o-clock in the morning. But that's beside the point. I need to learn to expand my horizons. My gender precludes me from reaping the benefits of the whole Tefillin thing, but there's nothing stopping me from reciting some prayer to various and sundry gods and goddesses and supreme beings -- especially if it's written in English.

I'm glistening just thinking about my new morning routine. And when Mr. Perfect falls from the sky, I'll be ready.

Carpet Bombing

Mom is still waxing nostalgic about the parade of home health aides.

"Ugh," she snorted last night as she handed me a single, tarnished teaspoon so I could toss the salad in a cereal bowl. "You wouldn't believe how they operated in my kitchen." No, I probably wouldn't, given my mother's aversion to utensils, cookware, or food with any kind of flavor.

I listened intently as she retold the general story of "those slobs" who broke or soiled everything in the apawtment. I feigned sympathy, and when her attention turned to draining the hot pot of spaghetti by holding it with a rubber glove (her version of a pot holder) over a miniature strainer in the sink, I got down to the more important business of protecting myself from certain death.

I located the carpet stain remover I had purchased (thankfully) the other day, unrolled a thick wad of paper towels, and scurried into the living room where I had just knocked over my glass of bright pink Dr. Brown's black cherry soda on her white carpet. Knowing I would at least get a warning signal from the sound of her walker crashing against the cabinets as she squeezed her way out of the galley kitchen, I sprayed and blotted and sprayed and blotted with reckless abandon until the footprint sized stain had faded to a wet, pale pink. And I prayed.

Soon she would be returning to her chair, and naturally the spill was right there at its base, only inches away from the Louis Vuitton satchel she keeps right there on the floor so she can have immediate access to whatever the heck she keeps in there. "This pocketbook has been a lifesaver," she told me only a few hours earlier. I was still trying to figure out what she meant by that, but I was also thinking that damn purse could be my lifesaver if I just plunked it down on top of the spill. But this is a woman whose happiness depends on knowing everything is exactly where it should be -- meaning either where it always has been or where she has decided to put it. Not a centimeter off. I was screwed.

She must have assumed I was excited about seeing the fireworks from the balcony, so anxious was I for the sun to set and the light to dim in the living room. She eventually made her way back to the chair, so I considered sitting right there on the floor and waiting for her to settle in so I could rub her feet until it gets dark. Damn summer solstice.

I should have left well enough alone. Last night, she didn't notice a thing. This morning, it was all I could see, so I attacked the stain again with reckless abandon and, naturally, it looks even worse. If there's no post tomorrow, at least you'll know why.

A Toast to the Posts

What better way to celebrate Independence Day than with a full set of new bedding? That was how it all began, one year ago, my blogging journey. Some people buy fireworks, some people gather with friends to overeat and drink, the only reminder of why they are doing this a cupcake with red, white, and blue frosting. I chose to commemorate the occasion solo, unceremoniously tossing my sixteen-year-old bedding in the garbage, lovingly replacing it with soft, plush, and well-priced (when you’re going through a divorce you have to factor that in) bedding that looks, feels, and smells nothing like its predecessor. No history – bad or good.

When I first conjured up "A Narcissist's Tale," I was angry, bitter, and maybe a bit lonely. I've learned a lot over the course of a year, and the anger and bitterness have abated. Sure, I'm still lonely on occasion, but who isn't? As I reflect on the past twelve months, I am amazed at what has happened, and what has not. I've had one dog die, one go blind. I've watched my oldest daughter graduate from college; I've watched my son thrive and really hit his stride at a school he enjoys in a city he loves; I've watched my youngest daughter blossom as she made a seamless transition to the wonderful (and at times slightly scary) world of high school. I've been on countless disastrous dates and a handful of tolerable ones, and I've rediscovered strong friendships with people who really matter.

I have not yet made it out of the unsettling and unsettled limbo-land of marital dissolution, and sometimes feel no closer to closure than I was a year ago. But in two days, I will finally meet the woman, my husband's attorney, who had him convinced that I -- like all the other wives of her clients -- am a narcissistic bitch who ruined his life and is therefore entitled to nothing but heartache (statutory guidelines notwithstanding). We laugh about it now -- sort of; at least that's progress.

In that first blog post, I spoke of how Manny used his strong sense of smell to adjust himself to my new bedding. Little did I know, back then, that his strong sense of smell would become virtually indispensable as his eyes failed him. Little did I know, back then, that we'd be just a twosome this summer, without Leo joining us at the foot of the bed. We've both suffered loss, but we've persevered. Manny's tail is elevated again, curled up in its familiar habitual smile. If I had a tail, I think, on balance, I'd be wagging it more than I did a year ago. I hope so, anyway.

This July 4th, I'm not quite solo, and I have no plans to purchase anything that might signify my independence. I'll be spending much of it with my mother as she re-declares her own independence, gradually taking care of herself, without assistance, the way she did before the car crash six weeks ago. I'll be spending some of the day with my son, whose smile and sheer passion for life (and irrepressible cynicism) can lighten up my world better than any fireworks show. Tomorrow, my daughter will pick me up at the airport, and we'll spend the next few days preparing for her new found independence as she moves into her own apartment.

No fireworks, no overeating and overdrinking, and no new bedding this year. And no more tales of narcissism -- no matter how tongue in cheek -- with me in the title role. Just an eagle, flying solo, but not, by any stretch of the imagination, alone.

Command Performances

For some reason, after only an hour with my mom, every other word out of my mouth is some version of @#$%&. My son pointed this out to me after we made sure she was settled in for the night and escaped to have dessert and coffee somewhere sane.

Upon my arrival late in the afternoon, I spent a good hour taking orders and helping her to clean up the horrendous messes that had been made by a series of home health aides, the last of whom she had fired in time for my visit. By messes, I refer primarily to the putting away of items in wrong places. The tin foil, for example, was on the left side of the bottom shelf, and not on the top shelf in the center, where it has been stored for over fifty years.

Once I had picked up all the lint from the carpet (at least the ones Miss Bossy Pants could see with her extraordinary, superhuman vision, now enhanced even further by her loss of hearing), I went off to the local grocery store to do her shopping. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to navigate a grocery store in a not-yet-gentrified Brooklyn neighborhood, but my back was thankful for the break from lint lifting.

I arrived home with the items, including the Resolve carpet cleaner (which she examined with about as much confusion and skepticism as the box of tampons I had tossed in for myself). I am convinced the home health aides exacted revenge on their dictatorial hostess by gratuitously spreading dropperfuls of brownish liquid all over her white carpet. (Apparently, they are trained not to beat the crap out of their elderly charges, but the anger has to go somewhere.)

Anyway, before I got down to the business of stain removal – I spent at least an hour on the floor targeting spots while my mother hobbled around looking for more and shouting “what about this one over here?” -- I had to unpack the groceries under her strict supervision.

“Oh,” she moaned. “I never buy such a large milk,” she complained as she pulled the half gallon container out of the bag. “I forgot you buy in bulk.” @#$%&!!!

“No, the cheese goes on the right side!” @#$%&!!!

“Mom. Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit rigid?”

Mom is deaf, and I could tell by the way she screwed up her face she didn’t get what I said. I tried to be clearer. “You’re so @#$%& rigid!!! Still, no luck.

“R-I-G-I-D. Rigid.”

“R-I-G-I-C? Rigic?”

What the @#$%&? “Mom!!! ‘D,” not ‘C.’ RIGID! UNBENDING! TOTALLY @#$%& INFLEXIBLE!”

“Oh, ‘T’ not ‘C.’ R-I-G-I-T.” A moment of confusion, then, eureka! “Oh, R-I-G-H-T! Right. I’m right.” She seemed a bit puzzled that I, of all people, would be telling her she is right, but she was thrilled I had finally seen the light.

“Of course I'm right. Now, what about the spots near the dining room?”

@#$%&!!!

Heart Murmurs

Just when I thought I had heard everything, an email appeared in my cyber dating inbox that nearly took my breath away.

You better look for a Cardiologist because my heart stopped when I saw you, it began. Not sure whether the guy meant that in a good way or whether he had been so horrified by my picture he had suffered a coronary, I read on. I better call FedEx now, because you are the total Package. As you can imagine, my cold little heart started to do a few flutter kicks of its own when I read that bit.

Naturally, I didn't respond (though I did bask in the glow of the bullshit for a few hours), but the latest email got me to wondering why nobody pleases me. I mean, if the perfectly nice looking gentleman who tells me I'm "the total package" can't rock my boat, who the heck is ever going to be able to help me set sail? I should think it don't get any better than calls to a cardiologist and FedEx, all in the same paragraph.

My old widowed friend (we'll just call him Mr. G) gave me some insight into men last week when we went out to dinner. Mr. G has been around awhile, long enough to know that men are creatures who cannot generally be trusted but also long enough to retain a certain politeness and gallantry that younger men (and by that I mean the under-eighty set) do not possess.

There are only two kinds of men who leave their wives, he explained. First, there are the ones who are secure in the knowledge that some specific other woman is out there waiting for them to untie the marriage knot, willing to catch her philanderer in her loving arms so that his life never has to fall to pieces. Then, there are the others, the losers who didn't cheat, who wanted to stay, but got kicked out anyway. That is, the ones on the dating sites, in the bars, desperately on the prowl for someone who is herself so desperate she will fall for the most incredible lines.

Slim pickins, I should think, when you look at it that way. In all fairness, Mr. G was being a bit simplistic. There are plenty of middle aged men who have never been married, never even attempted to be beholden to anyone but themselves, and plenty of widows in their seventies and eighties who have not yet hooked up with their wives' best friends. The pool may be a cesspool, but it's certainly larger than Mr. G would suggest.

Oh, Mr. G. If only I were a few years older, I'd be putty in your hands. But I wouldn't want to give anyone a heart attack. Especially you.

Gardening for Dummies

I'm thinking maybe the cruelest months have passed.

July has been ushered in with a grand stroke of good fortune, in the form of a large chunk of my backyard tree laying lifeless beneath my family room window. The fallen tree branch doesn't appear to have taken any roof tiles with it, and there was nobody -- human or canine, at any rate -- in the yard when it fell. There don't appear to be any broken windows, and the bulk of the large tree remains robust and standing.

But here's the best part. Just the other day, my neighbor had pointed out that chunk of tree, which, as she had noticed from the vantage point of her own backyard, was dangling rather precariously over my house. I promised her (and myself) that I would get right down to business and contact a tree cutting and removal service before the dying branches snapped off and ended up in my bedroom. No need, as it turns out. The ominous skies that sent us packing last night just as the concert at Ravinia was about to start may have destroyed our fun, but that was back in June. Unbeknownst to us, as we scurried out of the park to avoid being struck by lightning, the storm was actually performing some charity work for me back home.

The list of repairs that need doing in my house before I make a killing on it and move into the snazziest double-wide in town has been growing, and last night I went to bed with my heart racing a bit as I made mental notes of all the phone calls I would have to make today. Naturally, the tree thing had made it to the top of the to-do list. After all, my track record on the good luck front has not been stellar over the last two months, and it didn't seem too far fetched to assume that it was only a matter of time -- very little time, no doubt -- that my backyard foliage would become a wrecking ball.

It looks like the stars have realigned themselves, though, now that May and June are ancient history. July promises only good things: the anniversary of my blog (an anniversary I plan to actually celebrate), a shortened to-do list, and nothing but sky, now, hanging over my house. Blue sky, with no dead tree branches or serious dark clouds. Who knows? Maybe my daughter's toilet will fix itself. And maybe, when I arrive in New York tomorrow to help my broken mother, she will be in a good mood and running sprints. Stranger things have happened.

That tree branch might just be the bearer of good tidings. And, I have to believe, good tidings can come to those who wait.