Pippa Longstocking and Some Royal Treatments

I ran into an old acquaintance at Starbucks last week. He was poring over ads in the newspaper, considering a "spa day."

"How gay," I told him, not meaning it in a bad way, since I'd take a gay man over a straight one any day. I just had a hard time imagining this guy spending the next few hours with his toes soaking in a pedicure bowl while some old lady buffed his fingernails and another prepared a vegetable peel for his face.

He handed me the newspaper. The first ad that caught my eye was:

COLLEGE GIRLS

Pigtails by Day

High Heels by Night

Ahhhh. That kind of spa day. Pippi Longstocking, meet Pippa Middleton. I searched the page, and found nothing about college boys in loin cloths fanning away hot flashes while frat guys with greased muscles pluck away chin hairs. Sometimes life is so unfair.

Come to think of it though, I'd probably feel less self-conscious with an old lady doing the fanning and a pigtailed, high heeled coed doing the plucking. I'll save the frat boys for a more tender moment, like, say, when all the lights are out and I've plied them with enough alcohol to think the facial stubble rubbing against their strong shoulders is their own.

But seriously, what would be the male equivalent of Pippi in fishnets and stilettos? Opie in super snug Wranglers? Curious George in a Speedo? The man with the yellow hat -- and I mean just the yellow hat?

Frankly, I think I'll take a good old fashioned spa day.

Going Fishin'

Hot Coco

When I head to New York this weekend, I will be spending much of my time going through my mother's medical bills and home health care bills and dealing with Medicare and the seventeen other insurance companies that all seem to have collected premiums from somebody involved in the car accident but somehow deny any responsibility for payment.

It will be a nice change, I suppose, from dealing with matrimonial attorneys who seem to be very adept at bargaining away my life while my youngest daughter's college tuition money somehow lands in their pockets. But I'm sure, like the insurance companies, they know what they're doing. Cha ching, cha ching.

I admit to having made some irrational demands in my divorce case. After all, a narcissistic bitch who singlehandedly caused the break down of what was otherwise a perfect marriage should hardly expect to spend the rest of her life living above the poverty level. I get it. My mother, on the other hand, was just minding her own business on that fateful day in May when some reckless driving caused her to break in several places. Somebody needs to pay.

And it's not just about medical care and room and board in fancy hospital rooms with spectacular river views. The biggest arguments will revolve around the high tech equipment, the various special pieces of rehabilitative apparatus without which my mother could not possibly have regained the strength in her battered skeleton. The wheel chairs that sit in her apartment taking up space; the cleverly designed walkers that so skew the delicate balance in an injured octogenarian's body that she inevitably needs a new walker to cure the collateral damage; the canes, the slings, the long stemmed shoe horns and "grabbers" (which, unfortunately, don't work on microscopic bits of lint).

Just wait until they see the claim I make for the Chanel "wallet purse" I had to purchase for my mother yesterday after receiving an emergency request via email. When she ventures out, she can't really carry the five hundred pound designer satchels she favors without further exacerbating her injuries, so she desperately needs a lightweight version that she can wear across her body. And, of course, it has to be Chanel.

"My friend had the same problem a few years ago, and she still walks around with a little Sportsac bag that she can sling over her shoulder," she told me when I called to be sure I had located the correct item. I didn't bother asking why she didn't get herself a Sportsac, but she told me anyway. "I'd rather die than be seen walking around with something so disgusting." Understandable. I can only imagine how all the old Russian ladies strolling on Ocean Parkway in their torn housecoats would talk.

I know the insurance companies are going to require proof of medical necessity, so when I take my mother to her fancy Park Avenue orthopedist on Monday I will ask him to write up a scrip for a sixteen hundred dollar Chanel "wallet purse." It will be good practice for my divorce case; I won't feel at all sheepish asking for a few extra pennies for a high end double wide.

Manny Happy Returns

When I gazed over this morning at the adorable mutt sprawled next to me in my bed, I was reminded what a lucky woman I am. Manny the puggle is adjusting to his blindness, he is exercising more, and he is -- albeit slowly -- shedding some pounds. Slowly but surely, normalcy (such as it is) returns.

It's been a rough few months for us both, ever since Leo passed away. I still get frequent pangs of loss; I can't go into the backyard without imagining an ebullient lab playing fetch, I can't look at the family room couch without imagining Leo's handsome head resting on its arm. I pass by my little Leo shrine countless times each day -- the box containing his ashes, his final paw print, the picture of him as a puppy. But I avert my gaze. It's just too painful for me to look.

Yesterday, when I was walking Manny, I ran into a neighbor I hadn't seen in a while, and she asked where Leo was. It was difficult for me to speak the words out loud. "He died," I said, after managing to untwist my tongue. But that seemed inadequate. "I put him down," I added. "In May." I was stumbling over my words, trying to find some that could do justice to Leo's heroic battle and his equally heroic passing. My neighbor was clearly mortified for having asked the question.

Almost three months have passed, and I still feel off balance when I walk Manny alone. I miss the weight of Leo's eighty pound frame, the chaos of two dogs pulling me in opposite directions. I miss Leo's deep, throaty bark; I miss the white bearded "mature" dog who never stopped being a puppy.

I grieve for Manny most of all, who never understood why I carried Leo out of the house one evening and failed to bring him back. Manny, who will happily lie down just about anywhere, except in the spot at the foot of my bed which was always reserved for Leo. Manny, whose trust in me was eroded a bit when I took away his best friend. Manny, the dog who can't see but who sure knows what's missing.

Every day, Manny and I continue to reestablish the trusting relationship we once had. My handsome mutt snuggles up just a bit closer to me each night, and, little by little, his beautiful smile is returning.

Rolling the Dice

The young gals who work at the yoga store have been planning a bachelorette weekend for a friend for months. Finally, the weekend is upon us, and I was treated to some vicarious thrills as they firmed up the arrangements.

Yesterday, they took advantage of the sluggish August retail traffic and worked on some of the finishing touches: carpools, wardrobe decisions, and -- most entertaining for me -- the gifts. The gals, all in various stages of young marriage and, in some cases, pregnancy, pooled their resources. Each of them had bags full of penis related gag gifts (pardon me for using the words "penis" and "gag" in the same sentence) that had been gathering dust since their own bachelorette parties. And there would be, of course, a penis cake, with penis shaped candles, and paper plates and cups decorated with penises. Dicks everywhere. Welcome to the real world, sister.

My favorite "gag gift" was the set of dice: one cube with cartoonish depictions of various sex positions, the other with names of various rooms in the house. Funny, the bedroom didn't make the cut. I couldn't help but think that the game of sex dice would be more appropriate for a divorce party. Granted, my memory is a bit fuzzy, but I don't recall marriage being filled with steamy days and nights spent hanging from the rafters naked. Not that divorce is, either, but my guess is those clever little cubes could certainly be a useful ice breaker for middle aged daters.

Speaking of which, I have been bombarded with ads lately for a new computer dating site, one that "services" the fifty and over crowd. The images are startlingly different from the ones I'm used to seeing in ads for the more traditional dating sites, which depict pleasant looking twenty-somethings with bedroom eyes falling instantly in love in a candlelit restaurant. The stars of the fifty plus site are overweight and wrinkled and stuffed into a roller coaster car. Like the young lovelies in the other ads, they are smiling, but I would bet those smiles have more to do with having taken a good dump that morning than the anticipation of wild sex after the date.

Unless, of course, somebody has stuffed a pair of those sex dice in the woman's purse.

Paths of Stone, Hearts of Gold

Thank God for ice cream, cases of caffeine free diet coke, and wonderful friends who know exactly when you need them.

Last night, I had a bit of a setback, a face to face brush with a painful reminder of what are still fresh and raw feelings of hurt and betrayal. What can you do? Setbacks are as much a part of life as breathing, and this one literally took my breath away. Luckily, at least for me, loyal and true friends are as much a part of life as setbacks, and a spontaneous delivery of diet cokes, ice cream, and, most importantly, a big hug, is never more than a speed dial away.

My friend's visit did much more for me than the anxiety pill I popped as soon as I could locate the pill bottle, much more than thoughts of spite and revenge ever could. Within minutes, my pulse slowed, my blood ceased to boil, and my skin stopped crawling. The four of us (my friend and I, and Ben and Jerry) didn't talk much, but it didn't take long for me to remember how full my life is of people who are loyal and true, folks who will never promise not to hurt me and do just that, who will never forsake me no matter how much of a pain in the ass I can be. I like to think I would return the favor for them, should the need ever arise.

When I was growing up, my father always cautioned me against taking the path of least resistance. I have certainly taken his advice to heart, choosing for myself a path filled with twists and ruts and felled trees, and the occasional stone that gets kicked up in my face. The journey is arduous, and it is tempting, sometimes, to retrace my steps and find a more pleasant and freshly paved road. But I've laced up the shitkickers and I stay the course, no matter how much it hurts. It's not a pretty journey, but I have to believe that, despite the setbacks, there's something good waiting for me at the other end.

My path will be strewn with lots of empty ice cream containers, lots of empty soda cans. And it will be peppered with lots of warm hugs from true friends and alive with the distant echo of my father's voice, urging me on.

A Coffee Break

One of the fabulous women I met at the spa this weekend was conducting a science experiment on herself, seeing if a vegan diet would effectively lower her cholesterol. She was giving herself twelve weeks, cutting all the things she loved out of her diet to see if she could tackle her elevated readings without medication. Sure, a part of her wants to fail ("hey, if the diet doesn't work, bring on the ribs and the Lipitor," she admitted), but at least she was making the effort. It's amazing how a little bit of suffering and deprivation can make us feel worthy.

My cholesterol is fine, but there are certainly things I can afford to trim from my diet. Like my daily dose of designer coffee, for example. I did a little math recently. If I cut out my dawn trips to Starbucks, I could save over seven hundred dollars a year. Minus the cost of stocking my house with coffee and cream. And minus all the earnings from my blog, which, obviously, would never get done. Oh, wait, there are no earnings from my blog.

Seven hundred dollars for the year may not sound like a lot to the more well-heeled among us, but for someone about to be in the market for a double wide it's a good chunk of a down payment. Nothing to sneeze at. So I'm going to try to kick the coffeehouse habit.

Cold turkey withdrawal would probably cause all sorts of unpleasant side effects, so I'm thinking about a gradual weaning. I've already begun the process, occasionally arriving at my Starbucks at a later hour. The experience has proved to be quite unsettling.

At the crack of dawn, when the barristas are still dusting off the machines from the evening before, the customers are bleary eyed and generally solo. Just the way I like to see everybody. By mid morning, folks have scrubbed up, paid attention to their clothing, and more often than not have even found a companion or two with whom they can share some coffee and conversation.

And there are dates! Men and women coupled off at little tables acting fascinated about what the other has to say, all the while imagining (I can only assume) what the other looks like naked. Or, in many cases, trying to avoid thinking about that while they convince themselves it's all about personality. Hey, there's a reason Thomas Edison invented the off switch. Or was that Ben Franklin?

Anyway, the only thing less appealing than watching other people date is going on your own dates. Frankly, the best dates I can remember are the ones I had at the spa this past weekend -- the ones with the pits inside. Sure, they made me a little bit queasy and sent me running off to the bathroom in agony, but they were just about the sweetest things I've ever encountered. If altering my Starbucks time means I might have to witness or participate in more dates of the other variety, mediocre mugfuls of caffeine brewed at home are starting to look pretty good.

I'll give myself a little time -- let's say twelve weeks. I'll see if my piggy bank really starts to swell as a result of all my hard work and monkish asceticism. If not, it's back to Starbucks at six a.m., and I'll just have to give up a manicure or two to start saving up for that trailer.