A Stranger in Our Midst

When I pulled up to Starbucks a bit later than usual this morning, I was a little surprised to see a police car parked in my usual spot. I wondered if maybe the Dunkin Donuts was closed.

The cop was still sitting in the driver's seat, looking very serious as he tapped away on his government issue computer. Nowhere near as cute as the fire chief, whose red SUV had no doubt already come and gone. Damn, I hate when I oversleep.

I quickly forgot about the very serious but forgettable looking cop and went in to collect my morning brew and claim my spot on the couch. It was only after I settled in to scroll through a slide show of Michelle Obama's fashions (including the baseball cap and dark glasses she wore when she took the First Dog to Petco) that my favorite barista (who had had the nerve to be on break when I arrived) rushed over to tell me how our world had been shattered. Apparently, only an hour earlier, one of the regulars from my usual shift had his briefcase snatched right from his hands. Right here in my Starbucks. Right when I'm usually here, my wallet strewn carelessly on the table in front of me, my phone similarly unguarded.

Talk about feeling violated. I glanced over at the growing line, so many unsuspecting souls, oblivious to the sudden surge in the crime rate in our little town. I hugged my laptop a little closer, sat on my wallet, and tucked my phone in my sports bra (no pockets today). Where's the fire chief when I need him? (Yes, I know there's no fire, and the whole crime thing is outside his jurisdiction, but a) the cop looked too out of shape to chase a dastardly thief, and b) if I had to choose a lap to hop into for comfort, well, no contest.)

Hopefully this was just an isolated incident. I have to believe that; otherwise, all my assumptions about life here in Mayberry might as well have been in that briefcase. Back to the Michelle Obama slideshow, and to wondering how the hell she goes on a shopping spree at the local Petco, surrounded by secret service agents, and nobody, NOBODY, recognizes her.

I suppose you can get away with stuff when nobody expects you to be there.

A Month of Sun Days

The calendar on the wall in my kitchen tells me it's still August. The boots in my closet remain lined up neatly, and flip flops still lie strewn across the floor. It's eighty degrees outside, has been for the last five days. Maybe yesterday's bump on the head was more serious than I had thought. I could have sworn autumn had already arrived.

School has been back in session for over a month. When I gaze out the window, all evidence suggests that it is indeed October. The trees are a collage of vibrant colors, the sidewalks are littered with the ones that couldn't hang on, brown and curled and crisp. Even at my age, I still get a kick out of stomping through the piles -- nature's bubble wrap.

Pumpkins are everywhere. Not just the plump ones blocking the entrance to every grocery store, waiting to be cut into jack-o-lanterns. Bakery displays are lined with pumpkin delicacies, Starbucks is pushing pumpkin spice lattes, there's even pumpkin ice cream (for those of us who still seem to have one foot in summer, one foot in fall, I suppose).

Yes, it's definitely autumn (wall calendar notwithstanding; I'm just particularly fond of the August picture -- a dog doing a handstand), so why is it so warm outside? Don't get me wrong -- I'm not complaining. Well, maybe I am, just a little. As much as I love having the top down on my convertible for a little while longer, I am, frankly, done with shorts and flip flops. I have a three month attention span for those items, and am more than ready for boots and sweaters and jackets. It's confusing, crunching through dead leaves with bare toes.

At least I'm fairly confident I'm not confused; it's just mother nature playing games with my head. Actually, I think yesterday's head bump gave me clarity. It happened while I was bending down to get laundry out of the hamper; bang, I smashed my head into the corner of the dresser. (Yes, the dresser has always been there, but the hamper had moved.) The mishap reaffirmed what I have known for quite some time: household chores are bad for my health. Years ago, I broke my foot taking out the garbage. I've shattered more than a few light bulbs while hanging precariously on a ladder trying to change them. What can I say? When you're born into Brooklyn royalty, your blood screams for a household staff.

I'm still waiting for the staff, but, in the mean time, to protect myself from further harm, I'm going on strike. So what if the dishes pile up in the sink? Why risk chipping my manicure? And definitely no more laundry. I have enough holes in my head.

Fast and Furious

When my two older children were young, I used to tell them if I didn't have my morning coffee, I would turn into a bear. Terrified by the thought, they took no chances, and, at a very tender age, kept a safe distance until I took a few gulps.

Every year, on Yom Kippur, I promise myself I will try to fast (a promise as illusory as the one we made on our wedding day), but never, in all the years, have I even considered passing up my morning coffee. The way I see it, the sins I might commit as a result of being deprived of my daily brew would make any kind of atonement impossible, which would kind of defeat the purpose of the whole fasting thing.

Frankly, I wasn't raised to fast. (Yes, I was raised to believe you can never be too rich or too thin, but starving oneself for one day for religious purposes was a completely separate issue.) The truth is my family used to rise from the temple pew at about one, walk home (real Jews don't drive on Yom Kippur), and feast. Feast, fast -- the words are so close, so easily confused. But make no mistake -- we feasted on matzoh ball soup and challah and brisket and kugel. It don't get any more Jewish than that. And, let me tell you, we'd do penance for eating all that crap later.

Today, I will spend some time reflecting, even though I won't be all dressed up and sitting in an official house of worship. It's an unseasonably warm fall day, and I will probably take my nerve shattering road bike for one last spin before putting it to rest until next spring. I will spend time with my daughters and connect, somehow, with my other family members in New York -- probably after they finish the official holiday lunch.

And when I attend the "break fast" at my good friends' home this evening, I will politely hang back from the tantalizing spread until the true fasters get their fill. (As long as I've had my morning coffee, nobody will get hurt.) My guess is there'll be plenty of kugel left for the heathens.

Rise and Whine

The woman must have thought I was a baby snatcher. I explained that I was just reminiscing about my long ago mornings with the double stroller. Fascinating, the look on her face told me. The slight eye roll provided insight into what she was really thinking: weirdo.

It was not yet six in the morning, and the Starbucks was empty except for me and the woman with the two little tots. I was still wearing the same tee shirt I had worn to bed, although luckily I had remembered to put on pants. The crease lines from my pillow were still embedded in my cheeks, little black crumbs of mascara nestled stubbornly in the inner corners of my eyes. It had been difficult to muster up the energy to get there, but the prospect of a heavy dose of caffeine had strengthened my resolve.

The woman with the stroller looked fresh faced, her young skin smooth and slightly rosy from her chilly morning walk. Her children were well scrubbed and dressed for the day -- shoes, socks, pants with coordinated tops, medium weight jackets. I was impressed.

Funny, I used to be capable of such feats. Back in the day, I would be out and about at the crack of dawn, and, despite having already spent considerable time feeding and changing diapers and engaging in various forms of baby conversation, the kids and I would be all decked out neatly in something other than pajamas. These days, when Manny's whimpering drags me out of bed before sunrise, I feel thankful that I at least don't have to dress him. And, when I venture out to Starbucks still wearing my pj's, I feel thankful that at least I didn't leave the house buck naked. Aim low, you don't get disappointed.

As idyllic as the tableau appeared, I'm guessing the young woman with the double stroller does not realize how lucky she is. Lucky to be spending her days with these chubby cheeked little creatures who, in about five seconds, will be all grown up and living their own lives. I distinctly remember wheeling my double stroller early one morning down a street filled with commuters heading to the train. I prattled on to the backs of my children's' heads, telling them how lucky all those folks were to be going to work instead of facing a seemingly interminable day of child rearing. (Passersby gave me strange looks and a wide berth; as it turns out, both kids were sound asleep while I was carrying on a conversation, apparently, with myself.) Through the rosy lens of hindsight, I can't figure out for the life of me why I wasn't downright giddy about my life that morning.

My oldest child has been thrust into the business world head first, and is still adjusting to the shock of working twenty hour days (including weekends) and having no time to accomplish the most basic tasks. No doubt, she misses the lazy days of college, and probably has a good chuckle when she thinks about how stressed she thought she was. One day, I hope, she'll be wheeling a stroller, and, no doubt, she'll feel nostalgic pangs for the camaraderie of work, the occasional "atta girl."

Yep, soon she'll be the one talking to herself and glancing suspiciously at dewy eyed middle aged women gazing menacingly at her children. I hope she'll enjoy every moment.

Apples of Our Eyes

Steve Jobs is dead, Sarah Palin is not running for president (and sorry to disappoint those whom were counting on her -- ugh), and Amanda Knox is back home in Seattle hoping her fellow ex-con Italian boyfriend will fly over for a visit. But, alas, it seems he's just not that into her. Go figure.

It's interesting that these three folks landed on front pages (and home screens) on the same day; it reminds us there are lots of ways to achieve notoriety. If this were a statistically relevant sample, one could conclude that two thirds of the time, it isn't really all that clear to anyone what a person has done to warrant that fifteen minutes -- or fifteen lifetimes -- of fame.

Take Sarah, for example. She went from borrowing cups of sugar at gunpoint from her Russian neighbors to traversing the lower forty-eight in a bus formerly owned by the Partridge family. Speaking in some sort of polar dialect, she gets folks all excited about some weird tea party and becomes the toast of any town she visits. Whether it's a pizza joint in New York City or the Iowa State Fair, everyone knows her name, everyone overlooks her appalling grammar. So much for impeccable sentence structure; I've been to New York many times and have yet to get an audience with Donald Trump.

Then there's Amanda. Poor little Amanda. At best, she's a flaky and somewhat reckless college kid who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. At worst, she's a diabolical killer. Or maybe she's just a not-so-innocent bystander. Nobody knows (except Amanda, of course, and her boyfriend, and, I suppose, the black guy who's still in jail), but almost everybody on the planet seems to care. A lot. It took me almost an hour to read through the reader comments following an internet piece about her homecoming. I couldn't help myself. It was addictive. Folks -- most of whom seem to speak the Sarah Palin dialect -- were literally getting into verbal fist fights with each other, so sure was each writer of his opinion. I had to stop; the intensity was getting me all worked up.

Finally, Steve Jobs. College drop-out, pot smoking Buddhist, occasional business failure. Creative genius, tireless worker, inspirational speaker, world changer. There was no doubt in my mind, when I logged onto my Mac and his eyes stared back at me, why he was so famous. It's abundantly clear -- what he's done, what he hasn't done -- why we all know his name and his face, and why we should. His life is instructive in both its successes and its failures, and he leaves a world in which almost everyone owns a gadget inspired by him. Cool. Way cool. We should all be able to leave such a legacy.

But still, after the eulogies have been delivered and the issue of Time Magazine devoted to his life flies off the stands, images of Steve will fade and we will continue to be inundated with tales of Sarah and Amanda, the gals who inexplicably arrived in our collective consciousness and stir up a kind of passion in people you usually don't see outside the bedroom. Or, come to think of it, in it.

Crazy world: ipods, iphones, ipads, and, often, idon'tgetit.

Lost in Space

A few days ago, I had lunch with a friend. A bright, accomplished, fifty-something year old woman who has juggled work with raising three children and now finds herself on the verge of divorce and trailer-park-bound. Hmm. How the heck did that happen?

We talked about what we might do with ourselves now, how we never could have imagined ourselves being in this position at this time in our lives. We wondered who in their right mind would hire us -- no matter how bright we are -- when they can just as easily hire someone young, someone with promise. Our years of promise appear to be behind us; broken promise, as it happens.

Recently, someone suggested I determine what my dream job would be, and just go for it. I tried, but sitting on my ass watching NCIS reruns doesn't pay very well. After two Jewish holiday dinners in a row I briefly considered becoming a kosher brisket taster, but that's just too darn seasonal. And not a particularly good stepping stone; who's going to hire an old broad with gravy stains on her shirt and clogged arteries?

I toyed with the idea of sending out a bunch of resumes, but that can be so demoralizing, and then I remembered good things come to those who wait, so I decided to wait. I didn't have to wait very long; a dream job opportunity literally jumped out at me when I logged on to play a little spider solitaire the other day: astronaut.

NASA is looking for some new trainees, and if anyone has the right stuff, it's good old Jill Ocean. Jeez, even the name conjures up images of brave space travelers falling back to earth. I certainly have the credentials. They're looking for engineers, scientists, or other professionals. Finally, something I can do with my law degree. And you don't need to be a cocky, young fighter pilot type. They're just looking for folks who can work in an operational environment. I don't really know what that is, but I've had plenty of experience working in dysfunctional environments, so I'd imagine an operational environment would be a cake walk.

I'm going to call my friend and see if she wants to go to astronaut school with me. I've seen the pictures, and as far as I can tell, they spend a lot of time laughing and doing somersaults in the air. Kind of like Mary Poppins. Beats the crap out of a desk job.

Til (insert date) Do Us Part

I am turning fifty-two. The same age my friend Barb was five years ago when she succumbed to cancer. And to think I had decided fifty-two wasn't a special birthday.

As uncomfortable and painful as life had become, Barb fought like hell to make it to fifty-two, but fell short by two months. She weathered a double mastectomy and botched reconstituted boobs and wildly aggressive metastasis, not to mention collateral pleasures like kidney failure and dialysis appointments and countless hospital stays for ailments of unknown origin. Still, through it all, she proclaimed herself to be blessed -- for all the life she had lived, for all the people she loved who were in it. As she told an intimate group gathered for the fiftieth birthday party she threw for herself, if she died tomorrow, she would die happy.

My most significant physical ailment right now is a big zit on my chin, yet if I died tomorrow, I think I'd be mad as hell. Not so much about the dying itself (although that certainly would piss me off) but about all my pesky little problems. Yes, including the zit. Well shame on me; enough of that shit. It's a gorgeous autumn morning, my kids are all healthy and thriving, I have great friends, and Manny managed to make it through an entire day yesterday without peeing or pooping in the house. Life is good. A little divorce nonsense in the grand scheme of things? Just another zit.

In fairness (to me), I'm not the only person to let divorce make my whole world seem miserable. In an effort to slow down divorce rates, the powers that be in Mexico City have proposed marriage contracts with time limits. Progressive countries like Iran already have these; there, you can agree to marry for as little as a few minutes. Cool. I love a short cocktail hour.

I wonder how many folks will give the new contracts a shot, stand up before their family and friends and promise to love and cherish each other for a couple of years. Kind of cuts into the romance a bit. Then again, the contracts would be renewable, so if the bride and groom are delusional enough to believe the loving and cherishing will last forever, what's the harm? I would feel kind of sad for all the unemployed matrimonial attorneys, but, wait, I'm over it.

I am pretty damn certain I will still be trapped in the vicious web of divorce tomorrow. Frankly, I'm more likely to be struck by lightning (twice!) than I am to be done with this mess. I am also pretty damn certain the zit on my chin will still be there -- if picking at it constantly is any indication. But everything else -- all the stuff that matters -- is pretty damn good.

Could I die happy tomorrow? Not a chance; I'm greedy, and I want a lot more of the good stuff. Could I die feeling grateful for everything I have? Yeah, that I can probably handle.