The Lone Car State

I have to admit I was being overly harsh when I wondered whether there was anything in Dallas, the city, that would outdo DFW, the airport, a place I've passed through many times without ever going outside. (The options at DFW for dining may be plentiful, but the food is nothing to write home about. And once we actually found restaurants to wander into in the city, we feasted on some of the best guacamole and the spiciest salsa I've ever encountered. The people of Dallas should really get downtown more, enjoy the endless summerlike weather and a good meal.)

The trip to Dallas would have been worthwhile even without the Mexican delicacies, even without the concert we attended on Saturday night (my surprise birthday present from my daughters, who kidnapped me for the weekend without a hint as to where we'd be heading). The packing list certainly offered no clues; I could have been going anywhere with some jeans, boots, flip flops, deodorant, and a "brazeeeeeeer that covers the nips, pleeeeeeeeze." Charming children. But time with them is a precious treat, and our brief trip south was certainly no exception.

Dallas indeed offers more than a huge airport, big hair, funny accents, and endless sprawl. We visited the Sixth Floor Museum, housed in the book depository from which JFK was shot, overlooking the infamous grassy knoll. I've seen the images many times -- live, even, when I was four -- but experiencing this piece of history with my daughters, one of whom wasn't even born yet when young John went down in a plane, was indescribable. Each of us was moved in a different way. My older daughter teared up at the footage of the president's son saluting the flag draped coffin; my younger daughter, who was weaned on television images of the twin towers going down, was, nevertheless, overwhelmed by the half century old tragedy, the senseless killing of one man. I was fascinated by the pictures of young children lining the route, folks now in the throes of middle age. I wondered if they still have nightmares about that day.

When I approached the window from which the fatal shots were fired, I stared out as the narrator on my headphones took me through the final seconds. As he outlined the slow progress of the president's limo, the busy street below became oddly empty except for one lone black car. It took the hairpin turn just as the narrator described it, passed the spot that changed the course of history just as the narrator pointed it out. There was nobody else standing at the window; in those moments, history replayed itself just for me.

Yes, we had our share of fun, long hours, and shitty food at DFW. But outside the confines of airport security, our time in Texas was priceless.

Dancing in the Darkness

I love November. It's my birthday month. It's the month of Thanksgiving. It's when we start to hunker down for winter, feeling cozy but a long way from feeling weary from the long, cold, dark days. We look forward to the twinkle of holiday lights and the uplifting holiday tunes, before they get old. Morbid Halloween decorations have finally been taken down, and the leftover candy is beginning -- finally -- to lose its appeal.

The ground outside is carpeted with wet leaves, not a good thing for a klutz like me. As I pulled my garbage and recycling pails to the curb yesterday morning, walking gingerly so as not to break a limb on the slick driveway, my sweatshirt hood drawn tightly around my face to shield me from the driving rain, I wondered if there was something perverse about my fondness for the onset of winter gloom. Then I wondered why it would surprise me that I might be perverse.

There's a lot to celebrate this month, and today is no exception. It just occurred to me that today is the first anniversary of An Eagle's Tale, the blog that was supposed to take me out of "fighting warrior" mode and usher in a more peaceful, more optimistic era. Though I admit I've spent more time than I would have liked over the past year dodging bullets and lobbing a few of my own grenades, I have by no means lost hope. Nobody has waved any white flags yet, but I believe there's an end in sight to the bullshit, and I also believe life, post war, will be fine. There are worse things than living in a double wide, yes?

My mother, who gets all sentimental this time of year when she conjures up vivid memories of my birth and wrestles with the swift passage of time, commanded me yesterday to go out and buy myself something nice, on her. She means something really nice, with a designer label and a hefty price tag. Something I don't need, and would never consider buying for myself. I don't think a wall hanging for my future trailer is what she has in mind.

I will do my best today to shop around for something frivolous, not just to celebrate November milestones but also, and, more importantly, to please my mother. Old habits die hard. And, as the bitter winds kick up and the rain turns to snow and any leaves remaining on the almost bare trees finally surrender and fall to the ground, I will simply dress warmly and take somewhat perverse pleasure in the beautiful bleakness.

Waxing Nostalgic

I scoffed the other day when I read an article on line claiming that bad experiences in restaurants often lead to bigger tips. It's a simple formula, apparently; complaining leads to guilt leads to overcompensation. Gosh, we're a weird breed.

And I, as it turns out, am right in there with the rest of the idiots of our species. Today, when I skulked into Elizabeth Arden for a quick eyebrow wax with the esthetician with whom I have been cheating for two years, I came face to face with the sadistic bikini waxer who caused me to stray. There she was, Edwina Scissorhands, not letting me get away for one moment with my feeble attempt to pretend I had no idea who she was. What the heck was she doing there on a Tuesday??

With a malicious grin, she tormented me with her precise memory, asking after each of my children, knowing exactly what they had been up to the last time I lay whimpering on her spa bed. She twisted the knife with news of her own son's upcoming surgery for some mysterious illness. Ooh, she's good. Naturally, I told her how disappointed I was when I was suddenly available only on Tuesdays -- her day off -- for spa treatments. I told her how much I missed her. And I promised I would make an appointment soon so we could catch up.

I just know she's sharpening her scissors, honing the tweezers, bringing the hot wax to a hyper boil in anticipation of my contrite return for a full Brazilian. But the truth is I wasn't motivated by my fear of the pain (which, by the way, has kept me off the bikini waxing circuit for quite a while; that, and my conscientious objection to mature women trying to look prepubescent). What motivated me was pure guilt and shame, guilt for hurting Edwina's feelings, shame for sneaking around behind her evil back.

All I know is that the next time there's a hair in my soup, I will think of Edwina Scissorhands (oh, stop, not for the reason you're thinking) when I offer up my compliments to the chef and a ridiculously huge tip.

The Progress of Elimination

Victories in my life tend to be small, definitely bittersweet.

This morning, I cheered Manny on as I coaxed him into the yard to do his business so I wouldn't return from Starbucks to a pile of poop in the family room. It took a while, but it was worth it, making me feel as if my Monday resolution to disabuse him of the notion that our wood floors are a proper place for relieving himself was off to a good start. With a little focus on both our parts, the world -- at least our house -- would soon be a sweeter (smelling) place.

Alas, it was still dark out, and I did not notice until it was too late that I had stepped in a pile, which I then tracked into the kitchen on the way to Manny's box of rewards. Ugh, so much for breakfast. Poop in the family room was starting to look good.

My house is chock full of piles of poop, nasty reminders of a marriage gone sour. Photos, knick knacks, mementos from vacations and time well spent. Sometimes it's difficult to remember the pleasures and the victories, even the big ones. The walls tend to close in on me, particularly when it's just me and Manny, when even the child who lives with me is not home.

This past weekend, the walls pushed back a bit with the arrival of my son, my irreverent and offbeat son who pops in from time to time to make us laugh until it hurts. Sure, there are plenty of bittersweet memories, but nothing -- no amount of stress and frustration -- can take away the pleasure I get from my offspring. Sometimes I just need a little extra dose, up close and in person.

He leaves today, but Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and I won't have to wait too long for a hefty serving of his political rants, his dissertations on the universe, and his crazy stand-up routines that send me and his sisters into fits of hysteria (the good kind). Let the season of comfort food and family insanity begin!

My son is worried because he caught Manny nibbling on his own poop the other day. I told him that's better than eating other dogs' poop. He's concerned that eating poop of any kind is hazardous to ones health, and suggested maybe that's what made Manny go blind.

And to think I always attributed that to masturbation! Well, there you have it, another piece of good news -- another small victory.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

What could be worse than subjecting a kid who just lost a parent to the nightly ritual of condolence calls? Not much, I'm guessing.

My son's good friend's dad passed away suddenly last Sunday. Dropped dead, really, in the truest sense of the word. Without saying goodbye, or, sadder still, without giving anyone else the opportunity to do the same. If terminal illness has any up side, that would be it. Plenty of chances for goodbyes and reflection. Preparation and readiness? If you ask me, that's a myth. No child, no matter what his age, is adequately prepared for the moment at which life is supposed to continue without the person who gave him life, who raised him, who was just always viewed as a given.

My son's friend is putting on a brave face, smiling and accepting well intentioned hugs from all the consolers and grievers passing through. They share stories with him, their memories of time spent with his dad. He has spent more time with the man than all of them put together, yet, unlike them, he is still unable to retrieve and hang on to the funny little anecdotes. For him, there is one memory that haunts him -- his last phone call with his dad on the day he died. "Don't forget to get me the charger." Those, he told my son, were his parting words to his father, his goodbye.

I had the dubious good fortune of yelling "I love you" into my father's ear over the telephone as he lay dying. Yes, I took some comfort in that, knowing that as he passed from this world he would take with him that reminder. Had the timing been different, though, his final memory of me would likely have been of watching me leave hours earlier, hearing me consoling my mother at the door as I headed home to Chicago. Our own version of don't forget to get me the charger. No affirmations of love. No articulation of how I felt, how losing him made me feel as if my legs were being cut off at the knees.

No matter how many times my son reassures his friend that one final sentence at the end of a routine conversation nobody knew would be the last does not in any way define a lifelong relationship, he knows his friend will struggle with the memory for a while. Who wouldn't? But he will get past it, especially when he becomes a parent. When he experiences first hand the kind of unconditional love a parent feels for a child, the little person who explodes into the world making demands and never really stops doing so. When he can know, finally, how the mere sound of a child's voice, or, in truth, the mere thought of him, can make life seem complete.

I wouldn't be at all surprised if my kids' parting comments to me included some kind of request and a gratuitous grunt. But I hope when I go, as they endure the funny stories of others, they will know that whatever they last said to me will have been, to me, the sweetest words of all.

Consumer Protection

I admitted to a friend the other day that I am enjoying my job selling yoga clothes. "That's nice." His condescending smile made his next comment unnecessary. "You know you'll have to get a real job soon."

True enough, but I still felt like smacking him. Doesn't being thoroughly exhausted after several consecutive days on my feet pretending to be a pleasant human being qualify as real work? Sure, it's not rocket science, but let's face it, I'm not a rocket scientist. And it's certainly more challenging than lying in bed all day. Which would definitely be my first choice.

It could be worse -- I could be working in Starbucks. Yesterday morning, the two overly chipper baristas (I realized later they must have just been delirious) were giggling about the fantastic employment they had landed with their fancy psych degrees.They wondered if a PhD would enable them to advance to positions of greater responsibility -- maybe groom them for taking out the garbage. I have to admit I find it kind of reassuring to have a couple of psych experts serving me in the morning -- brewers with benefits. You never know when I'll be on the verge of a psychotic episode, in need of more than just a shot of caffeine.

Come to think of it I probably don't have sufficient education to merit a position behind the counter at Starbucks. Even without having taken more than one psych class in college, though, I have been known to offer up a bit of counseling to my faithful customers. "You are beautiful," I tell them when they start to obsess about a bulge here and there. "Camel toe is not the way to recapture your elusive femininity," I tell them when they desperately try to squeeze into a smaller size. "The snottier you are, the more sickeningly sweet I will become, and I will also crumple up your merchandise when I put it in the bag." This I don't necessarily tell them, but every once in a while a little encouragement in the behavior modification department is appropriate.

Rocket science -- no, but there's definitely a bit of social science required in retail. My advice may be amateurish, but it sure beats real work.

Happy Day of the Dead

I have promised myself I would not stoop to writing about Kim and Kris and their 72 day marriage. I'm just glad I didn't waste money on a gift.

Let's face it: relationships are hard, and they take a lot of work. Constant work. From the beginning. The closer you get to someone, the more likely you're going to piss each other off. It would be nice if we could take all our unpleasantness out on complete strangers, but there's really no satisfaction in that.

This morning, I think I may have permanently scarred my budding relationship with the local fire chief, a relationship I have been nurturing with great care and unbelievable patience for over a year. My heart was already going pitter pat as we walked into Starbucks together at the crack of dawn, my tongue stumbling over my words as I tried to converse. (Since when is "how are you?" a difficult question to answer?)

Our Starbucks was unusually crowded today, with more than a few unfamiliar faces scattered among the regulars. I scoped out the seating, noting that to avoid the crazy chatty woman who camps out looking for prey every morning I would have to box out the chief and steal his favorite chair. You'd think I would have learned by now about compromise and unselfishness and fair play, but I guess sometimes you really can't teach an old dog new tricks. If one of us was going to have to go down, it was going to have to be him. Sorry my love.

Clearly, some of us just aren't cut out for commitment. I kind of admire Kim for realizing so soon that she is one of those people and for sparing her new hubby the pain and torture of a long term marriage. He will survive. He's going to have every single woman in the Midwest showing up on his doorstep with homemade casseroles and cookies and promises of all sorts of goodies. As for Kim, well, she'll always have the dresses. And the ring. And the gifts. And the gorgeous spread in People Magazine. Everybody wins.

I feel kind of bad that the pair couldn't spend Halloween together, but Day of the Dead is being celebrated as it should be.