Ironing Things Out

Short term memory problems are becoming a given. I remain unfazed when I arrive in my bedroom only to discover I have no idea what dire emergency propelled me up the stairs only a minute earlier. I know it will come to me. Eventually. 

Long term memories are a different animal entirely. They are not necessarily a problem -- sometimes they're actually quite pleasant. But they tend to take me by surprise, unexpected visitors from distant lifetimes that seem close enough to touch. Retrieval is less a relief than a jarring reminder of the passage of time. I keep wishing for do-overs, to enjoy what I was too naive to enjoy, to re-enjoy what I was lucky enough to appreciate the first time around, to fix whatever I broke. 

I know there must be plenty of folks over the age of thirty living downtown, but in the twenty-four hours I spent there this weekend I didn't notice any. Not in the trendy Italian restaurant in the West Loop where the manager who stopped by our table to check on us and self-promote, not necessarily in that order, seemed barely out of high school. I wondered if the smart looking couple snuggling in the booth across from me were old enough to drink that bottle of wine they ordered. I wondered if the two young girls in the booth next to me were just wearing their moms' wedding rings for fun. I tried to take the effusive manager seriously while I fixated on the peach fuzz on his chin. 

At breakfast the next morning, a stone's throw from where I first lived when I moved to Chicago almost thirty years ago, the aromas and the packed in tables were strangely familiar, as familiar as the young faces surrounding me, deep in concentration as young hands with elastic skin spread gobs of Nutella on thick, fluffy pancakes. None of them seemed unhappy, but still, I wanted to shake them, explain to them how ecstatic they should be. Remind them how foolish they are to think that this would last. 

As I walked the streets of the city yesterday, reminders of several lifetimes gone by drifted past me. Young twenty-somethings, being grown-ups for the first time. Older twenty-somethings, with babies in tow, really being grown-ups for the first time. Even the forty-somethings, wide-eyed as they strolled on college tours with their first-borns. I wanted to shake them too, tell them that before long, they would be like me. 

My friend and I talked about it. We felt certain there must be at least a handful of people alive who are older than we are; we just couldn't find them. We looked in the mirror and gave ourselves makeshift facelifts with the heels of our hands. The difference was noticeable, in a good way, as long as you don't care about things like smiles or other genuine facial expressions. 

With the heels of my hands stretching my skin behind my ears, I had the odd sensation of seeing the younger me and the "now" me at the same time. The younger me seemed vaguely familiar, like the aromas in the little breakfast joint. But no matter how intently I stared, I could not erase the lines and the wrinkles, the twists and turns of the roadmap that has gotten me from there to here. 

I may feel invisible, sometimes, like all the folks over thirty (and forty, and fifty) who must exist but I just can't see them when I'm out and about, surrounded by twenty-somethings. And the memories of distant lifetimes that seem close enough to touch will continue their assault -- for better or for worse. I might wish to erase the wrinkles and the years, but the "now" me is the one I see, the one I'm stuck with, at least until the next lifetime takes over. 

If I Had a Billion Dollars (and change)

Talk about lazy.

I couldn't bear the thought of braving the cold last night just one more time to pick up a Power Ball ticket. Small consolation that the big winning tickets were sold in faraway states. Had I bundled up just one more time to make the three minute trek in a heated car to a gas station convenience store, the minor blip in my behavior would have altered everything in the Power Ball universe and I could have been sitting on a big fat check. At least I saved a few bucks and a whole bunch of calories when I resisted the enticement of a swing through the drive thru on the way home for an oreo McFlurry.

The sudden heat wave this morning -- twenty-nine degrees, after days of temperatures struggling to hover above zero -- boosted my mood, which made me wonder what kind of effect over a billion dollars might have had. As much as I like to tell myself money can't buy happiness, I'd be willing to test out the theory. Even a small victory at work the other day, a victory that didn't earn me a dime, except, I suppose, as a notch on the bedpost of keeping my job, lifted my spirits as I braced myself against the icy wind in the parking lot. I'm thinking euphoria might have set in if I won a cool billion and could suddenly afford that Canada Goose jacket and matching hat.

When I woke this morning, tangled up in the sheets with my dog, I gazed at the evidence of our January stir craziness. The coarse white fluffy innards of his latest favorite toy made my comforter look like a vandalized holiday window scene. Random electronics dotted the scene -- my chewed up remote, with its exposed batteries precariously half-nestled in their slots, barely functioning and no longer appealing to Eli. My lap top, tell tale cookie crumbs stuck in the keyboard. My iPhone, out of juice, no doubt, as it tends to be since an unfortunate plunge into the toilet. I tiptoed through the shredded remnants of a half-used roll of toilet paper I had neglected to secure on that little toilet paper bar (what's that called, anyway?), wondering how much more Midwestern winter I could take.

It could be worse. At least I get to pee indoors. I wonder if Eli was trying to tell me something when he went at the toilet paper.

So what difference would a billion dollars make? A few vacation homes? Assured safety from a terrorist attack when I pop into a Starbucks for a coffee? Freedom from occasional funks? Guaranteed feelings of accomplishment and a job well done on a daily basis? Freedom from worry about my children? At the very least, the Canada Goose jacket and the matching hat.

I know it sounds naive, but there's something to be said for simple pleasures. Why else would I be contemplating forking over $39 for access to some introductory videos on a new website that unlocks the secret to female orgasms. Talk about lazy, like I said. But the videos are interactive and touchable, from what I hear. Do they touch back? Thirty-nine dollars -- that's a lot cheaper than a big ass diamond, so what the heck.

At the very least, it could tide me over until the jackpot swells again.

Big Feet, Big Worries

December was a month of pitter pattering feet, some far larger than my own (which are nothing to sneeze at, size-wise). You know what they say -- big feet, big bunions. Tight shoes. Not braggin, just sayin.

My little post-divorce townhouse has returned to deafening quiet. The kids have all appeared and disappeared; their friends who, in my mind, are still not old enough to drive, have stopped trickling in and out. The imaginary noises in the middle of the night are louder now, especially after a few hours spent binge-dozing on creepy crime shows. The dog and I wake, startled, and stare at each other, wondering who will protect whom. The odds aren't good for either of us.

My children took me seriously when I encouraged them to leave the nest, which is kind of ironic since they rarely take anything I say seriously. They must have known I was joking.

I am relieved, sometimes, to think that two of them have gotten to the age at which the brain is fully developed, according to most "experts." The youngest has a few years to go, but gender is on her side, which helps a little but still keeps me from exhaling completely when she's home on break until I hear her footsteps on the stairs in the wee hours of the morning.

On one dicey night during that particularly dicey summer between high school and college, I read my son the riot act about never making me one of those moms who gets one of those phone calls that turns her life into something I cannot even wrap my head around. He promised me he wouldn't, but of course his brain wasn't fully formed yet, so I held my breath a lot that summer, and every summer after that, when he would come home. And for the three days last month when he was visiting.

Four moms and four dads got that phone call earlier this week, just a few suburbs away from where I lay in my own bed waiting for the pitter patter of feet so I could exhale. Eight parents who never expected when they waved goodbye to their sons and recited by rote the "have fun and be careful" script that has poured out of all of us thousands of times that their sons would only heed the first part. If our brains are really fully formed at 25, would any of us, at any age, ever be reckless enough to let our kids leave the house, much less the state, or the country?

As a parent of adult children who tend to think I'm a blithering idiot, even more so than I used to be, I smile when I think about how fragile and incompetent they think I am. No matter how big my feet are, they are certain that my brain is no longer fully formed, skeptical that it ever was. They have a point; if I had any sense at all, I would have handcuffed them to the house, just so I could breathe.
And breathing is important.

But it's back to pitter-patterless nights, except for the things, imaginary or real, that go bump and startle me and the dog awake, only to look at each other and wonder who will protect whom. And wonder, while we're at it, what the kids are doing, when their footsteps are too far away for us to hear.

Everlasting Visions

At my father's funeral, a vaguely familiar gentleman approached and gave me a hug. "Hello Mick," he said. Mick. Mickey. My mother. This man thought I was a 67 year old widow. I was 38 at the time, and 66 seemed ancient. For a brief moment, my grief turned to rage.

Mistaking my homicidal glare for confusion, the man introduced himself. Jerry. I had not seen Jerry since I was about ten. When my mother was, hmm, about 38. For Jerry, time had stood still; it was an honest mistake. I corrected him gently, returned his hug.

I don't even remember how my parents knew Jerry, but I remembered him fondly. He was hilarious. Not just in the garden variety kibbitzer sort of way, like Walter or Roy, the ones who were always on the guest list when my parents "had company," the ones I referred to as uncles even though we shared no DNA. Jerry was funny in a stand-up comedian sort of way, subtle, clever, grammatically correct.

I remember also that he was ill. He's not well, my mother would whisper, whenever his name came up. I remember thinking how unfair it was, that someone so funny and smart could be so sick. It was some gastrointestinal thing, as I recall. Not as bad as "cancer," the thing that was whispered with darting eyes and a hiss that made it sound almost dirty. Bad enough, though, that it was probably a good thing he wasn't around a lot on those Saturday nights when my elegant mother teased her guests' palates with pounds of the most delicious shrimp I have ever tasted while she slaved in the kitchen, closely monitoring a Corningware baking dish filled with chicken breasts drowned in Campbell's cream of mushroom soup. The digestive disconnect might have killed him.

My nineteen year old daughter and I went to see Beautiful yesterday. Tapestry was the album of my formative decade, debuting when I entered junior high and spinning right along with me all the way through college. I wondered whether my daughter would appreciate the music, the deeply personal lyrics and the piercing melodies of my youth, the story sung by the quintessential hippie chick pictured on the album cover. I wondered, too, whether the show could really be as good as everyone has claimed, and whether I should have saved some money and just dug up my old album collection, plugged in my son's vintage turntable, closed my eyes and let time stand still.

When the crowd cheered for the young woman cast as Carole King as she appeared on the stage for the grand finale, her long wavy hair draped over the shoulders of a long, peasant style dress, I thought about Jerry and time standing still and the tricks our minds play. For a moment, I think we all made the mistake of thinking it was Carole, the real Carole, And if the real, 72 year old had appeared, I think we would have believed she was thirty. The tapestry she wove and shared, all those years ago, is timeless.

The notes of Tapestry, the song, were played in short bursts throughout, but the lyrics were never sung. The omission surprised me, even disappointed me a bit. But when I woke this morning, those were the lyrics running in a continuous loop through my head, rich and royal, everlasting. A feeling, intangible, "impossible to hold."

It was wonderful to see and feel and hear, with my daughter, the story of an extraordinary young woman who came of age at a tumultuous time, a time more innocent than but not unlike the present, in many ways. I can't help but wonder what her tapestry looks like now, several lifetimes later. Larger and older, perhaps, but still rich and royal. Timeless.

A Galaxy Far Far Away

New Year's Eve, 1977. Times Square. Star Wars. With whatsisname.

The movie, for me, was little more than a welcome respite from the cold, two warm hours tucked between an outdoor, endless movie line and the crush, afterward, of shivering, drunk revelers waiting for the ball to drop. I thought the way the prologue scrolled into the far reaches of the galaxy was cool. I thought Princess Leia's side buns were adorable, in an odd sort of way. I thought anthropomorphic robots were a tad unrealistic, and I thought the Darth Vader thing was a bit over the top. I know I didn't really follow the plot, because years later I had no idea which Empire was striking back or why we cared about the Jedi returning. I didn't even know they had left.

I don't remember whatsisname's name but I remember he was nice and had come prepared with a bottle of cheap champagne and a couple of plastic flutes. Once, back at school, he had called the local radio station and dedicated RubyTuesday to me, just because he knew I liked it. And he tried to teach me to ski somewhere in New Jersey. I really wish I could remember his name.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, a memorable New Year's Eve with decidedly unmemorable details. Yesterday, about a week shy of thirty-nine years later, I sat between my son and my youngest daughter and saw the latest Star Wars flick. I was determined, this time, to follow the story. My son gave me a brief tutorial on the way, and there was at least the benefit of familiarity on this second go-round. A somewhat helpful prologue scrolled into the far reaches of the galaxy, and it still seemed cool. Harrison Ford, even thirty-nine years later, caught my attention. I'd get lost in space with him any time. Carrie Fisher, well, at least she saved face with a single dignified cinnamon bun at the nape of her neck. I got the feeling she would have happily accepted more than the chaste hug from Harrison, but that's all he offered. Even when she said she loved him. Cad.

Thanks to El Niño, this winter is warmer. It would have been a better year, I think, to celebrate the New Year outside, at Times Square. Or to stand in an endless line snaking around a city block just to see a movie I can't grasp. I enjoyed it more this time, though, sitting between two of my children. No offense to old whatsisname or the original flick. As I have from the time they were little, I would glance at their faces when something struck me as funny, or surprising, or, more often than not, ridiculous. It's always better seeing things with them, through their eyes.

Welcome back Jedi, and droids, and aging princesses and ageless heroes and assorted other motley creatures. Welcome back memories of years gone by and people who somehow stick in my mind though I cannot recall their names. And welcome home, albeit briefly, to my children from galaxies far, and sometimes farther away, and thanks to them for the occasional fresh glimpse at the world, shared through their eyes.

Playing Crap in Vegas

Had it not been for an eleventh hour "happy anniversary on your divorce wish" from a close friend, the occasion would have passed unnoticed, at least by me. Oddly, I kept thinking the date -- which is conspicuous by virtue of an unlikely symmetry of numbers --  rang a bell, but I could not for the life of me figure out why. Solid evidence of life moving in a good direction despite a deteriorating brain. Youth may be wasted on the young, but happiness is never wasted, no matter how thick the fog.

Though my memory may appear to have become selective, I am fairly certain that neither one of us has actually forgotten the occasional misery of our less than ideal marriage or the relentless torture of our drawn out divorce. It's just that the animosity no longer serves a purpose, especially now that the lawyers have been paid. With precious little opportunity these days to piss each other off, our relationship is not unpleasant. Our children have progressed from being bothered by our amicability to simply not being amused by it. Given that they were never amused by us -- either singly or together, at least not in an "I'm laughing with you" kind of way -- this is good.  Maybe as good as it will ever get, but I'll take it.

As apolitical as I am inclined to be -- being on different sides of the aisle did not factor into the break-up of our marriage, except maybe when I accused him of being a bit stodgy -- I could not wait to watch the final Republican debate last night. Animosity may not serve a purpose in my own life, but it sure is entertaining. As the candidates filed onto the stage, it seemed an SNL skit in the making, really writing itself. I mused about costume design and captions. Ben Carson, retired neurosurgeon, a stethoscope dangling in front of his decidedly un-party-like blue tie; Chris Christie, former federal prosecutor, pizza stains dotting his shirt; Carly Fiorina, dragon lady CEO, holding a puppy. And maybe squeezing it a bit too tightly when Chris Christie talked about moms at the bus stop and dads at work. Seriously? Donald Trump. Always in costume.

Yes, animosity is entertaining, but it certainly doesn't seem to serve much of a purpose. Why can't they all just get along, like me and my ex? My take on the whole thing -- and this is coming from a place of embarrassing political ignorance -- is that the Republicans have finally figured out that being divided means being conquered, so they decided to pair up and battle each other in twos in an effort to at least cut the field by half. Sure, Carly seems smart, but she's just downright scary and unlikeable (not just a bitch but a skinny bitch) and, therefore, irrelevant, so she was nominated to be the "why can't we all just get along" ambassador. The one to remind everyone that the enemies are Obama and Hillary, and if the Republicans all waste time ganging up on the buffoonish Trump that still leaves a gang of eight front runners to divide the shrinking pie. Jeb got the Don, Rubio got Cruz, and Paul took on Christie. John Kasich and Ben Carson, well, they both seem nice.

There are plenty of wishy washy Hillary lovers out there (although, to her credit, at least she's not a skinny bitch), and let's face it, desperate times call for desperate measures. In the months to come, I can only hope politics will indeed make some strange bedfellows, and unlikely but productive alliances will arise out of the muck.

Gosh, with all this bickering, it almost makes divorce look tame. Terrorists and like minded folks notwithstanding, one of the things that makes us distinctly human is our will to survive.  Maybe a few handshakes across the aisle will help us.

Guns and Poses

In two weeks, all of my children will be together, in one zip code — mine, no less — for the first time in what seems like forever. Knowing any attempt at resistance will be futile, they will grudgingly appease me and pose for a picture.

Their exasperation will be a well kept secret among us, a secret I will easily forget as soon as the moment is captured and permanently transferred from the present to a nostalgia-worthy past. The picture will tell the story as I would write it — a whole rendered far happier, by virtue of togetherness, than the sum of its not, by any means, unhappy parts.

If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it make a sound? Is happiness real unless it is posted on some form of social media for all to see? Does the extent of the happiness depend on the number of “likes?”

I’ll be the first to admit I am and have long been a bit ambivalent and, worse still, hypocritical about social media. I resisted it at first, wondering why anyone is interested in what anyone else happens to be thinking or doing at any particular moment. If I cared, I would ask, and even then, I generally do so only to be polite.

I resisted also as a matter of principle, appalled by all the fake (I assumed, because I’m a bit nasty) smiles and the manipulated depictions of life. I held myself above it all, until I succumbed to reality, the reality that I was wildly envious of all these permanently happy people populating my news feed. Could the grass really be so much greener on the other side of all my fences? Months passed, still no evidence of misery. There was nothing else to do but jump on board.

I have done my share of posting pictures that nobody in their right mind should give a shit about, announcing to the world that I am a perfect mom or sister or daughter or a perfect friend or a perfect dog owner and that it is virtually impossible to be in my presence without smiling. I haven’t just tallied the “likes;” I have checked my phone obsessively for the little red superscript telling me there might be another thumbs up. I have silently grieved when the notification is not, in fact, a “like,” but a reminder about a birthday for someone I barely even know.

Other than posting a link to my blog each time I write one, I have steered clear of using Facebook as a forum for debate, whether civilized or not so much. I have not judged those who use it as a soapbox, as posting a link to my innermost and highly irrelevant thoughts places me in a bit of a glass house.

But when I heard, the other day, that the young mother who murdered more than a dozen innocent people before turning her six month old baby into an orphan had just posted her allegiance to ISIS on Facebook, I began to rethink the weird questions. Like the one about the tree in the forest or the one about true happiness being a warm “like.” Like the one about whether crazy talk inspires otherwise sane people to do crazy things — I still believe the answer to that one is “no.”

Like the one about whether guns kill people or people kill people. I suppose it's only a matter of time -- smart guns with smart triggers will be commonplace in the arsenal of smart weapons, and there'll be an ammo app in our smart phones that will enable us to spew bullets along with our rants. For now, though, as far as I know, it still takes two to tango.

Just hours after my daughter and I discussed whether Facebook has outlived its usefulness, whether the viciousness and the hostility has finally made the silly attention-seeking even sillier, a good friend who has tended toward the soapbox announced, eloquently and at length, that he was done. Done with saying things he would not say in person, done arguing with people he doesn’t know, people with whom he would never, not on the coldest day in Hell, achieve any sort of meeting of minds. Done stirring the pot on such a broad and, apparently, incendiary scale.

As a writer, or aspiring writer, can I truly be expressing my thoughts if nobody reads it? Of course. Will I still hope that I get a bit of an audience and an occasional “atta girl?” Of course. Will I take a stand and shut down my Facebook page? Not yet.

And will I post the picture I intend to take in two weeks, the one in which my kids and I and even the dog all pose as the happiest beings on earth, happier still to be basking in the glow of one another. Of course!Even if nobody “likes” it.