Drunk Octopus

This is why I know we're all going to be okay. This very thing is evidence to me that we're going to weather whatever comes our way-- Armageddon, big brother, or slow and sloppy self-induced decay-- we are going to make it though to the other side. Why am I so sure? Because a drunk octopus wants to fight me.

The way I look at it, this kid didn't just look at a coat hook and see an octopus, she saw an octopus with his dukes up. (I'm deciding the mind in this case belongs to a female because it's something I would have done had I thought of it-- were I a steely-minded genius-- alas.) And she didn't just see an octopus itching for a fight, she saw nuance. She saw that the octopus isn't just hopping mad with crossed out eyes, but is also wasted, which anyone can plainly see because his eyeballs are askew.

That is what I find so extraordinary. We didn't see it plainly and she did. I've been looking at coat hooks my entire life and never saw what she did. I'm sure there are scads of industrial designers, architects, scientists and comedy writers who've been looking at coat hooks their entire lives, too, and never for a moment saw what she saw. But she did. And then she did something about it. Did she tell a friend? Did she write a note? No she bucked authority and proclaimed it in sharpie, there for all the world to see. She had a brilliant thought then made a mark and stood her ground. I want to kiss her. I want to hire her. I want her to rule my world.

She's got the combination of what I revere most in any person; imagination, a sense of humor and moxie. One's of little use without the other and to have all three will get you far. Well, maybe not far in our society, but far in her heart, I hope, and far in mine. Yes, she's a little impertinent to be sure, but so were Einstein, Julia Child and Joan Jett. As long as minds such as hers keep seeing things that no one else can see and inventing creepy vacuum cleaners that vaporize dirt into nothingness and hum-a-little-tune apps for cameras that are phones, hilarious websites like “Regretsy” and goofy noses on the sides of paper cups, we will have the necessary tools to get by and perhaps, yes, even thrive.

Because of all the joy that keeps coming my way like an IV drip—just enough to keep me going-- in bits and pieces and tiny morsels, I can’t fight you Drunk Octopus, even though I see that you’re hopping mad and at any given moment could surely come up with plenty of reasons to take you on. But I won’t, because I see your pain and in yours I recognize mine. Plus, I don’t want you throwing up on me. So, sleep it off, Drunk Octopus, and in the morning I’ll make you some eggs.

Sip & Stroll

The thing about buying a house is it's a crap shoot. You can look up the taxes and ask the realtor about the schools, you can eyeball the neighborhood-- scouting for bicycles and basketball hoops-- and make note of the grocery stores. (Sidenote: I once met a couple who said they chose Maplewood by taking the train out to various towns within a certain radius of Manhattan and the counted how many SUVs were in the parking lot.) So people choose Maplewood/South Orange for particular reasons and then cross their fingers, hoping for the best. We did that, too, my ex and I.

We bought the very first house we looked at, the only one we ever walked into. I fell in love with the arched doorways and the breakfast nook so we put a bid on it and eight days later, owned it. Within weeks we were friendly with our neighbors and within months knew most of the folks on the block. A year later we were gathering on random Fridays for BYO cocktails to unwind together and let the kids run around. A different family spontaneously offered up their back yard to host each month and, tah-dah, Blocktails was born. An eloop was formalized, a sign-up schedule was set and before long all the kids on the block were familiar with each others' play sets and sandboxes, basements and bathrooms. We were borrowing hedge clippers, recommending dentists and unintentionally creating a neighborhood vibe usually only dreamed of, or contrived for television sit-coms. But ours was authentic-- and as it turns out pretty common for Maplewood/South Orange-- and we grew to appreciate it's value.

One year around the holidays, we laughed with neighbors about decorating our entire house with no one scheduled to see it. We weren't hosting and neither were they so we decided to have a little dinner-crawl one night-- with a different course at each of our homes-- so that we could gaze at each other’s trees and validate all the exhaustive trimming. It was a rousing success, and before we knew it, other families wanted in on the action so the Holiday Sip & Stroll was born.

Eight years later, we've tweaked and finessed the Sip & Stroll to what it is today: an adults-only tour-de-force of punch bowls and hors d'eouvres-- we decided that dinner was for sissies and that heavy hors d’oeuvres would suffice-- culminating in an orgy of desserts and kitchen dancing. It kicks off the holiday season and sets the tone, or in some cases, the bar for other parties to come and for those of us not working in a company milieu, it's the one holiday party we can count on to attend or host if we chose at less than outrageous expense.

Babysitters firmly in place, we meet at the first house at 6pm for 2-3 hors d'oeuvres, beer and wine, etc. and usually a specialty drink of the host's choosing. The lights have been dimmed and the dress code runs the gamut from sequins to blue jeans so that no one feels over or under dressed. We greet each other as we unwind, with genuine hugs and lipsticked kisses. We drink our cocktails and pop canapes in our mouths for forty-five minutes then an old hand bell is rung and we throw on our coats and head out the door, thirty five or so of us meandering to the next house in winter's beautiful, brisk night. We do this four times until we reach the fifth house, where dessert and coffee is served and if the party is going to devolve into a bacchanalian free-for-all, it's usually here and now that it happens. I'm not saying that every year someone attempts the running lift in the last scene of "Dirty Dancing," but I'm not guaranteeing it won't happen either. Suffice it to say, a merry time is there for the taking.

This year was very merry. Some say we may have needed more cheese and/or bread based fabulous fifties hors d'oeuvres. Others hypothesize that it may have been due to the gaily colored leis passed out at the first-ever Hawaiian themed stop. We had been so well behaved at the first two stops but when "Mele Kalikimaka" came on we carved out a dance floor next to the dining room. Some were nudged towards the chicken satay while others gravitated towards the umbrella'd Mai Tais which may have accounted for why the dancing continued at the fourth stop where someone hi-jacked the ipod dock and replaced refined Christmas music with The Pogues. We bounced around their living room like erstwhile ska enthusiasts as table lamps were clicked off and the music was turned up. When the bell finally rang, we danced out the door to the fifth and final stop, taking with us the punch bowl of Mai-Tai dregs that we had no-so-stealthily absconded with from the third stop.

Fully in party mode, we continued where we left off, barely noticing the change of venue or feeling the sobering effects of the evening's crisp, brittle air circulating through our lungs now weak with laughter. We continued to talk, eat, dance and laugh into the wee hours, putting any garden variety five-hour wedding reception to shame. We caught up with old neighbors and introduced ourselves to new, then considered what they might be thinking of our jolly band of revelers and if they would wonder later on if they'd made a huge mistake by buying their house or had happened upon their shangri-la. I slipped into bed full of gratitude that I landed on this block where some are willing to dance while others prefer to chat, but everyone's happy to be there and everyone's got your back.

Grad School Daze

As my grad school semester draws to a close I thought I'd share a few fun facts with you about going back to school as a seasoned adult. The changes have been chuckle-worthy and pronounced, and I'm sure I've grown in myriad of ways, I just can't quite put my finger on how, but I'll let you know when it comes to me. Then I'll write a paper about it for you, double-spaced with one-inch margins and a cover sheet.

First up is the freedom of not caring what any of my classmates think of my hair, shoes, outfit or personal hygiene. Saves a big chunk of time getting ready for class that I can then re-allot to skimming the text book chapters that I didn't quite get a chance to finish because "Glee" was on. Or "30 Rock," or "Madmen." Or "Community," which, let's face it, is like a busman's holiday for me these days. And if you're wondering why I didn't do the reading earlier in the week it's because I learned back in September that if I do the reading too far in advance, I forget what I've read by the time class rolls around. So I need to read closer to class time which suggests that I'm still the student I was all those years ago, behind in my reading but happy to participate in class and too naive to know that the combination of the two only serves to point out to anyone not texting during class that I might not have finished the reading.

On the subject of texting, big purses are key in this day and age. The big purse sits on the front edge of the desk and acts as shield to the manic texting that's going on all throughout the lecture. If I were teaching I would have a "No Purses/Bags/Backpacks On Desk" Rule and I would be loathed throughout the land. But I'm not the teacher, I'm the near-model grad student who sits in the front of the class and listens with rapt attention, hoping to regurgitate something that I learned in the last week, raise my steady hand and be able to articulate my thoughts without sounding like a complete ninny. Which, as it turns out, is a struggle.

Other struggles include navigating the APA format for bibliographies and footnotes-- as dreaded now as they were then--, finding my classroom in the poorly marked labyrinth of identical Terry Gilliam-like hallways and remembering where I parked my car. The last two I was convinced would become easier as the semester wore on and I became comfortable in my surroundings, but no. Around and around I still go, hoping to recognize a classmate if I just keep circling, afraid to leave to use the ladies room for fear of being unable to retrace my steps. The parking garage offers no solace. With each successive week, the various parking numbered decks and spots I parked my car in have blurred together and I'm left wondering if twenty-four-year-olds have the same memory retention challenges. They probably program their parking spots into their phones. Or just plain remember. Rotten kids.

Not having the time or desire to make new girlfriends or flirt with guys has also freed up exorbitant swaths of time that can now be assigned to actual learning. It boggles the mind to think about how much more I might have retained from high school and college if negotiating personal relationships had been cut out of the class time equation. No notes to read, write or pass and no furtive glances of longing or heartbreak. Just nose to the grindstone and honest hard work-- as if I were a National Merit Scholar. Or foreign student.

And not for lack of opportunity. I'm bombarded daily with university emails alerting me to new viruses, game schedules and campus traffic patters. I've been invited to the LGBT Alliance's self defense workshop-- now open to friends--, ballroom dancing and power yoga the morning after the midnight breakfast. I passed up the chance to build and airbrush a homecoming float and take part in the Women's Health Clinic symposium on what every woman should have in her tool belt. I could have listened to NJ superior court judges wax about the constitution or played badminton or cornhole with the extra-curricular folks. When I emailed to inquire about the nature of cornhole, I was congratulated for asking, before being told that it was another name for bean bag toss.

I'll admit I take better care of myself now than I did then. As everyone else gnaws on a breakfast bar or drinks a diet coke for dinner before our 8pm class, I eat a chicken pesto wrap with a side of dried apricots and almonds. I've had perfect attendance and have handed in all my papers electronically and on time to excellent marks. I've learned that you can rent your books from the bookstore and that teachers no longer pass out hand-outs in class, but you have to go online and print the hand-out yourself and bring it to class-- before the first day of class! I've learned that no one says, "Whadja get, whadja get?" when papers are handed back and I've learned the hard way how to manage my time. Even worse, I've learned that I haven't changed that much since college and still start my papers at the last minute and will do pretty much anything to procrastinate working on them-- for instance, hypothetically, writing this column.

I look at all the shiny-skinned cherubs in snug jeans and Ugg boots and think about how simple life must be for them with only a single load of laundry to do and dorm room to keep neat. Then I think about the email I once received inviting me to "Join Chef Stanley in the Cafeteria" where he will teach you "4 Ways to Make Top Ramen Noodles" and I am glad to be where I am and proud of how far I've come, but I'm sorry to have missed meeting Chef Stanley. He might have helped me find my car.

High Infidelity

My girlfriend was telling me a story over the weekend about a friend of hers who was awoken at 5:30am by her husband of 26 years. His bags were packed, he told her; he'd rented an apartment and retained an attorney. I pictured her looking at the clock on her bedside table, maybe even groping for her glasses in an effort to put this new information into perspective, as if knowing the time might soften the blow. Maybe without her glasses on she hadn't heard him correctly. She probably said, "What?" even though she'd heard him just fine. Her head might have started to swirl, she might have even thrown up. But was this really brand new information? They'd been to counseling; their desires coaxed from them aloud. Was she really surprised or just shocked? I believe there's a subtle distinction between the two and that you can be one and not the other. Perhaps in her case the distinction didn't matter.

I asked my friend, "What's her name?" as a stab at injecting humor into the story. She knew I meant The Other Woman. But my friend said nothing as she raised her eyebrows, chin down and cocked her head at a knowing angle. Neither of us had to say that I'd hit the nail on the head. It's a story so old, so cliched that it barely merits re-telling. And yet, we tell it and listen to it over and over again without tiring. Maybe because we haven't gotten it into our thick heads. Maybe it's because we're guilty. Men want to have sex. Some more than others, but they do and that's just a fact. They want to see and touch your boobies and butt, and feel your warm, naked skin against theirs. And that's one of the main reasons they married you. Not the only reason, but certainly one of the top three. So, you can cook, clean and keep house for your husband, you can make him proud and impress his friends with your career, you can raise his children to be masters of the universe and you can listen to your husband and support him 'til you're blue in the face, but if you're not putting out, he's going to go elsewhere. It's that simple, and yet.

My friend leaned forward a bit and looked right at me as she continued, "She said that he told her that she just didn't understand him anymore, and you know when a man says that, it's usually because there's someone else who does." Bingo. Scene. Fin.

Since divorcing I've become fascinated with marriage. Why do some marriages thrive while others falter? What's the secret; what's the catch? I'm starting to think it's sex. So, I've been asking around. Turns out, yep, it is.

I could stop right there because it's really that simple and yes, Virginia, that's all there is to it, but there's more. The sex has to be good. And what makes it good for the man? The woman has to enjoy it and want it almost as often as the man. There are other factors like temperament, rhythm, proclivity and fit. And there is wiggle room in the realm of timing, taste, aural accompaniment and creativity. But it has to occur and it has to occur often.

As the saying goes, adults are just children with money. And if we continue along that trajectory, children are just golden retrievers walking upright. And dogs are really just simpletons; poofs of fur who's only desire is to eat, sleep, wrestle and be scratched. The rest is ancillary fluff. Men fit in there somewhere between children and dogs. The most educated, well-read and well-traveled man will tell you he hungers for sex, and he'll prove it to you any way he can if you don't quench that desire yourself. I see women forgetting that and I see them reminded in sad and painful ways. Every time you hear or read that a man has to desire his wife, remember, she has to want him right back as voraciously. Or else, as the years pass and her agenda is fulfilled and his physique fails to dazzle, her desire for him will wane. And he'll sense it; he'll know.

So I thought about that woman as she watched her husband walk out their bedroom door. There was nothing left to say in that moment and her main focus was probably containing the heart that was hurling itself against the cage of her chest or making just enough room for air to pass by the heaving sobs that were choking her breath. Or perhaps she just sat there, numb, wishing she had found him more attractive, regretting that his intelligence, confidence or bank account didn't translate into a log-lived hungering for his body. Wishing he'd kept more of his hair, or at least that extra thirty pounds off his girth. She knew she didn't crave him and had known it for some time. You can't fake good sex forever. She knew now that it's as important for the woman to desire her husband and didn't really blame him for leaving. She knew good sex and a lingering desire was and would always be imperative for the woman as much as the man to nurture a healthy relationship-- to survive the tempest of new passion-- and wished someone had told her that twenty-six years ago.

Touch Points

When they slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, scooted away
To the outskirts, precipice
The edge, her mad desires at bay

As he slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, she listened in
To his breathing, watched his lids
Her room too quiet, skin too thin

In his sleep, he stretched out towards her
Seismic shift, or subtle ebb
Til’ his skin, a speck, mere dot of it
Threatened them, their rift, their web

Instead of sleeping, she slipped down to
Where they touched, two points, pin heads
There, the channel, bridged, connected
Kept them flowing, inward led

There she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t
In her bed, her mind, her hair
But all that mighty light and energy
Couldn’t save her darkened lair

Those two points, those dots kept her awake
Til the window broke the shell
Of their delusion, his exclusion
Their separate-but-equal private hells

Once awake the points no longer touched
Bridge was broken, dots dissolved
He got up, got dressed and left her
Goddess of sunny, morning resolve

Neither point could know it was the last
Time they’d touch in just that way
Neither dot could see it coming
No time to ask its friend to stay

Sometimes things, they end with a mere nod
Foreshadowing readily ignored
Sometimes points that touched, that’s all they get
Now they’ll long, having once adored.

Mischief Night

Once upon a time, the second most thrilling night of the year was the night before Halloween. It was recognized by parents and notoriously acknowledged in schools. It had it’s own code and mystique and was as culturally relevant as it was regionally unique. It was called, “Mischief Night,” and we lived for it.

The name alone should give you a clue as to the origins of this All Hallows’ Eve eve. It wasn’t called Terror Night of the Damned or License to Destroy Everything in Sight Night. Back in the eighties it was still aptly named so like lovable movie gremlins, we brain-stormed, strategized, and carried out a single night-- of mischief.

Like it’s well-behaved sibling, Halloween, planning for Mischief Night began many weeks in advance. Tossing around ideas for pranks began concurrently with costume suggestions back in early October, but with one major difference: we didn’t discuss Mischief Night with our parents. No siree, this was our holiday, and we united as one against the whole town, independent of parental supervision or control, left to our own devices and, more importantly, consciences.

My rural New Jersey town, mind you, was small; Mark Twain small. It was three blocks wide and two blocks long and had train tracks that ran along the edge of town with a little used train yard perpetually checkered with rain puddles and a corn field just on the other side. We used one of the vacant railroad cars as our command center and from there, planned every day after school for our mission with the zeal and focus of a Marine task force.

There was so much pre-production and mischief execution to design and stage that every voice counted and I felt part of an exciting underground movement. There were at least four of us—perhaps as many as seven—ranging between the second and fifth grades. There was probably a leader, and various consigliere and lower ranking commanders but it’s foggy. I was only in third grade, so I probably followed orders.

The first phase of our operation prep was to gather resources. If each of us could pilfer between one and two bars of soap from under our bathroom sinks between now and Mischief Night we’d be in good shape. Same went for toilet paper, but we’d need to get at least three rolls each to really make a statement, so better start squirreling them away now. Of course, we’d need to hide our supplies where our moms would never find them. Someone suggested under our beds and we all heartily concurred. They’d never look there.

The corn shucking wasn’t my idea. I’d moved to town late in kindergarten and wasn’t wise to its ways like the other kids who’d grown up there, but I liked the concept. First we crossed the tracks, slipped under the fence and stole a few ears of corn-- okay, more like fourteen. Then we sat for hours discussing the order of which houses to hit with brown supermarket paper bags between our legs as we shucked the hardened multi-colored kernels off the cobs by rubbing the base of our palms back and forth till they were red and tingly.

All that was left to do now was make sure our blackest clothes were washed and ready to wear and wait. We busied ourselves with Halloween costume preparations and when asked by adults about our plans for Mischief Night we always demurred as if we hadn’t given it a thought. But it’s all we thought about and for the final few weeks, kids all over town had to be very well behaved in fear of being grounded on Mischief Night. When someone was grounded, the bleak news spread like wildfire and heads hung low in commiseration.

On the big night I let down my cool exterior long enough to ask my parents for permission to stay out later than usual. They knew what was up and asked me if I had everything I needed as I headed towards the front door dressed in my darkest dungarees, carrying a bulky pillowcase filled with “nuthin.” Mom slipped me an extra bar of soap as she reminded me that my curfew was 9pm and not a minute later. Then off I went—an eight year old with no chaperone— into the night to join a scrappy band of up-to-no-good elementary school hoodlums, giddy with excitement; over-the-moon with anticipation.

Our targets were neighbors and friends whom we knew wouldn’t get mad, and a few notorious curmudgeons whom we hoped would. We soaped their car windows and rang doorbells and ran. Then we threw fistfuls of corn kernels against windows lit by flickering televisions. The sound created a rat-a-tat racket and we giggled and squealed as we dove behind bushes to the sound of front doors opening on interrupted programs and empty threats.

The true pièce de résistance was the toilet papering of trees. The act itself took the patience and dedication of an artist combined with the depth perception, strength and accuracy of an athlete. The bigger kids hurled rolls of toilet paper up towards the branches of trees, careful to leave long tails trailing behind. The littler kids scrambled to pick up the rolls as they bobbled and fell through the branches to the ground then handed them off to the throwers to repeat this feat again and again until every tree had been transformed into an ethereal weeping willow. Long, white, toilet paper trails flowed like ghostly ballet dancers’ arms back and forth in the night breeze and our little town looked at once eerie, festive and magical.

Then it was curfew and time for bed. In the morning, porches would have to be swept and cars would have to be washed, but that was about the extent of the fall out. The trees, however, would be a reminder of how a band of kids from all different grades could come together with a common goal; to design, manage and execute the transformation of a town-- astoundingly, while working independently of adults. The trees lent our street an air of mystery and beauty until a big rainstorm would come inevitably and washed it all away. Until then, we smiled proudly as we passed under them on our walk to school. The trees, for the moment, were ours.

Ode to Cursive

My first night of graduate school classes went pretty smoothly until a bunch of us were chosen to write our thoughts up on the board. Happy to oblige, I hopped up, grabbed the dry erase marker, and scribbled away with confidence. The first to sit back down, I scanned the long expanse of white board before me. Each student was writing her answer in a clear and bubbly printed hand. I had reflexively, and perhaps mistakenly, written mine in cursive. It was speedy and looked lovely, but it was in script. Could my classmates decipher this strange code? Would my professor think it was Cyrillic?

Weeks before a friend had challenged me to come up with an argument for keeping cursive taught in schools. He’s among an increasing group of cursive detractors who think it’s a waste of valuable time. I was shocked and heartbroken but supposed I could see his argument. Like so many of the seemingly irrefutable bedrocks of my life thus far (cobblers, record stores, The New York Times, books) cursive was ebbing at a maddening pace. As I began my rebuttal, he cut me off at the knees saying, “And you can’t use speed or aesthetics.”

The most rational argument I could come up with was that all Americans should be able to read the Declaration of Independence in its original hand. A bit dry, I know, and flag-waving to be sure, but that was all I could muster at the time. Later on, while putting my favorite brand of black ink pen to a sheet of specially chosen stationery to write a thank-you note, I had another thought. As I wrote in fluid script I focused on the act of joining letters together without lifting my pen from the paper. I paid attention to the experience and how it felt. I thought about a tennis player’s serve and a pitcher’s seamless pitch. I pictured the visual legato of the pole-vaulter’s flight, the painter’s brushstroke and cellist’s steady bow. I considered how they all relied on interconnected movements, whole unto themselves; streams of energy which course through the body then release in a smooth, unbroken flow.

Then I thought of printing and of the resulting block letters that tell a different story entirely; have a different relationship to the body and its noble staccato slog towards communication. I have nothing against printing’s pursuits. Where would we be without our ability to tourniquet our energy then let it out, piecemeal, in short steady bursts; to chop vegetables or jump rope; to clap or strike keys? The tennis player needs his net game as much as a toddler needs to whack at trees with a stick. But baking and cooking can’t happen without kneading and stirring. And if you’ve ever surfed the wind with your hand out the car window during an afternoon’s autumn drive then you might agree that flow is imperative to our human nature’s ability to release the energy that manifests joy. Just ask any baseball player. Or dancer. Or kid.

So, can’t we hang on to both? I relish bouncing off the walls to The Ramones as much as gliding across the floor to Tommy Dorsey. There is a time and place for a lingering kiss just as there is for a quick, friendly peck. Imagine if we had to choose only one. My argument for cursive is simple yet elusive; it’s unquantifiable and can’t be market tested. It goes against the monolith of rational thought and calls upon the ocean’s tides, calligraphy and Bach. My argument for cursive is one of the tenets of human expression. My argument for cursive is flow.

Back to School

My son and I start school on the same day. He’s seven and pretty laissez-faire about the whole thing. Me? I’m a wreck; thank you for asking. First of all, it’s been a while since I was in school (if your definition of “a while” is sixteen years, then we’re in business. Then if you add the four years in college that I didn’t take any math classes because I went to an “arts” school, well, you figure it out.) I was perfectly fine until my sister asked if I would be bringing a spiral notebook and pen to my first night of classes for note taking. Well, yeah, duh, what else would I—oh, right, a laptop. Wups.

So now I’m in panic mode. What else will I learn the hard way? That they’ve done away with desks? That graduate school is now conducted on yoga mats and professors twitter their lessons to a room full of students wearing ear buds? Will I be the only person facing the teacher and do they still raise hands? I’m only half joking.

To add insult to injury, I am concurrently studying to take the GRE test. You’re thinking to yourself, “But you must have taken the GRE ages ago, didn’t you?” Now, why would someone-- whom on her graduation day, threw her mortarboard into the air with the greatest abandon because she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she would never step foot in a classroom again as long as she lived-- have taken the GRE test? Well, I’m taking it now.

Why? Because I need to pass it in order to transfer my pre-admit earned credits towards my masters degree. Why? Because I need a masters degree to get the job that will jump start the first day of the rest of my life in my brand new career. Why? Because I can’t return to my former career because I was out of that particular industry for too long and there’s no going back there, trust me. Why? Because I chose to stay home and raise my son and now I’m divorced and missed the career juggernaut that was my supposed destiny and—let’s be honest—alimony is a much shorter stick than it used to be in the good ole days and the judge told me to git back to work. It’s as clichéd a story as the day is long. And now it’s my reality. Say, “Cheese.” Here’s your new student ID.

At graduate school orientation, my fellow incoming classmates and I were treated to four hours of back-to-back seminars on everything from how to use the library (things have, um, changed) to campus health services (cool. free stuff.) The campus shrink did a little twenty-five minute stand-up routine on how to relieve the pressures of balancing one’s current adult life with the coming demands of our scholastic workload. I listened, smugly, thinking that this was one area that I had nailed down. Time management? Bring it. Multi-tasking? Feh. I can multi-task with both hands tied behind my back.

Then she asked the auditorium full of three hundred or so students-- dragooned to be there on one of the last gorgeous, sunny Saturdays of the summer-- for a show of hands as to how many students graduated in June. Thirty or so hands went up. Then she asked, “How many people haven’t been to school in two to four years?” More hands. “And now,” she continued, slowing down, her voice laced with a circus side-show drum roll, “how many of you haven’t been to school in five to eight years?” My smugness let out a whimper.

I watched as people swiveled around in their seats to catch glimpses of the poor saps who hadn’t used vast portions of their algebra-computing, paper-writing, homework-doing, pop-quiz-taking minds in eons. But no one looked at me because she’d stopped at eight years and so I never got to raise my hand. I thought of hopping up onto my chair, waving and shouting, “Hey, Lady! Keep going!” but decided against it.

When I returned home, deflated, crestfallen and certain there was no way I was going to get through this, there was already an email in my inbox from the graduate school head of campus activities. Seems I’d been invited to try out for the cheerleading team. Excellent. Things were looking up.

Mister Lobster Man

My mom said, "Honey would you mind,
run and errand for me, would you be so kind?"
We'll need a coupla lobsters to fill the pot
'Cause butter, bread and Jersey corn is all we got.

So I grabbed my keys and got into my car,
Drove to Point Lobster, didn't have to go far
I couldn't decline, although I was kinda busy
Thank goodness I din't, 'cause what I saw made me dizzy

*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Lobster Man,
If you can't do it no one can
Haul those overalls over here
I'll drop my guard if you drop your gear

The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***

He had to work, no, he just couldn’t leave
So I paid him and left and I must say I grieved
Driving home I fantasized about what might have been,
Dropped the lobsters off with Mom and then went for a swim

There up at the beach on the lifeguard stand,
Sat a dazzling, tanned specimen of a man
A wave sent kids squealing which made him smile
My ‘magination had me reeling, so I said with some guile

*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Lifeguard Guy,
Please don’t think me crazy, I’m really quite shy
I hope that what I have to say won’t make you bristle
Just jump down off your chair and put down that whistle

The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***

His shift wasn’t over, he graciously tried to tell me
Something about keeping watch over all the swimmers’ safety
But I had stopped listening, was looking past his shoulders
At the fella on the surfboard who seemed a little older

He paddled towards the break then stood up with such ease
He took the wave so easily, perhaps if I said please
He could teach me how to surf, he could give me a start
And I could ride a killer wave right into his heart

*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Surfer Dude,
I sure don’t mean to come off rude
But is there more to you than your board and this beach?
Come on, climb out of that ocean to within my reach

The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***

Mister Surfer Dude said he had no job
And he sure did like Jersey corn-on-the-cob,
So he picked up his board, all dripping wet
And he followed me home to his one sure bet

He said he liked lobster, was polite to my Mom
And after dinner helped us move a couch, he was so strong
We hugged and kissed right into the night
And then I looked at him in the full moon light (and thought)

*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Surfer Dude,
You sure are polite, not the least bit crude
And who’d have thought you’re a PHD
Teaching physics on sabbatical at MIT

The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Thanks for coming over to my place

Yeah, thanks for coming over to my place.
***

Still Smokes

She still smokes.
"All the best people do," Mom says
huddled together like anarchists
outside the party perimeter
before the big fight.

She says they're more interesting
her fellow counter-revolutionaries
steadfast to the death
which, incidentally, is more imminent
perhaps, than yours and mine.

"Don't worry about me,"
she says, "I'll live forever."
Then reminds me she's half Danish.
"We smoke into our nineties."
Which is true, except when it's not.

Down to one every hour and a half
down from two packs a day,
she notes the time like code
in tiny columns on a post-it note
in 2 point font, so she won't forget

Because she knows her memory is crap
like mine and my sisters'
we blame it on the tin foil
that wrapped our sandwiches
cut corner-to-corner all those years.

But she still does the Times crossword
every Sunday, knows the tricks.
"Where's my puzzle?"
she's been known to shout
before her coffee and voice have arrived.

She still buys waxed paper
and insists on twist-tie baggies
single-handedly supporting the industry
the last consumer hold out;
it's rogue.

She sneaks cigarettes to prisoners
who put up the tents
for the big bi-annual rummage sale
she's worked at for twenty-three years
as head of Household; it's leader.

She runs a tight ship
her systems have systems
from the department's wrapping station
to home hospital corners, she's defiant.
Everything has purpose.

So I kneel at the lower foot corner
of the bed, my elbow enveloped
by sheets that may be untucked
to be turned the right way, her way
we'll see. Time will tell.

I never smoked or drank coffee
so as to be nothing like her
and I'm a zip-lock girl and your bed is just fine
but I, too, like the anarchists
and crave purpose.

Delaware

Would you believe it if I told you that
I didn't truly sleep in the middle
until I was
legally divorced?

And I could lob myself into shoulders
for chemicals, inching a little,
but morning might be
painstaking and forced

***
Oh, I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face

And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
So, maybe I've returned to that place
***

No, we'll never know the royal we because
you'll never call and I won't either
and that's because
it's the right thing not to do.

But life is long and folks get hit by
pianos dropped, avoiding ether,
and change their minds
and hearts to name a few.

So cowboy up the herd's 'a running and
take no guff 'cause it takes cunning
and fortitude,
but I know you knew that.

With bass guitars and ballet dancers,
movie stars, I'll take no chances
until you ask me straight,
for less hat

And I'll tell you...

***
That I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face (It's my only face)

And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
It may be I'm already in that place

I think that I'm already in that place
***

D-Day

“I'm getting divorced tomorrow,” I said to a friend.
“What are you wearing?” she replied.

I had to laugh. I hadn't given it any thought, but I supposed the time would come when I would be standing in the doorway to my closet, scanning the possibilities, wondering what image to put forth. A slinky red dress and ankle strap heels? No. Ours wasn't about vengeance, but a fundamental discord in basic values, character and opinion as to what constitutes a marriage. And besides, at 8:30am on a Tuesday in Newark, who really wants to be teetering in heels at the metal detector? De trop. By the time one gets to the courthouse to sign a property settlement agreement and be formally declared divorced, trust me, there’s nothing left to prove. To anyone. I could wear a dark suit and Barbara Stanwick hat with a veil but it wasn't a sad day, entirely, either, so I decided I would dress confidently and with resolve for the courthouse. Whatever that looked like.

After three sessions of mediation following months and months of emails with my soon-to-be-ex, I'd finally come to the end of a two-year odyssey and arrived at the courthouse with only the dregs left to decide. I'd packed lightly, grabbing only a single Lego guy for comfort and strength, and ended up wearing warm, bright colors; a below-the-knee skirt and blouse of modest design. My future-former husband arrived focused and unshaven.

Our relations were strained-- it was an uncomfortable day for both of us-- but we handled the administrative loose ends with civility and purpose. Then, just like on TV, we stood up from opposite sides of the courtroom aisle and moved through a thigh-high, darkly varnished swinging gate, taking our seats at separate long tables in front of Judge Sarbito. A uniformed bailiff stood waiting down below him, as well a court secretary and a box of Kleenex. All the other cases had cleared out long ago; the judge had mercifully saved ours for last. Aside from my attorney-- my ex had fired his a few days before-- it was just our cozy little group. No friends, no family, just us. You could say it was the opposite of our big, festive wedding. You could say it was a lot of things.

Judge Sarbito was a calm, reasoned man with an excellent command of the room and a well-honed, dry sense of humor. I was glad he was assigned to us. He'd been a matrimonial judge for 21 years and had presided over 40,000 divorces. To say he'd seen it all was a vast understatement and I wished I could be seated next to him at a dinner party. He sat way above us, commanding us down below as would the captain of a whaling ship or a priest in a high pulpit. We sat-- unwise to speak unless spoken to-- and listened to his schpiel with the same rapt attention as we had our minister all those years ago. He asked us questions-- first my ex then me-- which we answered simply and with gravitas.

"Do you understand everything put forth in the undersigned agreement you've reached today?" the judge questioned.
"Yes," I said.
"And have you signed the agreement in question without duress or undue pressure from any third parties?"

Ha, I wanted to say. Undue pressure? You're joking, right? My life had been a daily pressure cooker for the better part of a year. Getting divorced had been like a part time freelance job with a nightmare boss-- some would counter that it's a full time job-- which was finally coming to an end. The emotional hailstorm had taken place two years before. This last year was just an extreme administrative time-suck and bureaucratic buzz-kill; one that marred nearly every day in some unforeseen way.

"Did you get married in a church wedding in October of 2000?" Judge Sarbito asked me first.
"Yes," I answered. My throat tightened. He turned to my ex and asked him the same.
"And your marriage produce one child?"
"Yes," I squeaked and reached for a tissue.

No one told me that he would bring up my wedding day or that this exchange would look, feel and sound so much like my marriage vows. I loved my wedding day; it was wonderful and fun. Why hadn’t I arranged to go dancing tonight? Because I didn’t know how I’d feel; still don’t. The judge continued, "Do you understand that this signed agreement is a legal contract recognized by the state and that it's binding forever?"

“Yes I do, your honor,” I said, mindful that I once believed my marriage vows to be binding forever. Tears swelled and I could feel my lips pursing. As long as I could keep my lips from parting, I still maintained some control. Why didn't I ask my mom to come with me today? Where is my Sex and the City gaggle of girlfriends, sitting two rows behind me; giving me the thumbs up whenever I turn around? There would be no champagne brunch, no towels with new monograms. This was a grave day; a lone warrior day. I had gone into this marriage surrounded by friends and family and I was going out very much alone.

But the symmetry was just. Marrying him was a decision I made on my own on the morning that he presented me with a ring, just he and I. He’d asked a simple question and I answered it without counsel. Then, seven years later, I began to ask myself a whole new set of questions. Then asked him the same questions, then answered them for myself. Our marriage was dissolved just shy of ten years and I wondered if the internal Q & A would end today. It felt like it already had. I knew deep down I’d done the right thing, and that that was all that mattered. The marriage was mourned before the divorce process began. Today was a bookend, a seal.

Judge Sarbito thanked us for reaching an agreement before our trial date. Then he pronounced us—by the power vested in him in the state of New Jersey—divorced. It was a truly surreal and singular moment, much like the moment I was pronounced married. But today I felt deeply saddened by the triumph, like the moment a loved one in pain finally dies.

My ex held the varnished gates open for my attorney and me to walk through and I felt proud of us for getting to this point without major operatic incident. We'd both come so far; had accomplished so much together, even in divorcing. (The minor incidents were too many to count.) Out in the lobby I looked at his face for a signal that might cue me to move toward him for a handshake or a hug, but there was no trace, so I stayed still. I knew I would see him tomorrow night for his Wednesday dinner with our son, and every Wednesday for eleven years after that. There was a somber finality to our fresh start and tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of our separate lives together.

I felt crushed by the prospect of starting over and exhausted just thinking about square one as I left the large, beige, government-issue courthouse. But outside the sun was shining and I became lighter as I walked to the parking garage. I smiled brightly as I greeted the nice, older African gentleman in the crisp white shirt at the podium. I wished I had something to show off the way a newly engaged woman shows off her ring to strangers. He was the first person I was meeting as a newly unmarried woman and I felt different; sort of new and set free. I wanted to tell him my story like someone who’d just seen a UFO. I’d just come from this strange, unique experience and was willing to buy him lunch in exchange for listening but I knew he was only after my ticket, and that my story would have to keep for now. I handed it over and wondered if he noticed my plain, empty ring finger; unadorned with diamonds and bands. My hands were still just as important and it hadn’t mattered what I was wearing that day. My fingers weren’t empty or naked. In fact they felt alive and very awake.

Handed Down

In grade school, a friend of mine-- the son of an investment banker-- once asked me, “So, do you guys sit around at dinner time and talk about colors?” My father was an artist and painter and after I thought about it a moment I answered, “Actually, yes.” My friend was incredulous. In his family's dinner table they spoke of fiscal earnings and blue chip stocks. In my home we discussed composition and color, sunsets, shadow and light. And for as long as I can remember, I watched my father clean his paintbrushes-- sometimes two at a time-- by putting a dab of mild soap or turpentine in the palm of his hand, and gently swirling the soft horsehair tips in tiny circles against his life lines as the paint ran through his fingers and washed tranquilly down the drain; like a monk gently cleansing his stigmata.

Growing up, Dad took us to museums; the Frick, Met and Gardner were among is faves. He introduced us to Impressionism-- U.S. and abroad-- the Hudson River School and the Post Impressionists in their wake. He confided how Homer treated his women and how most of the rest of those guys were sort of nuts. He explained the difference between Monet and Manet and told us how Mary Cassatt had been under appreciated. He pointed out Degas’ renegade composition, Whistler’s quiet grace and marveled at the exquisite luminescence of Renoir’s skin and the masterful folds in Sargent’s silks. “Look at that!” Dad would exclaim under his breath, his hand mirroring the movement of the long shadows thrown off by a certain Spanish dancer, “How did he do that?!” Then Dad would shake his head in reverence and awe and look a little bit longer; even though he’d seen the painting a thousand times. Even though he could paint that beautifully himself. His own talent was something he always questioned; it was a fact he would die not knowing. But I knew.

When he died last year, not only did his life end quickly, but the paintings he painted stopped as abruptly. There would be no more forthcoming just as I would learn no more tricks from the man who’d taught me about spackle and varnish, spray paint and grout. And so what was once a flow of information is now a body of information, passed down for me to do with as I wish.

Almost immediately the reorganizing of memories took place, filing the unpleasant away behind the generous; deep in storage, hard to reach. And for some reason, now that he’s gone, I find I’m more aware of the legacy he’s left me, and in turn more cognizant of him. On Saturday mornings I fill the house with Brandenburg and Miles Davis, and take my Mom to hear anyone named Pizzarelli. I re-grouted my own tub and mow my own lawn, and stop to watch the rest of any movie starring Peter Sellers, or Cyd Charisse. I honor my father through Ernie Kovacs. But I don’t think I’d ever thought about how much I’d actually learned from him. This was just all part of life.

Last June, I ended up at the National Portrait Gallery in D.C. with a man I’d just met. We were fellow guests who’d convened for a weekend baby shower and were both looking for something to do to kill time before our flights left. Meandering quietly through the gallery together I piped up occasionally to point out this or that about a painting or artist I recognized. “You know a lot about art,” he said, “were you an art major?” I paused, embarrassed, knowing how little I actually know. “No,” I replied, “My dad was an artist. He taught me.” And as if on queue, I walked around a corner, found myself face to face with a Mary Cassatt, and cried.

This is just the sort of thing that happens in the first year after someone we love dies, this unexpected surge of remembrance, and I was able to duck into another room and recover, quickly and quietly, before this stranger could think that I was sort of nuts. Now I can pass on what I’ve learned calmly, still amassing Dad’s legacy as it unfolds.

Recently I found myself on my knees at a low sink with a kindergartner who volunteered to help me wash the paintbrushes. “I want to be an artist,” she said, “I really love to paint.”
“You do?” I replied, delighted. “We’ll then you’re going to need to know how to wash your brushes,” I said brightly and turned on the water. “Open your hand, and let me show you how.”

Root Problem

Just yesterday I had a root canal. Cozied into the naugahyde chair, ipod set to shuffle; I thought to myself, this is heaven compared to working on my divorce. Reclined back, eyes closed, I tried to relax; losing myself in the dulcet tones of my endodontist leaning into my upper right molar (number three) with her full body weight, grinding away at my tooth, it sounded as if a small, mechanical ferret was being throttled next to my head. And as the squealing and screeching echoed in the space under my right frontal lobe-- weeeeeeeeerrrrreeeeeeeee-- I did my best to focus on Bix Biderbeck's lilting melody, relieved not to be reading over the latest draft of my property settlement agreement for questions or comments to my attorney. It felt like a vacation.

The encumbrance brought on by the festering discomfort and ensuing removal of a person from one's life who leans on ones last nerve is an emotional discomfort to be sure. The constant throbbing brought on by the lists and sub-lists of what must be located, recorded, reviewed, transferred, re-assigned and remembered; split, packed, stored and negotiated results in a throbbing that can take months to die down. Whereas the actual discomfort I was in from my tooth being gnawed at by the electrified prosthetic of the chipper sadist hovering above me-- the festering sort of pain, which is caused by the removal of an actual nerve-- had a finite resolution. I knew that the throbbing would end. My divorce proceedings, however, linger on.

The endodontist finally wheeled her chair back, finishing with a flourish and what I thought to be a smattering of applause from my lower molars. The office lady handed me a xeroxed hand-out which gave me directions for home pain management-- the option of vicadin crisply crossed out. I considered the vast oeuvre of pain management I’d used in the last two years as an average divorcing spouse. The obvious balm—therapy—was a given. But I’ve also sampled Benadryl (only a half) for sleeping, and The Onion and YouTube for quick laughs; church for forgiveness, yoga and CoDA for letting go, and babysitting for the explicit use of movie house escape. My mother has taken me shopping, my father gave me hugs, and for a while-- over the winter-- I ate a sleeve of Mallomars every night before bed. Yummy. And if I thought that taking 3 ibuprohin and 1 Tylenol every 5-6 hours for the last two years would have eased my pain, I would have mainlined the stuff. But that was all that was prescribed for my root canal; so simple, unfussy and clean. I cursed the office lady for not taking out the vicadin line from the hand-out altogether. Must we be reminded of what we could have had?

Stepping into the sun’s hot glare wif a smollen mowf, I was thankful that my divorce, at least, didn’t smell like my root canal. The inescapable odor of vibrating metal on burning enamel had nestled into my nasal passages as I lay helpless in the chair, it’s tinge teasing my nostrils with the suggestion of decay; pervasive like the smell of sawdust, but without the comfort. Breathing fresh air again as I walked to my car, I cleared out my nose, ears and lungs as I wondered about my eventual divorce decree’s odor. Would it smell like passing lilacs? Like morning’s buttered toast? Probably not. But it will smell like victory.

Teen Gandhi

I inadvertently started Gandhi's autobiography recently and now I’m sucked in. I can’t put it down. It reads like a S.E. Hinton novel. Things begin innocently enough; at age seven he's a self-proclaimed mediocre student. I can picture it now:

Teacher: "Mohandas, you've been turning in some very mediocre work lately.
Gandhi: "Sorry about that, Mrs. B. It's just that I have a lot on my mind what with our nation’s suffering and-"
Teacher: "Siddown, Mohandas."
Gandhi: "Okay."

What Gandhi lacks in book learnin', he makes up for in moral fiber. "I do not remember having ever told a lie..." he says, "either to my teachers or to my schoolmates." Very impressive but no surprise there, he is Gandhi after all. Then he says, "I used to be very shy and avoided all company. My books... were my sole companions. I literally ran back (and forth to school) because I could not bear to talk to anybody." Gandhi the Nerd. Gandhi the Socially Inept. Not what I would have expected from one of our more charismatic iconic figures, but okay, I'll bite. He adds, "I was even afraid lest anyone poke fun at me." Gandhi the Insecure? Sounds like nearly everyone I knew growing up. Except for the saying of "lest" part, but other than that.

A few pages later, our story takes a turn; at the tender age of thirteen, Gandhi’s parents marry him off. Let’s go there, shall we:

Gandhi: "Are you kidding me? No way do I want to get married. Nuh, uh."
Mom: "You're getting married and that's the end of the discussion."
Gandhi: "Well, you can't make me."
Dad: "Actually, we can and we did. You're getting married to Kasturbai by the end of seventh grade."
Gandhi: "To who?"
Mom: "'To whom' and it's none of your business. You'll meet her at the wedding."
Gandhi: "But Mah-ahommm!!!"
Dad: "No buts, son. Now go finish your homework."

At this point most thirteen-year-olds would have said, "I hate your guys’ guts!" but, again, we're talking about Gandhi. So he and his brother were married and took to its obvious benefits immediately, even though he never forgave his parents for, “such a preposterously early marriage.”

Though any other hormonal teenage boy might have been distracted from his schoolwork by his wife's, um, cooking, Gandhi pressed on, working hard at his studies. He's even quoted as saying that one of his greatest regrets was not having worked harder on his handwriting. “I tried later to improve mine, but it was too late. I could never repair the neglect of my youth. Let every young man and woman be warned by my example, and understand that good handwriting is a necessary part of education.” You know you've lived a fulfilling life if your greatest regret is bad handwriting.

Then, while still a teen, Gandhi fell under the depraved influence of a bad egg who coerced him to eat meat—which was against his religion—; be unfaithful to his wife—also a no-no--; and steal from the servants to buy cigarettes. The chapter even ends in a suicide pact. He writes, “It was unbearable that we should be unable to do anything without the elder’s permission. At last, in sheer disgust, we decided to commit suicide!” What pathos, what angst. Vampires got nuthin’ on Gandhi.

So, the next time you wish your son would make more of an effort or stop hanging out with the wrong crowd; remember, he could have the makings of a spectacularly charismatic and learned leader. That head of hair, the one that so desperately needs washing, could be housing a truly enlightened mind. And that smelly room with the overflowing hamper and DVDs on the floor could be the sanctuary of a future pioneer of global action and compassion. Be patient. Your home could be nurturing an inspiration. This town could be lousy with Gandhis.

By A Thread

Two years ago at Easter time, I asked my husband to move out for the short list of reasons that women usually do. It just so happened that he moved out on Mother’s Day wouldn’t-you-know-it. Soon after, things devolved to such gothic depths that I actually used the banister to climb the stairs for the first time since moving into our house; my home. My world caving in, it was hard to fathom having anything left to be thankful for—woe was I.

Sure of exactly nothing-- except that this mindset probably wouldn’t serve me very well—I reached for my sewing kit and grabbed an unremarkable spool of navy blue thread; cut off a length, wrapped it once around my left wrist and tied it in a knot. I decided that whenever this thread on my wrist caught my eye, I would remind myself of all that I still had to be grateful for, grope as I might.

Weeks passed and together the thread and I grew grubby and thin. I gardened and showered; swam in oceans and pools; sweated, mourned and lost seventeen pounds. I wore bracelets, watches and eventually mittens, and always the thread was there; silently stalwart, beginning to pill, but hanging in there, just like me. I would notice it and nod, giving thanks to my good health and the health of my son; to my neighbors, fresh snowfall and it’s hand-off to spring.

A year passed and I began to wonder when the thread would break. I was glad to have it—my bad patch was still in full swing—but knew it was on borrowed time and couldn’t help imagining its demise. Would a stranger break it off or a guileless young child? Would it snag on some resonant holiday? Tangle at some somber location woven with innuendo? Apparently not.

Just yesterday, after two years of constant companionship, I broke the darn thing off myself-- by mistake-- while taking off a sweater before getting into the shower. There was no collective gasp from the peanut gallery and no timpani sounded but I realized it immediately and froze. Just me, looking dumbfounded and slightly amused at my naked wrist, wondering why now? So I climbed into the shower and gave it some thought.

A good, hot shower is one of life’s better loved segues. It’s a portal to the next phase; it can also save you from your last. More times than I could count in the last two years a shower had saved me from reaching out in the wrong direction; from dialing the wrong number; from pouring the wrong drink; from drowning. Get in the shower, I’d say to myself, you’ll feel better if you do, and I did. And for mothers, especially, a shower is a sacred stretch of time, an instant vacation, a respite; the shower stall transforms into a baptismal font; a think tank, a space pod, a gift.

So maybe it’s okay that I broke the thread off myself while heading into the shower before Mother’s Day. Perhaps it was fate; perhaps it was folly. I think it was exactly right.

Steppin' Out

I stood in line to pay fifteen bucks behind a man in a purple suit-- complete with shiny purple tie-- and his date; a bottle blonde in a shiny purple dress gathered in a seam down the middle. They both wore shiny white shoes. I was decidedly less shiny. This should have been my cue to ditch, but I pressed on, knowing in my heart of hearts that I’d made a mistake but had driven a half hour to get here and so, what the heck.

Since I’d heard about this weekly event (open to the public) back in the fall from a friend’s art teacher, I’d been curiously excited. I'd been looking for joy, any flavor really. Quizzing myself as to the times I find myself truly happy, dancing always came out on top. I’d mentioned it to a few folks, but no one bit. “Imagine,” I pitched, “an entire room of single people who really love to dance.” It sounded like heaven to me. What could be better.

Walking into the Woodbridge Hilton’s ballroom-- I know, I know, should have been my first clue-- the thought that occurred to me was: Yikes. Then: Okay, I can do this. I’ve danced with my parents’ friends before.

For years in my twenties and thirties, I'd danced with all of them at least once and some of them often at the myriad of weddings I’d attended as an unattached young lady. Unwilling to stop for food or even drink when there was a great band, I’d danced with every father of every friend and every friend’s husband who’d let me. “Go ahead, it’s fine with me,” the wives would say, “I’m tired of dancing.” And so I would, with every one and anyone, to every song, until the band quit for the night and I was forced to eat my fillet cold. This shouldn’t feel any different than a wedding reception I told myself as I scanned the crowded parquet floor full of strangers for the one familiar face I wasn’t even certain would be there.

Sitting down next to the art teacher and her date at the edge of the dance floor, I folded my arms, legs and nervous energy in against myself as I watched a room of swirling, twirling men and women in their sixties and seventies mouth the words to odd versions of ersatz disco tunes only vaguely familiar to me. “I’m just here to watch,” I smiled as I told the first man who asked me to dance-- an attractive, graying Asian man with a Clark Gable mustache and ill-fitting beige suit-- “thank you very much, maybe later.” He swept off with a disappointed smile and was replaced almost immediately with another, older man with a putty colored golf shirt tucked in to brown slacks, buttoned to the top; and a comb over. He was central casting’s dream of everyman’s Uncle Arthur. I was regretting that I’d promised my next-door neighbor that I would stay at least an hour.

But I couldn’t leave. I was riveted to the scene where my future literally danced before my eyes. Powdered ladies in high-heeled shoes and high-teased hair danced with casual dandies in cuff-links and blazers. A young, balding man of no more than 4’11” in his early fifties, wriggled and writhed with a woman ten inches and fifteen years his senior. And Uncle Arthur swung his arms to and fro-- swatting at the air around a brunette in a lemon yellow dress. He was unbent at the elbows, waist and hips, like someone who’d just freed his arms from a straight jacket or was learning beginner jai-alai. I marveled at his moves and wanted to hug him for leaving his apartment much less asking women he didn't know to dance.

“No thank you,” I repeated my schpiel-with-a-smile again and again, starting to feel rude for having come. When during, “Lady in Red,” it was pointed out to me not once but twice that I was wearing red by smoothies in open collared shirts and buckled shoes saying, “This must be our dance,” I thought it was time to pack it in. Then the art teacher introduced me to Marty.

Marty Martino, a handsome rogue with a thick head of white Don Johnson hair and the self-confident twinkle of a man who has never been turned down—except by his ex-wives—sat down next to me and explained that he was probably the best dancer in the room. And a dance host on cruise ships. “My job is to ask the ladies to dance,” he said slowly. He looked to be a spry seventy-three. I later learned he was eighty-one.
“No kidding,” I said, “Sounds great,” I added, because I thought it did.
“Is it a paying job?”
“No,” he said, “but I get to go on the cruise for free and they give me a nice room. It’s a double and I have to share with another dance host, but it’s a nice room.”
“Wow,” I said, archiving this in the lobe of my brain reserved for future career options, “Are there any female dance hostesses?” “No,” he said. Oh, right, I thought. Duh.

Clearly a professional, his plan worked and I acquiesced. The music was easily spoken over and the lights were up almost full; a rotating portable disco light cast additional mood splotches of red, green and blue across the receding hairlines and bare shoulders of my fellow dancers. “Step, step, slide. Step, step, slide,” Marty instructed as we glided around the dance floor to “And I Love Her,” by the Beatles. I didn’t have the nerve to tell Marty that I could probably dance his cruise-ship-hosting ass off, so I let him tell me what to do, complimenting me as he did from time to time on my ability to pick things up quickly. I felt like a ringer in a pool hall. Just you wait, buddy, I thought, and we danced to two more songs. I was loosening up, finally, enough to laugh as I danced and be reminded why I had come. This is the feeling I love, I thought, this joy right here, right now while dancing. Afterwards I said thank you and he insisted on walking me back to my seat.

No sooner had I sat down than Uncle Arthur appeared before me. “I’d love to,” I said, and geared up for the challenge. He took my hand and didn’t let go, so I danced as best I could, side-stepping his other arm rotor as it sliced the air around me. Thankfully he talked the entire time; he had a lot to get in before the end of the song. He told me about the B side of the song we were listening to and who sang it first (Jackie Wilson) and how many covers had been done and which were the best. He told me about his cousin (Norman) who said he would help him transfer all his mix tapes to CDs, otherwise he wasn’t sure how he was going to ever find some of these songs again. “The internet is a pretty good bet,” I said, bobbing and weaving, still holding his hand. “Yeah,” was all he said before the song ended and he briskly moved away like a man who knows when to leave a party.

I was just sitting down again when out of nowhere, the very short, bald, wriggly man appeared in front of my face. I was sitting and he was standing, but there he was, glistening with sweat, eyebrows arched in anticipation of my answer. “Let’s go,” I said standing and for the first time in my life I felt tall. He led me out onto the middle of the dance floor and had the good manners to start off slow. A bit of rocking led quickly to stepping, which prompted a change in direction, some tricky hand swapping, leading up to the big kahuna; a turn.
“You weally gooood,” he said and spun me back the other way.
“Thank you,” I said smiling because I was having fun in a bizarre, David Lynch sort of way.
“My name is Hector,” he said, “I will teach you the salsa dance.” And with the very next song, he got his wish. He spun me out and twirled me back in, taking my arms and placing them at the back of his sweaty neck as he wriggled in front of me like I’d seen him do before; like Charo. This must be his signature move was all I could think. It was preferable to thinking about my hands on his sweaty neck.

“Let me hold you like a wife, not a nun,” he said and I knew what he was aiming at. Salsa is meant to be danced with your lower pelvic cradles practically fastened together with snaps, but I demurred and he got the picture without my having to say, “Why don’t you hold me somewhere in the middle, say, like a dental hygienist.” We continued to dance for two more songs; spinning and twirling, stepping and gliding. I was proud of my clairvoyant ability to follow unknown dancers so well and accepted this moment to preen. Bring it on, I thought, hit me with your best shot; wheelchairs and canes? I’m all over it. Oxygen tank on rollers? No prob. I can make you all look like gods on the dance floor and in that same shared moment will feel like a true goddess. Everybody wins and no one goes home hurt. Except maybe the next dame to dance with Uncle Arther.

As Hector and I parted ways, I decided to slip out. The perimeter was thickening with glaring men holding scotch glasses and I recalled the cartoon of the wolf in the zoot suit, heart beating out of his chest, lips stretching out to pucker and whistle as Pepe Le Pew’s lady friend-- or was it Bugs in drag-- strolled by. I grabbed my purse, said goodnight to the art teacher, and stopped off in the ladies room before heading out to my car.

“I hate it when Harold tells me what to do,” a woman in an orange dress and pink heels was saying as she leaned into the mirror to wipe a manicured fingernail under her lower lashes, “It’s not his dance floor for cryin’ out loud.”
“I know, he always thinks he’s in charge,” said her friend as she burst through the stall door-- a vision in sequins and aqua.
“I don’t want to be told what to do; why do you think I got divorced?”
They laughed as faucets squeaked off and pocketbooks snapped shut. The woman in orange held the door open for her friend saying, “I think Harold just forgets that we’re all here to have fun.”

We all forget, I wanted to add. I’ll be back in 24 years, ladies. And I’ll deal with Harold then.

Yard Sale

“It’s like free money,” Rachel said to me while handing me a measly dollar bill. I was 3 hours in to my one-day-only yard sale and had given her negotiating power because she could sell ice to Eskimos. “But I paid eight bucks for that,” I said, lamenting that my lovely Haeger vase would have easily fetched $80.00 in TriBeCa. “Well, this ain’t the big city, sister, this is a tag sale in Jersey and unless you want the trouble of carting it off tomorrow, I’m selling it for a dollar.”

I didn’t want to donate it to the Far Hills VNA Rummage Sale. I wanted to sell everything. I had visions of getting asking price for all of my treasures then rolling in the dough like a nineties video vixen. I had purged for months; sorted, boxed and priced. I had high hopes in the same way I have high hopes for leftovers. “If you don’t eat it, I’m throwing it out,” I recalled George Carlin saying. It was ludicrous to feel self-righteous about stuff that wasn’t living up to my own standards. Was I hurt? Na. I know I have good taste. Except for everything on that table over there and that puffy, neon salmon, reversible ski jacket. And the magnetic jewelry. But otherwise, the stuff that I’m not selling? It’s all fabulous. Take my word for it. Great taste.

Rachel shoved another grubby dollar in my hand and said, “Don’t ask and don’t look,” so I turned away, tensing my shoulders as if I’d heard glass break. Clearly ensnared in an Escher-esque rubrik of commercialist greed vs. ego, I was beginning to feel mildly annoyed that I’d had the bright idea in the first place. Nothing like a divorce to get your purge on. But even if we weren’t I’d probably be doing this about now anyway. Ten years is plenty of time to log how often I’d used the waffle iron (twice) and needed seven extra ice cube trays on hand (never-- I buy bags at Kings) or six wooden, folding chairs from the late fifties which I’d completely forgotten were stored under the basement stairs, just in case. I’d paid twelve dollars each-- which was a steal then-- and now they’re going for five? Should be thirty-five! I was taking it all wrong. I was starting to go bonkers.

“You okay?” Rachel asked. “Yeah, I’m good.” I said, “It’s just-” She looked at me straight on, “You were going to donate it all for nothing, right?” “Right.” “And here we are enjoying a nice day, having a laugh or two, and you might make a little cash to boot, yes?” “Yes.” “But what’s more important is that you’re getting rid of all this stuff that you don’t need, and putting it back into circulation to make more room for you. So, it’s free money. And we’re lucky to be alive. Okay?” “Okay.”

Bottom line: lucky to be alive. Next time: skipping the sale.

Dear Match.com,

Although I have yet to commit to a relationship with you whereby I fork over the monthly big bucks, I appreciate that you care enough for my emotional well being to continuously, nay, unceasingly clog my in box with enticing morsels of manhood; a tapas of testosterone for free. I think it's sweet that you're working so tirelessly to "match" me with your phalanx of "friends"; this tsunami of suitors if you will. But if it's all the same to you, I could use a little space. You see, it's not them, it's me.

No. That's a lie. It's them. If you could just, well, change them ever so slightly for me, I could see things really working out between us. With a few minor adjustments I think we might have a chance-- me and every guy known to man. (Or within a fifty mile radius.) But first, huddle your fellas around 'cause I have a little feedback for them. I promise to be kind, but I think a little honesty is in order.

It's about their profiles. Let's start with the photos:

Put down the beer/wine glass/bottle and take off your hat/toupee/sunglasses. It's not that I don't partake of these things or even disapprove of their use; it's just that ladies are like cops, and in a profile photo-- not unlike on a drivers license-- we like to see you in your purest essence; the core you. You don't take a beer into the shower do you? Oh, you do? Well, you don't wear your sunglasses to bed-- oh, you do that, too? Hmm. Well, just for the purposes of this photo, why don't you leave them down by your side-- it's okay, they're right there, not going far-- and let's have a looksee in earnestness, unadorned. You'll have plenty of time to charm/offend/ignore/repel us later on in the relationship.

To "magnus", "alvin", "pavel" and "brad." Please, dears, put on a shirt. Anything you got, really. Pull something out of the hamper, even if it has a small stain. The for-cheapskates-only thumbnail photos are super tiny and I've yet to install the smell-o-rama app for my pc, so you're safe. And if every friggin' shirt you own is at the laundromat and you can't borrow one and you have to take your profile photo this instant on the outside patio up against a cinder block wall; grab a flag off a pole, a floor mat from your car, a dish towel, anything, really fellas. "No shirt, no shoes, no dice" applies to ladies, too. It's not that we aren't intrigued by your comely physique, we just want to be assured that you know how to separate the darks from the lights and fold within reason. At this point in my life, not having to do your laundry beats out a nice chest, hands down.

If you tell me you're funny and then spend a good six paragraphs not saying anything remotely funny; then you're not funny-- I hate to break it to ya. But you'll get over it. All that climbing and hiking you do; a dry sense of humor is sure to rub off on you eventually. Hikers are notoriously hilarious.

And if you are funny, but your user name is "drugmusic" there's a pretty good chance that a dame my age isn't going to take comfort in that. Twenty years ago, maybe-- but even then, probably not. Do you have any other hobbies?

To "sirhavealot" and "thatdamngood",
I like your user names, I do. They're confident, optimistic and your appreciation for life's bounty is infectious. I just wish your joi de vivre extended to grammar. And kerning! Always with the nospacesbetweenwords. Can you not see that? Can none of you see that? Do I alone have some super power that allows me to see-- ugh, forget it.

Now, mister "myonlyshot" is a different story. His grammar is good but he's such a sad clown. Life is long, pal, and we need to talk about your self confidence. This is not your only shot, not by far. Have you met sirhavealot? You're going to have to buck up, kid, seriously, I'm worried about you. But not so worried that I'll take you on. No way, nuh-uh. Sorry. But, good luck!

To "freakizza",
Would you be adding the suffix, -izza, to more than one word per sentence? And would that just pertain to our written correspondence or to our spoken banter as well. I'd just like to know what I'm in for ahead of time if that's possible.

To "salvatore" and "jerry",
Why the tiled room, boys? It smacks of "Silence of the Lambs." And why no smile? So young, so hard, so cold; like my coffee.

Now, "mr.greenlove",
Is your love sustainable or will I be reduced, reused, and recycled the first chance you get, know what I'm sayin'?

And to "firmfeel",
Really? At 8am? Do I have to be navigating the flotsam of sexual innuendo that floats into my head at that hour of the morning? Could you think of a user name a little more daytime friendly? (And to "activeniceguy", sadly, I have the opposite problem with you.)

Speaking of 8am:
If your user name is has any manner of the word "gentleman" in it, why oh why, are you asking me if I'm wearing panty hose or thigh highs at 7:58 in the morning? Honestly, shouldn't you be watching the toaster? Your toast is gonna burn. Focus on getting out the door for work and then you can worry about what I'm wearing. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Everyone knows that.

To "bigcheese" and "bigteddybear",
I love that you think so. I don't think I'm the bigone for you, but keep on keepin' on, fellas. I'm sure "bigsmile", "bighearted" and "bigboobs" are waiting for you right around the corner. I'm too much of a "bigspaz" to even be in the running.

To "NiceGentleman",
So many gentlemen and yet so few, but you intrigued me. Why is your profile photo a picture of you sitting in a hospital chair, holding an hours-old new born infant? Is it yours? Why does is say in your profile under "Wants kids?" Answer: "Not sure." A gentleman and an enigma? I should say.

Speaking of which...

To "zenarcade", "kineticdust", and "runs2standstill",
So slender, so cryptic. Is there more to life than yoga? You tell me. Or don't. Just allude to it. In hushed tones. On your mat. All sweaty like. It'll never work between us. I can't keep a straight face for that long. But journey on, wandering soul, journey on.

And finally, to "NJitalian", "jerzeyital", "italyboy", "Italianman", "ItalianFunnyGuy", "calabresePaisan", "tigertony", and "BigSal",
I was born in Rome, raised in New Jersey, and yet something tells me I'll never be Italian or Jerz enough for you. But I applaud your righteous pride. And I wish you well. All a yous.

And so thank you Match.com, for reminding me of the myriad of special guys out there who are aching to be a "good listener", willing to "go to restaurants and movies", and who "like to travel". They're just there, within reach, right inside my computer; humorless, unsmiling, and putting spaces after the word and before the comma , like this. And if it weren't for your emails, I might actually be lonely, but knowing what I do about who I could be spending my time with-- I'm deliriously happy. And relieved.

Kareoke Killjoy

-- "Authorities do not know exactly how many people have been killed warbling "My Way" in karaoke bars over the years in the Philippines, or how many fatal fights it has fueled. But the news media have recorded at least a half a dozen victims in the past decade and includes them in a sub category of crime dubbed the "My Way Killings."
--The New York Times (no joke)



Interior: Filthy, low-ceilinged dive bar, Anytown, USA.

Little, grubby square tables dot the room and the dry, grey rag used to wipe down the bar hasn't been rinsed out since 1972. A smattering of lowlifes drape themselves over wobbling chairs and each other and the path to the restroom and cigarette machine is sticky. A man named Rick is up at the mic. His fingernails are dirty and his T-shirt is worn thin. He sings an octave lower than the original release and has the throaty rumble of a man who has several Pall Malls for breakfast. But he is on key, committed, and to the casual listener seems to really own the song. Another man, Stu, sits in the crowd, seething. Only he understands Rick's deep, inner pathos and aching desire. He's antsy as he watches Rick grab the mic with two hands, bend at the knees and thrust his midsection towards the audience with every chorus.

Rick sings, "M-m-m-myyy Sharona! (ba-duh, nah, nah, nah, nuh) M-m-m-myyy Sharona!"

Stu can stand it no longer. He jumps to his feet as his chair slides away from him like an explosion. He thunders at Rick, chest heaving; eyes flashing, "Your Sharona? YOUR Sharona?! She was MY GODDAMN Sharona!!!"

And with that he whips out a glock and shoots Rick dead. The crowd shifts uneasily. Stu charges over to the mic, steps over Rick and finishes out the song with bravado; just in time for the last chorus; his gun clanking out time with the mic stand as the stage becomes sticky with blood. The room offers him a round of tentative applause.

Who's up?

In another part of town, at a slightly more respectable bar/cafe, Charles has finally gotten up the nads to request a song. He's spent years pouring over the bar's three ring binders and has finally settled on a song that speaks to him personally. Tonight-- he reasons with only himself-- is the night. He smooths the crease in his khaki's as he turns sideways, gingerly shuffling between patrons too lazy to scoot their chairs in for him as he makes his way to the mic. Once there, he takes his wire rimmed glasses off and tucks them into his brooks brothers shirt pocket then squints towards his audience. He feels resigned to this moment; even triumphant.

Charles sings, "Don't drink don't smoke, what do-ya-do? Ya don't drink don't smoke, what-do-ya-do?--"

Charles bops his head ever-so-slightly as he sings. He's here at last and it feels good. He feels home.

Sheila had been tailing Charles unbeknownst to him for years; ever since he snubbed her at their corporate trust-building retreat. In truth, he pined for her but thought she was a prude and would never go for his secret penchant for S&M using 17th century Japanese stealth weaponry. But what Charles didn't know about Sheila could fill volumes. And now he would never find out. Sheila stood slowly, taking a deep breath; the fulfillment of careful training and relaxation exercises was at hand and she knew she had only one shot.

Charles sang, "Little good, little good, little goody-two shoes--"

Sheila screamed as she took aim, "You'll never know, Charles, you'll NEVER KNOW!!!"

And with that she let fly the shiny metal shuriken or "throwing star" she'd been carrying in her purse in a hard, plastic tampon case for some time now. It landed squarely in his chest, embedding itself into his heart; making a smooth, clean tear along the same parallel stripes in his best shirt. Charles slumped to the floor as Sheila grabbed her purse; the dulcet tones of Adam Ant's jaunty anthem danced over his bleeding body. Before reaching the threshold of the bar, Sheila turned to the patrons, squared her shoulders and proclaimed, "And I do smoke, on occasion, after a good meal," and walked out into the night with a spring in her step; her quest fulfilled.

Next?

Marty and Loraine had been married for 38 years. Back in the seventies, Lorraine had her hair cut in the current fashion and with the help of a daily curling iron ritual, bore an uncanny resemblance to Toni Tennille-- or so she thought. Marty-- not wanting to be upstaged by his outgoing, center-stage-hogging wife-- took to wearing a ship captain's hat; but the only one he could find was a real, starched military cap at a VFW rummage sale and so he looked oddly formal at weekend cocktail parties and bar-b-ques. (The neighbors wondered if he'd really been in the military and just didn't realize it wasn't wartime, and so, feeling sorry for him, never mentioned it.)

Scarcely a week went by before Loraine could be heard nagging her husband to escort her to TGIFs for karaoke night. There were times when he tried to send her down town on her own, tired as he was of their duets and the silence that followed, but she wouldn't hear of it.

"Go," Marty said from his brown naugahyde barcalounger, "do 'Let's Get Physical' or 'Morning train,' you know you like those songs and the crowd loves you. You don't need me there." But even though Loraine didn't need him there, and tended to ignore him once she walked through the door, she always insisted he come.
"Get dressed," she'd say, holding his stiff, white captains hat, "I've laid your Hawaiian shirt out on the bed."

Loraine beamed every time she overheard a patron whisper, "There goes Captain and Tennille," as she snaked through the dark wood varnished booths. What she didn't notice were the eye rolls and muffled laughter that followed. Marty, always in her wake, saw and heard what he couldn't bear to tell her, and his inner chivalrous husband kept his humiliation bottled up for years. But tonight seemed different somehow and as they stepped up onto the carpeted dais; he felt itchy, loose, and annoyed.

Marty sang to Loraine, "Muscrat Susie, Muscrat Sam," but she wouldn't look him in the eyes. "Do the jitterbug in Muscrat Land--" she sang out to the crowd which infuriated him. Why wouldn't she look at him? He was her captain and he'd been putting up with this crap for years. She should be looking at him lovingly the way Tennille did. He marveled at how she could enunciate every word beautifully while she was singing on stage but as soon as they stepped off the platform, she was a verbal train wreck. Her scotch and soda intake had tripled over the years and the bartender-- a tall, strapping bottle-blonde lesbian named Tiffany-- had started handing doubles to her in a tall glass with not much ice.

Loraine sang, "And they whirl and they twirl and they tango," which was Marty's cue to take her hand and spin her once into him then spin her back out. But she started turning the wrong way and the mic wire got tangled up around her. Snickers were heard from the audience. Loraine snarled at Marty, "You cn do inythin righth!" But she slurred it into his mic and her sentiment bounced off the crowded restaurant's back wall with cringe-worthy clarity. Tiffany could be heard laughing loudest above the others. Marty thought to say, I'm sorry, but then figured, what's the point. He untangled her from the mic wire just in time for their encore (sung whether or not it was requested because Tiffany acted as their plant for an extra tip from Loraine.) As if on cue, Tiffany shouted, "Encore!" and "Love Will Keep Us Together" began it's bouncy intro. Loraine looked out towards the bar and said, "You know it will, Babydoll," and that's when Marty knew.

Marty sang to Loraine, "Love, love will keep us together--"
Loraine sang to the crowd, "Think of me babe whenever,
Some sweet talkin' girl comes along, singin' your so-ong,
Don't mess around you've just got to be strong, just stop--"

Marty understood. (schweee)

Loraine sang in the vague direction of the bar, "'Cause I really love you, stop. (schweee)
I've been thinking of you..."

Marty's eyes caught Tiffany's. She was mouthing the words, "Look in your heart and let love, keep us to-geh-eh-the, whatever." As he looked back at Loraine, something snapped and the room-- packed with patrons and nachos-- receded into the ether. Marty slowly wound the mic chord around Loraine's body as he twirled her toward him. She sang, "Da-da-da- whatever--" giggling at his ad-libbed choreography. Then he wrapped the chord around her neck as he sang, "I will, I will, I will. I wi-iiiillllllll..." Lorraine stopped singing and for the first time in four-- or was it five years-- looked Marty in the eyes. He stopped singing, too; better to focus all his strength on tightening the chord without dropping his mic. Loraine understood now that he understood but she didn't care; she just kept looking at him-- inches away-- as she turned shades of pink, then magenta.

Tiffany was the first person to cry out but it was too late. With Loraine's last breath, she knocked Marty's microphone into the scotch and soda she was still grasping and instantly, currents of electricity-- only slightly stronger than the heart-pumping electricity that they felt for one another when they first met-- wound through their bodies and stopped their hearts flat in a final rousing crescendo of shaken tongues and singed flesh. They fell to the floor together like Romeo and Juliet, bound together forever now as one. Tiffany arrived at the tangled mass just in time to see Marty and Loraine's fingers and toes seemingly twitching in time to the song's catchy beat as it faded out. And they faded out along with it.

It was love, as it turned out, that kept them together after all.

Bought the Farm

The good news about ant farms is that they haven't changed an iota since they were conceived and designed as a child's learning toy sometime around the Inquisition. There's still that John Steinbeck farmhouse in molded plastic, sitting high up on a fertile hill next to a proud silo. We know it's summer because the trees are full, giving the entire scene that smack of ideal bucolic optimism that will surely help me rationalize confining them to their enclosed, plastic fallout shelter for the rest of their leetle ant lives. Or until divine intervention intercedes and my ant farm gets knocked over by a raccoon, inciting a jailhouse patio break that would make Steve McQueen proud. But this is not that story.

The ants had to be ordered from the great ant warehouse that also supplies sea monkeys and live bait to all manner of iguana, lizard and snake. Once they arrived in a padded envelope, all twenty of them entangled in a single ant scrum, laying lifeless in a small cylindrical tube like failed astronauts on a doomed mission, I called the company.

"Don't worry," they said. "They'll wake up. They're just sleeping. Put them in the fridge and when you're ready to dispense them, pour them in to the ant farm and they'll wake up once they warm."

Like Ophelia. Or Walt Disney. Kind of a DIY home cryogenics lesson for kids. I get it, I thought, and dutifully put them in the fridge.

It was around this time that I got the bright idea of offering to bring in the ant farm to my son, Jimmy's, 4 year old pre-school class, to stay and live To donate forever. I thought I was pret-ty crafty, offering to donate our ant farm in the name of science and higher learning. My true m.o. was not wanting to have the ants anywhere on our property when the inevitable freedom break happened. Let the pre-school deal with an exterminator, was my line of thinking. I was surely on my way to hell in a hand-made, hand-painted, play-doh and popsicle stick fashioned hand-basket.

The big day arrived. I had read the instructions like I always do a new toy. I poured in the special life-time supply of magic sand and checked the plugs on the sides for damage control. I understood how often they should be fed, what optimum light they needed for superior existence, and went over my presentation to the students in my head. Finally, the moment was at hand. I was on.

"Does anyone know what this is, children?" I said smugly to the class as I pulled out the ant farm and rested it with a flourish on the low rhombus shaped table. Nine or so grubby little kids gathered around; my son among them. A few others were setting up shop or home or surgery elsewhere in the room, but I didn't take it personally.
"It's an ant farm," I answered myself in hyper-enthusiastic Chanel Thirteen-speak. Even Jimmy looked unimpressed. Thankfully, his teacher had left the room to handle some administrative business. Or have a smoke.

I continued, "You kids are going to get to see ants live and work and make a home for themselves over time. It's going to be really cool, you'll see."
They just looked at me with their big eyes and chubby wrists. Tough crowd.
"And these," I said, reaching into the bag and feeling around for the small, cylindrical vile, "are the ants." I pulled out the vile and held it up to the class.

Much to my delight, all twenty of them were writhing and crawling over each other like an over-caffeinated bacchanalian orgy. I slowly waved the vile over the crowd like a seasoned spokesperson on the Price is Right. I managed to garner a few ooohs and ahhs which boosted my ego and fueled my game. I looked at the vile then over at the leetle hole that I was supposed to shake the ants into once I removed the stopper. "Ready kids?" I said, and placed the vial right up against the ant farm's entrance, exhaled, and removed the stopper. Two, three, four, ants immediately crawled out of the vial's mouth and up along the vial and onto my hand and up my wrist before I could close the stopper again. I immediately, reflexively, swatted and flicked them off my wrist and and forearm with precision and force. I don't get it, I thought, not a single one of them went down into the hole were they were supposed to go. Didn't they know what utopia waited for them? Stupid ants.

"Why did you do that?" one of the kids asked.
I had to buy time. I needed to think.
"This is boring," another one said. Okay, okay, I thought, I had to think fast.
"Let's look at the directions kids. How many of your mommy's and daddy's read the directions when you get a new toy?" A few hands went up. "Good," I said, "well, they all should, and sometimes it's a good idea to read them again. So let's do that, shall we?" I quickly scanned the fold-out for guidance because I was losing my audience to the costume box.

"Here, kids. Right here is says, 'When you're ready to dispense the ants, cool them in the refrigerator for fifteen minutes then pour them in.'" Right! Their comas! I'd completely forgotten. Like sixteen little sleeping beauties in the back of a moving truck, I would just pour them in and they'd tumble down like good sports. They may wake up a bit dazed and bruised, but they'd shake it off and be jest fine.

But I didn't have fifteen minutes. Jimmy's teacher had popped in and tapped her watch. "I know," I reasoned out loud to the kids, "fifteen minutes in the refrigerator must work out to about two minutes in the freezer. It's called con-ver-sion. I'll be right back."

I slipped out of the room and over to the kitchen where the big fridge held a lifetime's supply of apple juice, popsicles and boo-boo ice. Into the frozen tundra I tossed the tiny vial and it landed without a sound on a hunk of frosted over ice cream drip. The minutes ticked by like hours as I counted to only ninety seconds before reaching in; god only knew knew how hard it would be to get my audience back.

"Here we go, kids, gather around, gather around," I sang brightly as I cursorily inspected the ants. Yup, they were asleep alright. Balled up into tiny knots, they didn't even flinch. I passed the vial once again in front of the five or six die hards who's golden attention spans had brought them back for the grand finale.

"They look dead," my son's best friend, Marvin, said.
"Oh, no," I trilled like Glinda the Good Witch, "the ants are sleeping very soundly." And as I unstopped the vial and tipped it toward the hole, they tumbled and rolled dutifully into their sandy shangri-la. For a full half a minute, we all watched in stony silence. The anticipation was so thick you could cut it with a dull, plastic, Fisher Price knife.
"When are they gonna wake up?" one girl asked through a fireman's mask.
"Oh, soon, very soon," I said. But I was starting to wonder.

"Did you kill them?" a round-faced boy asked.
I stammered, "Well, I wouldn't say that I killed them, per se..."
"What's per se?" my son asked.
"I'll explain later," I said; my lilting voice was deflating fast but I held on.
"Why don't we do this, kids," I said, "Let's put the ant farm on top of the piano in the sun, and give them a good, long chance to wake up in their own time."
"But what if they don't wake up?" the round-faced boy asked. His Kean-painting eyes seemed to grow bigger and rounder with each word he spoke.
"What if they don't wake up? Well, then, we'll know that they're in a happy place; in their very own ant heaven."
"Did you kill them on purpose?" my son asked.
"No Sweetie, no," I said and I reached across the table and cupped his chin in my sweaty hand. Could it be that he knew me this well, already? It's not liked we kept them on the patio and I came in one morning and made up the raccoon story. I could have just as easily done that, but no! We donated the ant farm to the school! Here I was, trying to parlay this into teaching moment to prove that I'm precisely not the mom he thinks I'm capable of being. But, it was too late. He knew me already.


"Oh, kids," I said with calm resignation, in my own voice; deciding to drop the lilt and the dulcet tones. My voice now carried the weight and timbre of the cold, hard truth. "If the ants did die, and they're not waking up, then it means that they died by accident. And I'm truly sorry. I read the directions, but I may have made a mistake. And people make mistakes all the time. Even grown-ups. Do you forgive me?"
There was a pause while I perused the stricken crowd.
"Yes," I heard a muffled voice say from behind the fireman's mask.
I didn't cry. I could have. But I didn't.
"Thank you. Now let's give these little guys a chance to wake up."

After explaining to my son's teacher that I'd killed off all the ants in front of the class, she decided that it would be best if I brought the ant farm home. I did, and set it on the patio table, in the sun, for a week. I wanted to give those ants every chance that the kids had given me. And that I hoped my son would give me in the future. Because a week in ant years is like a lifetime for us. And you don't have to read the directions to know that.