vickichicki

Stop Loving Me

2011-12-17T04:26:00.001-08:00

(Adagio)

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the wind loves the sea
I will love you completely; cherish you through and through
I will love you and there’s nothing you can do

(Jazzy)

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the shadow loves the tree
I will love you completely for your shal-low-ness and depth
I will love you regardless, ‘til your last dying breath

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the rock loves the key
I will shelter and protect you, hold you dear to my heart
I will love you-- just tell me when to start.

(Bridge)

I will love you in the morning, I will love you at high noon
I will love you after supper, strolling un-derneath the moon
But my love won’t last forever, so you’d better treat me right
Better use those please and thank-yous; kiss me gently, hold me tight

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the circus loves the flea
I will dazzle you, en-ter-tain you, with all of my heart
I will love you-- just tell me when to start.
I will love you-- just tell me when to start.

Story Slam

2011-12-17T04:21:00.000-08:00

I remember sitting around my parent’s kitchen table growing up, listening to friends tell stories. A few friends were really good at it; one was particularly excellent.

Dave knew just what story to tell; he knew how to unravel it without losing the thread. He could craft it on the fly-- describing each character with salient detail-- then bring it to its hilarious and harrowing conclusion as we laughed and cringed. I loved the way he did the different voices and lit up when he spoke; he owned us and lit us up, too, as we listened, open mouthed, anticipating the words like tasty hors d’oeuvres.

I think that’s when I started to become aware of what made a good storyteller; a resistance to ums, a varied pitch. I tried to emulate my friend Dave but only ended up comparing myself to him, which resulted in subtle losses. I tended to leave stuff out, forget where I was, and that death knell of a good story, warble on too long.

All this is to say that I appreciate a good story and the talent and finesse that goes into its telling, so was thrilled to hear about a Story Slam event. The Story Slams are part writers’ group, part happening, and part Gong Show shenanigans. Five bucks gets you in the door and a canned beer-- the king of beers. Absolutely anyone who desires—from 21 to 91, regardless of vocation-- may put his or her name into a hat at the beginning of the evening. Throughout the show, our hostesses pull twelve names out of the hat. If your name is called, you hop up onto the stage, address the audience, and dazzle us with your story. Most folks read from the page, but some memorize their story, and still others do it off the cuff. Your story must be original and it must be under five minutes. If you go on too long, you get played off by the lovely folk band in the corner, Bloomfield, fronted by that nice young man who makes sandwiches at the deli.

It’s daunting and exhilarating all at once, the act of storytelling on demand. There’s the room and the audience and then there’s the clock in your head. Some folks saunter through their stories, blithely unaware of the drummer, picking up his sticks towards the big payoff at the end and mosey right into an unintended resolution. Some wrap up just in time with the confident finesse of an Irishman at a pub with all the time in the world and some speed through their stories as if being chased on the train tracks, a locomotive full of English Composition teachers bearing down on them in hot pursuit.

I go to the Story Slams because I love to hear great stories. I love hearing all the good ones and knowing that the one I’m not so crazy about will only last another four minutes. I get off learning about how other folks perceive the world and I love finding myself alongside the main characters, suffering right along with them in that rowboat or laughing alongside them on the examining table. I love that there are so many gifted writers and funny people in our neck of the woods and I’m inspired by their talent and chutzpah. But mostly, I appreciate a good storyteller. It’s not easy. And yet, they make it look easy.

Fire

2011-11-30T19:51:00.001-08:00

Eyes cool blue and no smile
As though it were wrenched from your soul all the while
You stood playing with fi-re, quite lit-er-al-ly
Mm-mm and fig-ur’-tive-ly

You filled me up with desire
Then drained my patience while I suppressed ire
Couldn’t care less, I wanted you to undress me
Mm-mm-mm, literally

(bridge)

Do you use fire to give you the heat
that should start in you feet,
burn internally
Is fire your wing-man, is fire your crutch?
Is it there in a clutch, your hands chilling?
Do you need it so much you’re unwilling

(chorus)

To give into desire.
Stop playing with fire.
Please give into desire and start playing with fire.

So I chose not to stay
I took one last drink of you then walked away
You remained thinking of fi-re, quite lit-er-al-ly
Mm,mm and fig-ur’-tive-ly

I dreamt of you that night
Lecturing your lis’ners, rapt with delight
Couldn’t care less, I wanted you to undress me
Mm-mm-mm, literally

(bridge)

Do you use fire to give you the heat
that should start in you feet,
burn internally
Is fire your wing-man, is fire your crutch?
Is it there in a clutch, your hands chilling?
Do you need it so much you’re unwilling

(chorus)

To give into desire.
Stop playing with fire.
Please give into desire and start playing with fire.

Awake

2011-11-30T19:47:00.003-08:00

Recently I exchanged emails with a lovely man on a dating site. He was just my type. I know my type because my girlfriend made me make out a list of the important qualities I would need in a man for him to qualify as boyfriend material.

“Be specific,” she said, “and do it now, while I’m sitting here watching you.”
I grabbed a piece of scrap paper and scribbled, ‘smart, funny, kind,’ then added, ‘employed.’ I handed my friend the paper, saying, “here.” She handed it back and said now go put it under your pillow.
“All the way upstairs?”
“Yes,” she said, “I’ll wait.”
I said, “So, you’re saying this won’t work if I put it in the cheese drawer of my refrigerator?”
“Under your pillow, smartass,” she said.
So I did. And she waited.

Apparently it worked. This guy’s profile was smiling, smart, age-appropriate and there was no inappropriate use of quotation marks-- as in, “I really ‘enjoy’ canoeing.” We liked similar movies, similar music and he seemed sweet and funny on the phone. We made a plan to meet for a quick lunch and I told him to call anytime after 8am to firm our plans and that I had until 2pm. He said that he hoped he would be awake in time. I thought, hmm, awake? Well, that’s when most people call, after they wake up. Did he mean awake in time to have lunch? Well, I guess I’ll find out.

At 10:45am he emailed. He apologized for not contacting me sooner, not because he had just woken up but because he hadn’t gone to sleep yet-- from the night before. Apparently the stress of being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in order to meet potential lady friends had taken its toll and he had been suffering from debilitating insomnia for a while now, or more specifically, ever since he joined the dating site scene. But then he added brightly that he really liked the way I write and wouldn’t it be fun to continue emailing? Then he wrapped up with, “Why don’t you tell me all about yourself? That way I can reply at 3am when I’m awake and you’re asleep.”

I thought about his offer for about four minutes, then I wrote back to him. Very politely and with grace and empathy I wrote that although he was clearly a great guy, I wasn’t looking for a pen pal. I wrote that I want to see his face and hear his laugh. I want to go to the movies, hold hands and maybe split a chocolate nut brownie ala mode—none of which I could do to my level of satisfaction online. I wished him well and said that if he every gets his sleeping issues in order, he would be welcome to call. He wrote me a very friendly, understanding response.

That night as I was arranging my pillows for bed—at 10pm-- I came across that rumpled piece of paper; the list. I took it out and read it again. It never occurred to me that I would have to be so specific. I just assumed that there were some things that were a given; some things that I could actually take for granted. But, apparently not. I would have to be very specific. So I grabbed a pen off my night stand and scrolled down my rumpled list; smart, funny, kind, employed,” then I added, “nice to kids, likes his mother, chews with mouth closed,” and “awake.”

There's No Place Like Italy

2011-11-30T19:47:00.001-08:00

I dragooned my son to go to Italy with me recently. We were going to go to Spain, but when he asked, “Are there chicken nuggets in Spain?” I thought twice. If I was going to get him to Europe, I’d better choose wisely. A neighbor asked, “Why don’t you take him to Disney?” “Well,” I said, “because Epcot isn’t Europe. I want him to travel; to experience other cultures where people speak different languages, use different money, enjoy different rituals and eat different food.” “You mean like pizza?” Yeah, like pizza. Okay, I was busted. I wanted to go to Italy because it’s Italy.

We have family friends who live in Milan and who have two boys about my son’s age, who are bi-lingual and who could put us up for four days. So, we flew over there and within three hours of landing, they were playing four square and trading Pokemon cards-- Italian Pokemons with names like Picachini and Floatzilio. Then we went to a public park with a playground that had twelve trampolines laced together surrounded by a high net. We gave the mustached old man in the tiny wooden booth two euros each for twenty-minute jumps and off the boys went, each to their own trampolines; shoes off, laughing and flying like beautiful birds.

I explained to my friend that this would never work in America; that the mustached old man could never afford the two million dollar liability insurance on what he makes a year, and that he’d most likely spend his lifetime gnarled in litigation from the class action suit of parents who sued him because their child broke an arm. She looked at me quizzically as if to say, you’re joking? No, I assured her, it’s no joke. Then we resumed watching their joyful, bouncing bodies and listening to the happy squeals from our bench, in the sun, in Italy.

The next three days flew by, filled with a visit to the beach, a boat ride with a swim in the Mediterranean’s warm, teal waters, and a day and night’s stay in a midevil village high atop a mountain on Italy’s coast. The village—population 350—is pedestrian only-- it’s streets too narrow for cars-- and only two restaurants, one church and no hotels to support the whims of travelers or schools to attract young year-rounders. There were no planes overhead, no air-conditioners grinding away like oil refineries, and no leaf blowers to crash and stomp on the peace and quiet that is one of the supposed reasons why people move out of cities in the first place. And with too few trees within the village to support the chatter of frogs, crickets or cicadas, it was the single quietest place I have ever experienced in my life. It was deprivation tank quiet; simultaneously pleasing and confounding.

I strong-armed my son to visit only a few cultural touch points. At the duomo—the third largest cathedral in the world--we walked all around the roof, also a litigation nightmare by American standards. It was spectacular in an almost Harry Potter way, being so high up among the gargoyles and spires, looking down on the birds coasting below us, we felt a little magical, a little primeval. At least I did. I bored him with my meanderings on the generations of artisans and sculptors who spent their lives building and assembling this feat of architectural, engineering and aesthetic mastery. Every saint’s face, every drape of each angel’s robe was a stunning example of grace and perfection. While I tried to wrap my head around the single mindedness of an artist’s lifetime quest times thousands, my son wondered how high a rubber ball would bounce if dropped from the tippy-top .

I think he felt more magical eating gelato, which we did at least once a day under the “We’re on vacation” provision of the often-used Traveler’s Rationalizations. The gelato was outer-worldly, as was the prosciutto and the bread. At a housewarming party I accompanied my host and hostess to on Friday night, the new home-owners served a mozzarella ball the size of a large meatloaf. When three flats of foccacia bread arrived in the arms of a guest from Genoa-- bought especially from a particular baker who makes the best foccacia in all of Italy-- the room practically broke out in applause. No one ever said ‘fresh’ in four days. They didn’t have to, it’s implied.

So appreciative was everyone of the bread, the wine, the meat, shrimp and cheese, I wondered why we all shouldn’t eat this way every day, like Italians do. In fact, I wondered why Italians ever leave Italy. I mean, yes, of course, I know why they leave now—the economy-- and why they’ve left in the past—the fascism-- but why don’t we all go back? All of us! Italians and non-Italians alike!

I say we go. Who’s with me?

Seen It All

2011-10-18T08:22:00.000-07:00

Patricia is a beautiful, vibrant and good-humored woman who was an elementary school nurse in the same district in New Jersey for thirty-two years. When I asked her if she’s seen it all, she replied, “Seen it all and heard it all.”

Patricia told me that not only did the kids come into her office for their issues, but that parents and teachers spent a good deal of time in her office, too. She knew all about the marital problems of most adults who came in to sit with her and usually knew about her students’ conflicts at home long before their teachers and even sometimes before their parents did. But most of all, she said, “People just needed to talk.” And Patricia was there to listen.

She said that she always kept quiet games and coloring books for the kids and music on the radio turned down low. And she always made herself available for chit-chat. I asked if she could tell the fakers right off the bat and she said, “After a while I got pretty good at telling. Headaches and stomachaches were the most popular because they couldn’t be seen. Sometimes they were bored but most times, they just needed a break. Or someone to talk to. If a kid trusts you enough, they’ll start to tell you things.”

If she saw something was amiss with a student, or was told something in confidence, she always waited for the child’s teacher to, “form his or her own opinion.” Then, if the teacher came to her with a similar finding or hunch, she could corroborate what she knew and they could work towards a solution together.

One little first grader she remembered “was a recent immigrant with a troubled mother.” Patricia was as compassionate as she could be and then the little girl moved away suddenly and always left her wondering. Fifteen years later the girl returned one day to tell Patricia that she was okay now, and so was her mom. She asked to pose for a picture with Patricia and stood close as they smiled.

Decades before there were aides and experts assigned to students with disabilities and special needs, teachers with spirited or disruptive students would send them out of the classroom to Patricia’s office for most of the school day. One little boy with ADHD, she said, “practically lived in my office” for his entire K-6th grade career. He came back every year after that to give her a big hug on the last day of school. Every year without fail, a big hug.

“As the years went on,” she said, “I saw too much of the parents. I just wanted to tell most of them to get out and go find something to do. But I had to be nice.” Patricia’s cousin chimed in, “She’s very even tempered and she’s wonderful with people who annoy her. I should know.”

“How did you avoid burn out?” I asked. “Well, it changes every year,” Patricia said, “but there is no greater bunch than the teachers. There was just so much camaraderie. It wasn’t all work; we had fun in between. Things can get stressful, but as long as you have friends to help you through… and I miss the kids. They were so much fun. But they had so much they had to do. And then after school activities—they just needed a break. I always gave them the benefit of the doubt.”

She said that she wishes she’d kept some of the excuse notes she got. I thought they might make an excellent coffee table book for doctor’s waiting rooms and lobbies. Then I asked her what I knew was a leading question, but I asked it just the same. “Would you say that most kids are basically good kids?” “Oh, yes, absolutely,” she said without missing a beat, “that’s why I always gave them the benefit of the doubt.” Always, I repeated to myself. That’s a precious commodity in these times. Thank goodness for school nurses like Patricia.

Thank goodness for the benefit of the doubt.

Hurricane and Went

2011-10-18T08:16:00.000-07:00

When I was 10 or 11, there was a big hurricane that hit the Jersey Shore in the summertime. The firemen came to our door and told us to evacuate to the local public school basement, which was inland by a few blocks, so Mom packed our pajamas, sleeping bags and some dolls and snacks and off we went. Each family staked out their little 7x7 foot plot on the gymnasium floor, and they opened up the equipment closet for us so that we could play with the scooters and kickballs while the men stood in raincoats at the door, watching the wind and the rain absorb the air sideways. It was exciting to be in a strange school at night playing with phys-ed equipment, staying up way past our usual bedtimes. In the morning we returned to our rental homes and resumed our summers, blissfully unaware of any flooding or hardship that others may have endured. I remember that night fondly as do many of my friends who are now parents themselves, staying at the beach for the summer with their children. So when we heard there was a hurricane coming, we became excited, even nostalgic. We’d stay down to watch the sideways rain and hear the wind rattle out shutters and then walk the beach in the morning looking for sea glass, trying to identify who’s porch ended up on whose front lawn along the way.

But that’s not how it played out.

I was slow to the evacuation party, happily looking forward to the excitement, unaware of the news corps’ omnipresent phalanx of fear mongerers doing their best to get under our skin. Then I started getting texts from friends and thought perhaps there was more to this storm than a pajama party in a school basement. After plenty of corroborating emails and mandatory evacuation pleas from local law enforcement, it was clear that leaving the beach was the best course of action, if for no other reason than to get our cars to higher ground. We were all sad to go; sorry to miss the drama and the heightened frenzy of Mother Natures’ operatic moment; sorry to miss the majesty of the ocean’s fervor and the wind’s dominance over everything not nailed down-- and many things that were.

The Friday before the storm was to hit was a bit of a mind game. How could such a serenely gorgeous day herald such mighty devastation only 36 hours later? Back home up north, I finally tuned into the news in short bursts when my son wasn’t in the room. Showboating newscasters one-upped each other all along the Eastern Seaboard as the storm’s graphics and logo smash-cut across the screen with import and flair. They were predictably redundant-- stating the obvious-- and I turned off the TV, choosing instead to talk to neighbors and text my friends for the salient bits. Mostly, my son and I listened to music and readied the house, pausing from storing the patio furniture in the garage every so often to dance, turning the music up loud and expending some nervous energy in one of the best ways I know how.

I pulled up the basement rugs and piled all the toys onto the ping-pong table-- even though we’ve never had flooding-- just in case. I brought in all the contents of the screened-in porch and piled all the furniture in the corner—just in case. Then I scrubbed the tub and filled it with water, and set out the batteries, candles, matches and gardening gloves—just in case. I’d filled up my car with gas and gone to the super market, even though, like most American’s, I probably have enough food in my cupboard to survive for three months. And I bought a case of water—just in case.

It was curious to be thrown from a casual summer schedule of certainties—one lined up after the other like dominoes on end—into a potluck of possible outcomes. It was good for me to have to think above and below the mundane hum of predictability and use my imagination to conjure scenarios; the way science fiction writers conjure unforeseeable futures. “What ifs” dominated my problem-solving mind and I was forced to get creative as the hurricane approached. Where should I put the car? In the garage for the first time ever. Where would we sleep on the night of the storm? At a friend’s house on a street with fewer large trees. What will we eat once back at our house if the power goes out? Lots of peanut butter and canned peaches, as it turns out. And what will we do once the sun goes down? Listen to our battery-operated radio and read by candlelight. Lovely. Necessity is the mother of invention, after all, and it was satisfying having planned for contingencies that came to fruition. I feel like Ma from “Little house and the Prairie.” It’s fun camping indoors, for a while.

I hope my son will remember Hurricane Irene as fun, exciting and do-able. I hope he’ll remember the candles and eating up all the ice pops before they melted. Because life just keeps coming at us and we can only control so much; it’s good to be reminded that it’s elusive and for kids to see ho we handle uncertainties. These lessons are not always pleasant, but they keep our creative problem-solving minds nimble and remind us of what we’re capable of, who are true friends are and what matters most. Then we clean up the mess and start setting up the dominoes again. Until the next breeze comes along, and then we’re off.

Sea Legs

2011-10-18T08:08:00.000-07:00

When Chris Wojcik was three years old, his favorite toy was his scuba GI Joe, which came with a wet suit, mask and fins. After sufficient badgering, his mother outfitted him with paper plates, which she cut in half and rubber banded to his feet, and giant seventies aviator sunglasses, which he wore for a scuba mask. Suited up and ready for adventure, little Chris headed off to explore the great deep under his dining room table. Years later, the summer “Jaws” hit theaters, Chris badgered his parents again. It was R rated, as you may recall, so they went to see it first-- as any responsible parents would-- then decided to take him along. He was seven. That infamous summer, when most people ran away from the ocean, Chris ran towards it; secretly chummed for sharks with leftover tuna sandwiches, which he pocketed when his mom wasn’t looking.

Chris eventually graduated with degrees in biology and biological oceanography. But it was all those summers spent working with his dad-- a contractor— which gave him the additional experience and confidence needed to work with all manner of tools and building materials. So it was no surprise to anyone when Chris ended up as a leading environmental education specialist. In other words, he’s the guy who gets paid to travel all over the world, then design and construct exhibits and sculptures for zoos, aquariums and natural history museums.

As the CEO of Ionature, Inc., he’s a busy guy. Because of his intrinsic artistic ability, he can create most anything you need while keeping an eye on its natural oceanic compatibility and organic integrity. Whether building and installing reefs and shipwrecks for the San Diego Zoo and the National Aquarium in Baltimore, or researching peet swamps in Malaysia, Chris has been very successful using his unique combination of knowledge and skills to interpret nature for the public. He knows about water currents, waves and tides and the feeding cycles of all sea creatures known to man. He can spot ill-placed anemone and misappropriated barnacles on the wrong side of a piling sculpture in a museum exhibit a mile a way.

But he’s also drawn to more unusual challenges. Recently Chris was commissioned by the family of a career commercial fisherman who died to design a 12 foot flounder inside which the ashes of the fisherman would be placed, then submerged to become an underwater reef and art installation for eternity. He took on the project, crafting the flounder sculpture with great care and respect, then offered to submerge the tribute reef himself, as he’s also been an accredited scuba diver for twenty-four years.

Which brings me to his sideline career as an underwater cameraman. Chris is the also the guy you hire to shoot footage of historic sunken ships salvaged from the 1800s off of Pt. Pleasant, New Jersey, of which there are many. While doing so a year or so back, he met a guy from the Discovery Channel who needed a shark expert to field and answer the onslaught of live chat questions about sharks that rolled in during Shark Week programming. Being a shark expert, Chris said, sure. So he’s done that, too.

I asked him what he’s excited about lately and his even-keeled manner spiked ever so slightly. “Underwater reef sculpture,” he said, and his eyes lit up. Apparently there are underwater sculpture gardens out there for combo scuba/art enthusiasts. There’s a big one in Mexico, and there’s Touchdown Jesus in Florida, of course, but Chris has plans for us right here in New Jersey. Big plans.

Starting in a few weeks, Chris will begin building a fifty-five foot, thirty-five thousand pound horseshoe crab reef sculpture out of rebar and cement—the only two materials that are 100% sea-friendly. It will take him 4-6 weeks to construct and weld to the top of a steel barge, which will then be towed out to the reef location at which point a special team of guys who get paid to blow things up will detonated the floaties under the barge. That awesome fun will enable the barge to sink to the ocean’s floor off of Mantoloking, with the sculpture in tact, where it will become home to hundreds and possibly thousands of oceanic life forms for eternity—like the fisherman in the flounder-- and art to scuba divers, too.

Chris chose the horseshoe crab because it’s “one of the oldest unchanged animals left on earth,” and because “its natural design and shape allows it to withstand currents and waves.” He built a model in a diorama-- he builds models of every he does beforehand-- of the happy scene he envisions; two scuba divers placidly gliding down into the welcoming depths of the ocean to see a giant Gulliver-esque horseshoe crab, surrounded by its new reef family and friends.

I asked Chris if there was one thing he wanted people to know about the ocean what would it be, and he answered, “Don’t be afraid of the sea.” He said that even thought fish feed at dawn and dusk, that’s when he likes to swim. “It’s like a big undersea day/night shift change and life gets very interesting down there.” Good thinkin’ I thought and filed that away in my summer brain. Wasn’t it Steve Martin who said, “never at dusk”?

You’re welcome to visit www.artasreef.com for more information, or to just get lost in an ocean lover’s dream; one of many born out of a child’s inexplicable and innate passion for the sea, fostered and nurtured by parents who knew well enough to support their son’s intrepid spirit any way they could, then get the heck out of his way. And keep plenty of paper plates and rubber bands on hand.

A Novel Idea

2011-08-01T05:08:00.000-07:00

Hebbo Frehbbends,

Just a quick note to say thank you for checking in and reading this from time to time. I appreciate your patronage more than you will ever know and I find you all very attractive-- on the whole-- as a readership.

I know most of you don't comment-- and you know who you are-- and that's just fine by me, because I probably wouldn't comment back. But when you do it warms my cockles and reminds me that my eyes aren't the only ones on this stuff, and that's nice, too. But I wanted to write to you on this steamy summer morning because I have some news.

I thought it might be fun to share with you that the reason there were no posts in July is because I wrote a novel. I signed on-- in a sort of honor system way-- to write 50,000 words of a novel in 31 days, which I just completed yesterday, on July 31st. I was shepherded through the process by this book called, "No Plot, No Problem," written by the funny, friendly guy who started the National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo movement eight or ten years ago in San Francisco, I think. You can google it.

He posits that writers spend too much time talking about writing and not enough time doing it, so he challenges writers to write 1,700 words a day for 31 days and I did it. It was hard. No. It was grueling. But I did it, dammit and I hope you'll all cross your fingers for me and pray to the publishing sprites and fairies that my salacious sex-filled novel about sanctioned adultery amongst suburban friends sells a million copies and is in theaters by October.

It was fun and now I can join the pantheon of cocktail party bores who hoist a gin and tonic to their lips, take an important sip, then say, "Why, yes. I am a novelist." Then you can yawn and walk away.

At any rate, I'll keep you posted. And for the love of Pete, contact me if you know anyone in the publishing world. Thanks.

Lurv yous.
All a yous.

xo

Send in the Clown

2011-08-01T05:06:00.000-07:00

About once a month my son and I turn the corner in front of my mom’s beach house at the Jersey Shore to find a car parked out front with a bright red, plastic ball affixed to the front grill. The car tells us that Bernie is inside—short for Bernice—and that the house is being cleaned. You see, Bernie is my mother’s cleaning lady. She is also a clown.

For about seven or eight years now, Bernie has been under my mother’s employ and in that time I’ve learned a few things about clowning. For instance, I’ve learned that “clown” is a verb, as in, “I clowned on Saturday and some kid threw up on my shoes,” Bernie might say, “Thankfully they were longer than my feet and made of plastic so I didn’t get covered. I just wiped them off.” Or, “The air-conditioning was broken where I clowned on Sunday, so my make-up started to run and I looked a little like the scary Joker from that Batman movie.”

Bernie is a large woman in most ways with a very friendly face; a face that one could immediately imagine tracing with the large, happy red lips of a clown’s over-the-top smile. Her eyes are bright and her bosoms are huge which, I imagine, would serve to enhance the overall round-y clowness of any working clown in the biz. She speaks not quiet slowly but with the same steady rhythmic inflection on each syllable of every word, as if there were an invisible piano teacher sitting on her shoulder reminding her of the calm, predictable pace of a metronome nearby.

Thankfully, I don’t have to imagine her smile because there is a business card of Bernie in “full clown” tacked up our kitchen bulletin board. “Laffles” it says in a loopy italicized font and she’s available for pretty much any event you can conceive of. Bernie’s longtime husband is also a clown. Sometimes they work together but mostly they work apart. Whenever they’re hired to work at children’s hospitals or for veterans, they never, ever charge them. If she gets hired for a gig and can’t do it, she passes the job onto other clown friends. Apparently there’s a ring of local clowns and they all look out for each other. Sometimes Bernie forgets to collect her fee, and sometimes she collects it then misplaces it. But you won’t hear those stories recounted with bitterness or frustration. There is too much to be thankful for in Bernie’s life to get upset about something like money.

Bernie can’t clean and tell me stories at the same time, and so we stop to talk and catch up with what turns out to be great length. Occasionally she forgets where she left off and misses something she was supposed to clean. It’s no big deal and in fact, gives Mom and me a chance to sharpen our skill at clown puns. Once I came back to my bedroom to discover that the waste paper basket hadn’t been emptied. On my way down to the kitchen garbage to empty it myself, Mom stopped me and asked what I was doing. I explained and she said, “Oh, that Bernie; probably clowning around.”

Sometimes when my son and I round the corner there is a black pick-up truck out front with a hood ornament of a boxer dog welded to the car. That car belongs to Mom’s handyman, Stanley, who is the other person who rounds out my mother’s staff. Stan is a dead ringer for Hulk Hogan in every way except much, much friendlier. He’s got thick, blonde hair that he wears helmeted under a bandana and a blonde handlebar mustache that dips down around the corners of his mouth to meet up with his beard. He wears brightly colored T-shirts and parachute pants with neon yellow and pink triangles—not unlike something you might have seen in a Whitney Huston video back in her heyday—and a single, solid gold chain around his neck the size and thickness of your pointer finger.

His blue eyes twinkle as much as Bernie’s and he’s got that steady cadence speech pattern thing like she does, too. The only difference is that Stan speaks much louder than Bernie because he’s got tinnitus. That’s also the reason why he brings in a boom box to play 1970s biker hard rock at deafening levels when he’s repairing anything in the house. He tells me he listens to music just as loud to fall asleep to as well, but his wife’s used to it. He’s got a Dalmatian dog named, Trixie, and three daughters to whom he each gave a motorcycle when they turned sixteen.

I take great comfort in knowing that my mother is being looked after and taken care of by a clown and a biker with big smiles and twinkly eyes. It’s a little like living on the Island of Misfit Toys but my mom wouldn’t have it any other way. Sometime I’ll tell you about her plumber, Steve. He’s in a rock band with his brothers and sings top 40 tunes from the sixties while he works. Life’s a circus if you choose to see it that way. Sometimes more literally than figuratively.

Savage Beauty

2011-08-01T05:02:00.000-07:00

I like risk takers and am generally drawn to people who are a bit nuts-o, so I was excited as I headed into the city to see the Alexander McQueen show at the Met. Mr. McQueen was a whack-a-doo couture-clothing designer and the Met has a retrospective of his most outlandish work entitled “Savage Beauty” up through August 7th of this year. I was not an ardent disciple of Mr. McQueen’s and cannot recall his clothes by name, but was just aware enough of his work that I would smile when I caught a photo of his runway show in the paper; of a model wearing resin antlers, or a headpiece swirling with dozens of bright red butterflies completely obscuring her face.

I say “was” because he recently took his own life at the age of 40 and so my girlfriend and I talked about suicide as we waited in line for 35 minutes on the second floor of the Met, ruminating over what drives a person to that daunting brink then tips them over the edge when so many step back. As we chatted we shuffled past pearly white busts of daydreaming Greek gods and the achingly tender embraces of Rodin’s naked lovers. It occurred to me that daydreaming and kissing are two of life’s greatest pleasures and excellent reasons to ride out the most hopeless seeming storm. I wished Mr. McQueen could have held on.

Entering the exhibit was like entering a spooky ride. The sounds of winter wind and labored breathing curled up our legs and hovered above us, reminding me of the old haunted house Halloween album that my dad used to play for trick-or-treaters. It was a fitting introduction to the two pieces of eye-candy that greeted us; one, a long, clingy red dress covered in cascades of rectangular, glass, medical slides painted red; and the other, a floor-length, regal, sleeveless number comprised entirely of layered rows of hanging polished and varnished razor clam shells which, when worn, would give the aural impression of Neptune’s wife sidling up next to you like Mae West. Clearly, we were in for a treat.

Turning a corner, we were introduced to a young Alexander’s graduation collection from fashion school in London. So impressive was his novice work that the collection was purchased on the spot in its entirety by renowned fashionista, Isabella Blow. I could see why: Mr. McQueen had turned the women’s suit jacket on its head. Lapels dipped and meandered along shoulders and chest giving the jackets an understated whimsy, downplayed by the seriousness of the somber black wool. Occasional placards with quotes from McQueen reminded us that he drew great strength from powerful women and was thrilled by the discomfort he imposed on the fashion voyeur every time he put forth a female model as steely and unforgiving as an evil empress.

Knocking and barking, scraping and creaking, the Edgar Allen Poe audio accompanied us into the next room where we were introduced to a more Nine Inch Nails McQueen as renegade recycler, spinning found objects into object d’arts. The skulls of vultures and small alligator heads perched upon molded black leather shoulders as epaulets. Horse hair and shiny black duck feathers made their way onto the silks of gothic gowns. Repeatedly we were reminded that McQueen saw himself as a romantic, but these were no teddy bear infested, heart-shaped confections. McQueen was hell bent on exploring the dark, forbidden corners of romanticism usually conjured by David Lynch or Tim Burton; panicked lovers chased by the gnashing teeth of rabid wolves in murky, moonlit forests—that sort of romance.

The next room was a cavernous visual carnival of his most bizarre and outlandish accessories interspersed with TV monitors showing loops of memorable moments from his infamously dramatic runway shows. Metal spines, alien-type serpents and tails made of brass and steel hugged mannequins next to images of models being soaked by wind and rain or dripping in red bugle beads ringed by actual flames of fire. I cracked up at the earrings made of real pheasant claws holding dripping lengths of pearls between their talons, and the leather high heels molded at the toe to look like bare feet. There were the breast-plates made of molded glass and balsa wood, and the majestic headdresses of drift wood, birds nests and bonsai carved cork. There were the impossible looking, metal-studded and jewel encrusted, high-heeled hoof shoes, worn by Lady Gaga as only she can. And there was the crowd: reverent and agape at the imagination and artistry; energized by the macabre audacity.

I was giddy to learn we still had eight rooms to go. There were a few eight-year-olds in the room and I predicted they’d have a nightmares before morning. There was the conservative looking older man in his seventies who had hired a private guide to explain the show to he, his wife and grandson. They looked very mid-west, with their khaki pants and pastel golf shirts, but I fully respected them for wanting to know about this madman. The grandfather leaned in to hear every word the guide said about passion and misunderstanding, genius ignoring boundaries, and I hoped that my intellectual curiosity would be as open-minded thirty years from now. Curiously, although it seemed in life Mr. McQueen sought to push and provoke, in death everyone was invited in. His clothes did not shirk or slink and neither did his ideas or the women he envisioned wearing them. He was a master craftsman of pomp and creepiness. I’m sorry for the fashion world’s loss and glad we had him for as long as we did.

Love You More

2011-06-25T08:33:00.000-07:00

(intro)
Here’s a song about my son
He’s seven and a half years old
He calls me pretty, still nestles in
When we snuggle these moments are gol-den

We put on K.C. and the Sunshine Band
And boogie around the room
We wrote this song together
When we sing it my heart goes zoom, zoom.

(chorus)
I love you more than you love me
I love you more than you love me
I love you, I love you
I love you more than you love me

Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree, let’s agree
Because I love you more than you love me

You will grow older and smelly
Dark hairs are gonna grow on your belly
You’ll be sullen and morose
And when I try to hold your hand you’ll pull away saying, “Gross!”

“Mom, I don’t think so. Ugh. Don’t even touch me. Infact,
don’t look at me, okay. Just stop. Ugh, go away. Leave me alone.”

You’ll hold your head down and mumble
When I ask how was your day you’ll simply grumble
I know all you can think about is sex
But would you look me in the eye and just stop text-ting "for one minute? Would it kill you to look at your mother
and tell me one thing you did in school? Just one thing?”

“Okay, here’s one thing. I thought about how much I hate you.”

“Honey, that’s sweet. I love you, too.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Sweetie, we can agree to disagree. Hey, let’s sing that song we wrote together when you were little and wanted to marry me and held my face in your hands and told me I was pretty several times a day.”

“Go to hell!”

“Dinner’s in an hour!”

“Fuck you!”

I love you more than you love me
I love you more than you love me
I love you, I love you
I love you more than you love me

Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree, let’s agree
Because I love you more than you love me.

Invention Convention

2011-06-25T08:31:00.000-07:00

Recently I had the extreme pleasure of attending the Invention Convention at the South Mountain Elementary School. Every third grader had been encouraged to come up with a pressing problem that needed solving and then present his proposed solution to the public, comprised mostly of her peers. Long tables ringed the outside perimeter of the gymnasium, with 3 to 4 inventors behind each table. They waited-- some patiently, some anxiously-- for folks to wander up and ask them what they had to offer. Then, like olde time snake oil peddlers their eyes brightened as they let go a sales pitch that would make Ronco proud.

Clearly having practiced, their spiel was down to a science. I would walk up to a huckster, and he or she would take a deep breath then lean towards me a little, gearing up for the big sell. Most of them began the same way, “You know how when…”, regardless of the age of the listener. I liked that I was one of them; sharing their problems, feeling their pain. When you get down to it, aren’t we all just simpatico souls looking for answers?

I walked up to a fair-haired girl who looked in my eyes and asked, “You know how when you’re on the monkey bars and your hands slip?”
“Yes,” I said in all earnestness. It was an irksome predicament.
“Well, these gloves are sticky on the palm for wearing on the monkey bars.” I looked at the proto-type. “Awesome,” I said. And I meant it. Slipping off the monkey bars can ruin any gal’s day. But it doesn’t have to now, not when you’re wearing Stickeroo Gloves.

Looking at the pretty, colorful charm bracelet dangling from the next inventor’s wrist, I asked, “What have you got there?”
She answered matter-of-factly, “It’s the Eraserlet. All the charms are erasers so you just wear it to school and you’ve always got one near by.”
“Genius,” I said. I couldn’t help it. I thought it was. In fact, they all were.

There was the Jump Rope Soaker wherein small holes have been poked in water bottles for handles which sprinkle water to keep you cool while you jump rope, and the Wheel of Fun, which you spin to help decide what to do on a playdate. There was the No-Hands Rabbit Feeder and the Semi-Automatic Bed-Maker which helps you make your bed by dragging the sheet, blanket and comforter up to the top of the bed in one all-attached rope handle with multiple clips. He even demonstrated it’s semi-automatic action on a doll’s bed. It was amazing. I would have placed an order on the spot.

There was the Stuffed Animal Holder for keeping your stuffed animals from falling out of bed and onto the floor at night while you sleep, and the Backpack with Interchangeable Decorative Covers. There was the Remote Finder, the Lollypop Saver and the Toothpaste Pump. These were the pressing dilemmas of a nine year old and here were their obvious solutions. They were so creative and so sure of themselves-- hawking their wares like Javitz Center pros-- that I knew that our national sales and promotions culture had a robust future. But mostly I was proud of their creativity and imagination; proud beyond belief and they weren’t even my kids. I wanted to linger and ask if they’d considered spending their summer applying for design patents, but I was short on time and didn’t want to miss any.

Some ideas were clearly born from hearing grown-ups kvetch and although those inventions secretly cracked me up, I was just as impressed. Like the good people-pleasing co-dependants some kids—mostly oldest children-- become, they had fashioned solutions for an adult world, hoping to cut down on the carping they have to overhear while playing video games; half in their world, half in ours. Or maybe they just want to be helpful.

There were the Thorn Avoider Gardening Gloves and the Mop with Hollow Handle that you pour water into and then squeeze into the floor sponge as needed. There was the Toss-A-Meal Dinner Decider spinning wheel, and the removable and washable Dirty Tissue Jacket Pockets that velcro inside your jacket so that you can pull a clean tissue from one pocket, then return it used to the other. One girl had designed a hollow secret-key hiding place inside a flower pot which could house actual dirt and flowers, and a future funny-man demo’ed his Nail Holder for holding nails away from the hammer so that you don’t hit your fingers, while wearing a fake, bloody, nail-through-the-finger bandage on his finger. Points for visual drama and gross-out humor, kid. Way to know your audience.

I left the Invention Convention with a bounce in my step and a chuckle in my heart. I know that China’s going to clobber us in told and untold ways for many years to come, but our can-do spirit is alive and well in our elementary schools. These students were polished and passionate, creative and industrious, and I’m anxious to see what they come up with next. Until then, put me down for a pair of Stickaroo Gloves and a Lollypop Saver—make it two.

Old Jewish Man

2011-05-27T03:28:00.000-07:00

I like the Marx brothers, and I like to dance
And sometimes I say slacks in-ste-ad of pants
And I like Ernie Kovaks, and Madeline Khan
And Django Reinhart and Sean Connery’s James Bond

And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo

(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man

I enjoy puzzles, and strolls 'round the block
And prefer the face on my old kitchen clock
And I like to garden and play cards in the shade
And ruffle the sheets though the bed’s just been made

And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo

(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man.

Rummaging Around

2011-05-11T09:38:00.001-07:00

Most people have second families. Sometimes at work, sometimes at church, and occasionally they come in the form of a teaming ocean of in-laws. My second family is comprised of about a hundred volunteers for the Visiting Nurses Association Rummage Sale in Far Hills, New Jersey. Many of them are octogenarians whom have known me for nearly twenty years. Once you start volunteering, it’s hard to stop. People get sucked-in, as they say. George in the camera department is ninety-four. He hasn’t missed a sale in twenty-six years.

My mom got sucked in first; then me, then my dad. Rummage, as we volunteers call it, -- because to us it names the destination, the activity, the sale, and the ensuing lifestyle—happens twice a year, always on the first Friday, Saturday and Sunday of May and October. It began as a fair on the polo grounds just outside of town over a hundred years ago, but there wasn’t a rummage table until a few years later. Now there are five circus tents, two long barns and a couple of smaller tents, which together house the 28 departments that comprise the sale.

People come from near and far to attend this twice-yearly event. Folks who used to attend or volunteer and who have since moved away plan their family reunions around the sale. I know a woman who lived and worked as scientist in the Amazon for years who planned her yearly trips back to the states around the sale. She even bought her wedding dress from me in the Vintage Department, which I ran for 13 years—even when I worked and lived in Manhattan; commuting out for 2 ½ hours each way every weekend for “set-up”, the month leading up to the sale.

Set up lasts the month prior and the sale accepts a steady stream of cars packed with donations, 6 days a week from 10am to 1pm. Over 400 volunteers work in the heat and dust, snow and rain, battling sunburn, mud and wasps; many of them every day to set up the sale. The constant movement and buzz of handcarts sorting and delivering the donated items to their respective departments gives the sale the appearance of a smurf village. My friend who works at refugee camps all over the world feels right at home at rummage. Except that we laugh a whole lot more.

Once delivered to the proper department, the item is micro-sorted, then sometimes nano-sorted. Electrical items are fixed, curtains and men’s pants are measured and clothing is hung up according to size and sometimes color. The fastidious-- read: borderline OCD--departments heads count playing cards and lego pieces, group golf clubs into sets, shelve books alphabetically according to subject and/or author and see that every puzzle piece is accounted for. It is a stunning monument to organization and systems. It is also a dysfunctional family.

For as much as we laugh over the ear of corn that was donated encased in lucite, or the souvenir dishtowel from a leper colony in Africa, there are tears. There is infighting and occasional back-stabbing, there are temper tantrums and betrayals. And every season, when our tent city sprouts up from the grassy fields out of nowhere like some bizarre Brigadoon, and we come together to hug and ask, “How was your summer?” or “Did you survive the winter?”, we notice the absences. We learn of sudden and tragic passings and the reluctant confinements to homes and beds. But mostly we learn of the grateful grantings of rest. It’s a curious thing to have ones friends die so often. It forces me to let go of old friendships and make room for new. I’ve gotten quite good at it, sad but true.

This second family of mine threw me an engagement party, then a baby shower. They watched over my son as he toddled amongst the racks and hangers-- a bell pinned to his back so we could keep and ear out for him; watching over him as if he was their own—and took turns keeping an eye on him as he napped in his filthy stroller so that I could hang second-hand clothes. They bolstered me through my divorce and understood when I left Vintage under its pressures to work closer with my mom in the Household Department. They grieved with us when my father died—he had fixed radios in the Electric Department for eight years and then catalogued in Records for five. They fortify my mother and me even now.

It’s a parallel life I lead each Rummage Sale, and my family there is vast and warm. I love them because everyone’s just a little nuts like me. Most of them are good nuts; caring, hilarious and kind. There is the woman who takes home every bread machine and makes bread in it to test it, then brings in the warm, fresh bread to pass around before marking the appliance, “Tested – okay!” I’ve missed only three sales in eighteen years; when my son was born, when my divorce was imminent, and when I began my graduate school studies. This spring’s sale is taking place this weekend. I hope I’m there for fifty-one more.

Textile Tango

2011-05-11T09:30:00.000-07:00

I enjoy winter’s deep, rich hues of charcoal, cranberry and plum, but I love swapping out my wardrobe for the giddy pinks and melons of spring knowing that setting up my back yard patio isn’t far behind. Turning the corner of the cushion aisle at my local big box store, my mood actually brightens at the wild patterns and crazy color combos that seem to be saying, “You survived another winter. Now lighten up and let’s boogie.” I imagine a career where I would get paid to sit around and design patio cushions; thinking about patterns and color combos all day. Sounds like heaven; sounds like fun. And really, how hard could it be? So, I asked a friend of mine, Janna Sendra, who is Director of Textile Development for a manufacturing company that makes outdoor furniture replacement cushions for big box stores what it’s like to have a job where you think about color all day. Turns out it’s pretty intense, incredibly complicated, and ultimately fascinating. But it aint easy.

Beginning in high school, Janna collected textiles—curtains, tea towels, scarves and such—because she was drawn to quality eye-catching graphics, interesting patterns and unexpected color combinations. In art school she took a class in weaving which inspired a Masters of Science in Textile Design at the former Philadelphia College of Textiles and Science. There she learned the science of dyeing and finishing fabrics, weaving and printing, pattern repeat, yarn strength and the properties of cottons vs. synthetics. Before graduating she began an internship at a third generation family owned and operated textile mill, which began making piano scarves in 1903. There she learned how to design for and weave patterns into jacquard upholstery fabrics and interpret design trends in order to create a line for furniture makers and high-end fabric manufacturers, and on what to base her insight on color and design.

It was at about this time that I realized I knew precious little about the textile design business considering its omnipresence. Because of our friends on TV, we feel intimate with forensic science and have convinced ourselves that we could perform an emergency tracheotomy should the occasion arise. We’ve logged thousands of hours watching home makeovers and miracle interior reincarnations, but do we have an inkling of what really goes into designing the fabrics that will grace the aesthetic elements that define our lobbies, offices, hotels, restaurants and homes? Did I even realize that it was a science? Not really, no.

“The real challenge is responding to trends in color and design, which is ultimately led by fashion,” Janna said. Textiles, interiors, paints, appliances, home décor, rugs, and car colors are all influenced by the all-powerful runway and shifts in the economy. The more permanent the item—like a couch or a car—the slower the trends are to turnover and the smaller the knee jerk reaction to fashion. But the irresistible throw pillow will reinvent itself again and again, luring us with its promise of newness and right now. The art and science of successfully pinpointing color trends remains a delicate balancing act based on history and previous sales. There are few long lunches in textile design, but there are very, very long nights.

Janna explained the nuances between different colors’ personalities the way one might describe middle school lunchroom cliques. Green is important right now and blue is getting a lot of attention. Red is always popular; it always sells. Orange, pink and yellow are more marginal, but proudly maintain an anarchic streak as accent colors. Blue/greens are their own category with teal making a big impression lately, and purple is very hot, very on trend. To most Americans, purple is a mystery; only Europeans and gay decorators can appreciate its lure.

More recently Janna learned to merchandise the fabrics for decorators, creating books of fabric themes-- or “color stories”-- for decorators and hotbeds of home renovation. She then became a buyer, and is now in charge of textile development, traveling to Taiwan to oversee print runs and the process of mixing UV inhibitors in with dyes for outdoor furniture cushions; the very cushions that lighten my mood when I turn the corner in my local big box store. “Color is very subjective and emotional,” she said, “it’s hard to predict.” But one thing is predictable: we will willfully allow ourselves to be seduced by a fresh take on an old standby. Whether it’s a new haircut or simply re-arranging the patio furniture from last summer, we strive to be relevant; we want to be now. I may treat myself to new patio cushions or more likely settle for the simple guilty pleasure of a single, fabulous throw pillow. Either way, I like my seasonal, emotional tango with color. It keeps me on my toes.

GRE 'n Me

2011-04-12T10:43:00.001-07:00

Raise your hand if you thrill at the prospect of taking standardized tests. Yeah, me neither.

Recently I had the dubious-- and what I hope to be unique-- anti-pleasure of taking the GRE or Graduate Ridiculous Exam. I’d managed to worm myself through two semesters already with a near-complete application—minus my GRE scores-- and could avoid it no longer. After nine months of procrastinating—eschewing, if you will— I finally buckled down and began studying. I was fairly confident I would earn the minimum score in the verbal section, because I can use the word eschew with reasonable confidence as evidenced above, but the math had me up nights, so I hired a tutor; a stranger I met at Starbucks.

He was an hour and a half late to our first session but incrementally arrived sooner. The book I’d chosen to shepherd us through this odyssey was not “The Princeton Review” as everyone had recommended, but it’s lesser cousin, “The GRE Test for Dummies.” I chose it because it was funny and written by three women. Who better to escort me through my tenth circle of hell than three funny women? The first time I cracked the math section of the book back in August, I read the word “integer” and burst into tears. What were integers? The word teased me with its familiarity and yet, remained distant, elusive. I knew I should know it but having not been in a math classroom since my junior year in high school a hundred and fifty years ago, I panicked. Then I cried.

Now it was April and I was cruising through the book. When I didn’t understand something, I dog-eared the corner of the page and had my tutor walk me though it. I carried the book with me everywhere and even wrote a song incorporating all the formulas—rhyming “isosceles” with “if you please”-- so that I could remember them on the big day of the test.

Then an unlikely thing happened; the math began to click. I didn’t just know that the area of a triangle was half the base times the height; I could reel off its ratios as well. Not only could I compute the total surface area of a cylinder, but it’s wily volume to boot. I learned the degree measure of an inscribed angle, exponents and reciprocals, and the FOIL method became my friend. I welcomed primes and composites into my world, and developed a crush on Pythagoras and Pi.

But the week before the test I panicked again. There was still so much that wasn’t making sense. I should have started studying sooner; I would never pass. I hated math’s guts and resented my brain for not understanding with the ease of my tutor and the three funny authors. Other brains could unravel these problems with the simple logic of untying a knot in one’s kite string, but I just picked and stared then wanted to throw it down and go inside and play hearts.

I emailed my friend, Steve Simon, who is the Chief Poo-Bah of All Things Mathy at Oxford University in England—not his real title. I told him that I felt that math was mocking me and asked him to tell me something about her to make me like her; some embarrassing fault, perhaps, to make her seem vulnerable and therefore likeable. I also asked him why x to the zero equals one, just for kicks.

Steve wrote back that I shouldn’t feel threatened; “everyone fights with her,” he said. Math was a benevolent but tough mistress; “a goddess of such beauty that no Cleopatra, no Charlize Theron could ever hope to compare.” He wrote, “…she is fair and loving and when you uncover her secrets and understand them fully, she will reward you and smile upon you.” But he also concurred that she doesn’t give up her secrets easily. “Would anyone respect her as queen of the sciences if she were easy?” Spoken like a true math geek. Apparently it was the process that I had to embrace. He recommended that I think of math as a series of elegant puzzles, “an entertaining game, like Boggle.” He warned me not to attach my future worth to my math score and added that Einstein had math troubles, too.

So, armed with a balsa-wood clad memory for all the formulas I had to keep straight, I headed into the belly of the beast. The testing center was like a day trip to the pentagon. I had to present two forms of ID and sign a dopey contract promising not to aid or abet cheating, then put all my personal property—including jewelry and water bottle—into a locker. I was photographed then asked to empty all my pockets and pat myself down front and back. I pulled an elastic hair band and three throat lozenges from my front pocket and was told I could take in the hair band and one tissue, but had to leave the lozenges. Some jerk with a fake cough had clearly ruined the party for the rest of us by scribbling, “the area of a circle is pi R squared” on the inside of a wrapper and now I would have to quell my sore throat with my own spittle as balm. Oh, what sweet metaphor for life! I thought and stopped myself from shaking my fists at the heavens because I was pretty sure the test center’s fascist gatekeeper wouldn’t think it was funny. It was a very unfunny place.

The test room itself had all the creature comforts of a bank vault and housed a warren of cubicles, each with it’s own monitor and keyboard circa 1992. Although I came out of the starting gate raring to go, the creeps at GRE central sucked the wind out of my sails by making me take a non-optional, non-paid demographics survey for the first twenty minutes, then I wrote my two essays, took the verbal—yes, I knew the opposite of glib was not bourgeois—and finally arrived at the gnashing teeth of the math section. My pulse raced; my eyeballs tensed. I resigned to consider this foray not a waste of time, but a practice test. With seven minutes to go, I made a mad dash to solve functions and subtract like radicals. I didn’t belong here. I was a radical, too. The daughter of artists, I could fake tap dancing better than math, and math knew it. But I pressed on. I was a lousy tap dancer and terrible at math, but by golly, I was no quitter.

The clock ran out and the two and a half hour test of stamina, recall and misery was over. I opted to see my scores in the seconds that followed and was stunned to see the numbers. I made it! Not by much, but I had beat the minimum score. Shocked, I looked and looked again, silently intoning the numbers the same way I read no parking signs before turning off the engine. Then I began to cry-- silently. I couldn’t help it. I felt such relief. I was careful not to interrupt my fellow test takers, and used my tissue to mop the flow, but had to take a moment before getting up to exit. Seems this had been a bigger deal than even I had thought.

I sent my scores to my graduate school, which has now officially accepted me with the caveat that I take a summer math refresher or two. I emailed Steve at Oxford, thanking him for his Lord of the Rings-like advice and he congratulated me in earnest. He even took the time to explain to me why x to the zero equals one. I understood his elegant explanation more than I would have before, but its beauty still eludes me. Yes, I can look at octagonal paper plates at a birthday party and know that the average measure of one of their sides is n minus 2 times 180 over n. But I don’t. And I could eyeball a can of baked beans on the shelf and compute its volume, but I won’t. I’m going to give math some space for a while; a little breathing room will do our relationship good. Sure, it was nice getting reacquainted, I suppose, and I’m happy to see her thrive. But I’m doing just fine without her. And I’m content to read the labels.

Regrets

2011-04-10T15:29:00.000-07:00

Why sleep
when I can write?
Sleeping's for sissies
I always say.

But I don't mean it
I know I should try
and would if I could so
out goes the light.

Then all my regrets
come bumbling in,
turn on the light and
make themselves comfortable.

Uninvited, one leans
on the empty pillow
facing me
with snide eyes

A couple more
begin to sit
at the foot of the bed
without decorum

I have to shift
my knees, feet quickly
An elbow jabs
me in the back

While others hover
with bad breath
and look at me
expectantly

Now who's the sissy?
one seems to chide
Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
the introductions go

They think they're more
entertaining than they are.
Don't you all have
a bus to catch?

Don't you have
somewhere to be
at three-eighteen
in the morning?

Shove off, bubs.
I have work to do
and you weren't so special
to begin with.

So Badly

2011-04-09T02:46:00.000-07:00

The following is not a song about my ex. That would be too easy, too obvious, and frankly, he doesn't deserve to be enshrined in song and you, dear reader, deserve more. I will say, however, that my life has been long and a heart can be crushed in all manner of ways. So be mindful not to assume. Because when you assume, you make an assu out of me.

Hit it, Monty.

First I recognized its shape
the color, make and model
The first three letters cinched it and
my breathing slowed to shallow then I

peaked in all the cafes
I was mindful of my crusty, healing heart,
it’s depth and scope
This town’s too big for both of us

(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly

Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad

A block away I saw you
You looked good, were stepping lively
I slowed way down to watch you
then I willed you to please turn around

I hoped you’d fall in a sewer grate
of piranhas and hot lava then-I
scaled it back-to just piranhas
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving

You didn’t turn around cause you were
chatting with someone, she was a blonde

(Song stops)

Singer says to accompanist, “It’s always a blonde.”
He answers, “Pretty much, yeah.”

(Song resumes)

You smiled while you were talking
Your life is clearly perfect so I
hoped you would be eaten alive
by a boa constrictor

Then I dialed it back to just maimed
by a fire breathing wart hog
with rabies and bad dandruff
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving

I walked into the café
then spotted where you’d just been sitting
Your seat was still warm
You seemed so close but were so far

I ordered what you would have had
if we were still together
Then I changed my mind and thought fuck you
and ordered a BLT!

(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly

Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad

Hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad

Show Time

2011-04-09T02:36:00.000-07:00

This past winter I had the pleasure of seeing three performances: the Shanghai Circus, a delightful display of feats of strength, balance and derring-do; Savion Glover, a delightful exploration of percussive tap dancing to live flamenco music; and the Queen of Spades, a delightful slog through a four-hour Pushkin opera at the Met.

In all three cases, I had to surrender. The shows had no heady dialogue to follow in order to occupy my mind. I had to take off my coat and stay a while, acknowledging to myself that in order to get the full effect of the entertainment experience, I had to completely immerse myself and let it wash over me. It meant turning off the cell phone, turning off my brain and giving over the controls to someone else until further notice. It meant begging off the scheduling nymphs and list fairies and allowing awe and wonder to scramble up from where they’d been bound and gagged, waiting patiently to see the light of day again. In all three cases it worked, and as I relaxed and let go, I was dazzled.

Pushkin was up to his same old melodramatic tricks at the Met but with a compelling avant-garde flair. The depth and scope of the vast stage’s starkly compelling sets elicited gasps from the opera-goers around me each time the curtain was raised, and the costumes’ design and palette thrilled the fashionistas in the audience with their modern take on an age-old winter wardrobe. I read the summary in the program and then decided to leave the LED narration off and float through. The story line was simple enough to explain to a stranger in one subway stop and because this was Pushkin I just assumed that everyone would either die of consumption or a broken heart, but that they were sure to suffer madness on their way there. I was right, and since the opera clocked in at about the same length as a flight to Phoenix, I cozied-in and, once again, surrendered.

The Shanghai Circus was mind blowing. It’s performers showed such nimble control, such deft coordination, that my son and I found our selves unable to decide which act impressed us most. Was it the strongest man I’m likely ever to see; able to support and balance his own body weight in impossible, one-armed ways? Was it the mad, multi-ball hand juggler or the whimsical foot jugglers; passing balls to each other in Dr. Seuss fashion? Naturally I was attracted to the plate spinners, whose ability to multi-task-- spinning twelve plates on twelve sticks with each hand while moving and grooving-- spoke to the mother in me, and the eerie, science-fictiony, high-pitched hum they gave off was mesmerizing.

Savion Glover was mesmerizing, too. Having discovered the percussive seduction of flamenco, he teamed up with the equally mesmerizing Carmen Estevez of Spain. The daughter of a jazz drummer father and a flamenco singing mother, she drummed and sang with the cool, detached rasp of an aloof femme fatale while Savion-- two feet away on a tap platform—listened and let her music soak into his every pore until his head was so wrapped up deep inside the music that and only his tapping feet remained free. My mom and I watched—along with the flamenco guitarist nearby-- like voyeurs to a flirtation. Carmen played and sang as Savion hoofed and tapped and together they wound and weaved not so much a story but an experiential journey, like when you felt your way through the woods with your eyes closed, on a dare, when you were young.

During intermission, my mom told me about a Tap Happening she went to with Dad back in the 1960s at the Dixie Hotel on W.43rd (now the Hotel Carter, named
the dirtiest hotel in the US for 4 years in a row). Metal folding chairs were set up down in the basement and a record player sat in the corner. As my parents sat in awe, Howard "Sandman" Sims, Charles "Honi" Cole, Jimmy Slyde and Chuck Green tried to best each other; walking to the record player one at a time to put the needle down on the song that would take them to that place where body and imagination paired up and left the head in the dust. Mom said that tap had gone out of style at the time, but these guys just wanted to get together to keep it alive, to see old friends and to work their craft with nothing but camaraderie and fun as their goal. Having grown up seeing these greats on the big screen, Mom and Dad were blown away.

During the second half of the show, I thought about the plate spinners and opera singers and wondered if they’ll ever get together someday in a basement, just to catch up with old friends and show each other what they’ve still got. I thought about how much fun they would have without the pressure of a theater crowd and itchy costumes and marveled at the sight of them smiling and laughing it off as plates and notes were dropped. A lifetime of hard work and show times behind them, I pictured the plate spinners teaching the opera singers that it’s all in the wrist, and the opera singers giving voice to the muted acrobats.

Then the lights came on and the show was over. It was time to put my coat on and head back.

Hate Your Socks

2011-03-04T07:13:00.000-08:00

When we’re entangled, wrapped up
In our cocoon of denial
Blind men and deaf ladies
Neighbors, focused, wander by

They don’t see us dancing, dreaming
They can’t hear us laughing, screaming
Stroll below with perma grins
Oblivious to the bliss we’re in

Then your phone alarm goes off
And you get up and out of bed
The cone of warmth is broken, darn
It’s time to let the world back in

You start to think about the time
And what is next on your to do list
You’ve already disengaged
I’m getting cold, then mad, enraged

I hate the world, I hate the clock
I hate your phone, I hate your socks
Don’t put them on, just leave them there
Let’s live our lives, in here bare naked

We can order take out, we can
Make this room our hide out, we can
take our courses all on line
And skype and work remotely

Not a soul would miss us,
Okay, just our moms but they would
understand once we had told them
That we love each other madly

I know society would fail
If everybody did the same
Bridges wouldn’t build themselves
Gnomes wouldn’t stock grocery shelves

But can’t you just leave us alone
For we’re so insignificant
Don’t matter in the grandest scheme
Please carry on and let us dream

I hate the world, I hate the clock
I hate your phone, I hate your socks
Don’t put them on, just leave them there
Let’s live our lives, in here bare naked

Snow Days

2011-02-22T07:26:00.000-08:00

The snow is finally melting-- at least this batch is-- and as with anyone who’s muddled though this past winter, I’m thrilled about spring’s debut, but I’m also a little sad. “What?!” you say? Before you hack at your computer screen with scissors, please hear me out. I actually enjoyed all the snow. Not because I’m a big cold-weather snow-person. To the contrary, I loathe being cold. But there were some very cool things about this past winter that I want to gingerly bring up before you pack it in, label it “The Worst Winter In Recent Memory” then shove it away in a shoe box under your bed.

Living out here as we do in the burbs, the snow stayed pristine and lovely for ages as opposed to you-know-where where it turns sooty, grubby and grey within 48 hours. Our snow gave us a bonus landscape that really was quite magnificent and remained visually awe inspiring for so long that every last one of us had to succumb to it’s beauty. We had no choice.

I loved that for a while—okay, a looong while—we lived not in our familiar town, but in an alternate version of our town. Dark green grass and brown mud took a hike for a while and we were left living in a stunning black and white portrait; stark yet beautiful. It was as if a surreptitious roving band of midnight art directors descended upon us, blanketed our world with soap flakes and glued cotton batting to every branch, and then took off, leaving a version of what we knew to be our town in it’s place for free. How lucky were we to be lifted out of the visually mundane with the added peace of mind that it would definitely end; that this is a limited run, and this snow will melt for certain.

I loved that we had to completely rethink our relationship with snow. It became more nuanced and complex as the weeks passed and the snow continued to pile up. In the past, we could chalk snow up to a brief dalliance or mad tryst, but this time we were forced into a more mature relationship with snow and had to learn to live with it and accept its shortcomings. Collectively, we all became more mindful of its demands and I for one learned a ton. I learned when to shovel after the snowfall and how not to wait too long-- the hard way. I became intimate with the turning radius of my car and appreciative of the design that goes into a good shovel. I learned that a six inch snowfall is nuthin.’ I learned to watch for the days that the air would rise above 32 degrees and what that square edged shovel in the back of the garage was perfect for. Like gardening, the snow had to be cultivated, cut back and groomed. It had to be cared for; nurtured and nudged.

For those of you in a long distance love affair with a beguiling Inuit Eskimo lass or on the fence about whether or not to move north, we got the chance to see what it would be like to live in Fargo, Anchorage or the Ukraine without actually having to move there to check it out. “No, thank you!” I can now answer with gusto should someone ever ask me if I might like to live there. “I had a brief taste back in 2011, and yes, I’m sure the answer is no. But thanks for asking.” How lucky we are to remove all doubt.

But the biggest reason I’ll miss the snow is the general kindness we were forced to hang on to long after we’d dismantled our holiday lights. Over and over again I danced with the stranger in the oncoming car, slowing down to navigate our single lane together. Many times a day I accepted the offer of “You first,” and as many times extended it outward. These gestures were often acknowledged with a quick flash of the headlights, or a small wave. But each time-- as with every conversation I had with my weary neighbors while out shoveling or breaking up the ice—I was reminded that we were in it together. That we were a team. Sure, chit-chat turned to grumbling early on for most, but it didn’t bother me. I listened politely and nodded in agreement as I looked around at the magnificent wonderland that had transformed our mini-mall parking lot or simple, little street and thought—wow, spectacular. How lucky are we.

Pleasing/Gone

2011-02-02T08:30:00.000-08:00

Last night as I was sinking down
Floating into new sleep
I wrote the loveliest, richest poem
That none shall ever peep

I didn’t reach for paper
Nor for pencil, what’s the point?
My thoughts lingered like vapor
Which my pillow would anoint

It was a pleasing poem
And I smiled my inside smile
Knowing it would please you
As I wrote it without guile

But like the day, I let it go
They’re not all for preserving
Like when I’ve left my camera
Though the moment seems deserving

Sometimes a week can pass this way
Unworthy of remark
No news is good news as they say
From curled up in the dark

And so I’ll strive to make peace with
The poem that is gone,
As hours and friends who’ve flit and fled
Like fireflies on the lawn

Was it enough to know them?
Some things just aren’t meant for keeps
I hunger for desire
But want is thin and aching seeps

Some friendships aren’t conducive and
Like poems and steam dissolve
Wee hours can be elusive
Not the time for staunch resolve

Arm Charmer

2011-01-06T10:21:00.002-08:00

Three summers ago I took up tennis again. Not in a tennis-teamy way but more like a who-wants-to-hit kind of way? So that was fun and then summer ended and I found myself with a low-grade throbbing in my right arm. Not enough to see a doctor over but enough that I was popping ibuprofen like tic tacs. I figured the pain was from taking up tennis. Then it went away. Fabulous. Then later in the fall it came back even though I had stopped playing tennis long ago. Must be from, er, writing? Driving a manual stick shift car? More ibuprofen and this time a doctor. I had x-rays taken by a friendly technician who had twenty-eight brothers and sisters. I know this because he had a map of the Ivory Coast on the wall of the x-ray room with a dot on the town where he was from. Then a lovely deaf man looked at the x-rays and explained to me that he saw nothing unusual and that everything looked fine. Fine.

The pain went away. Then it came back. Shoveling, maybe? Divorce? Summer returned and I started playing tennis again tentatively, and it went away. When it came back again next winter the pain had grown more acute and seemed to hop scotch up and down my arm, sometimes down by the wrist and sometimes within the mid upper-arm, but always on the right side. The pain was increasingly distracting. It was waking me out of a sound sleep. So I went to see my acupuncturist, Howard.

Howard told me that my right arm is connected to my lower intestine-- the one that processes stuff-- and that perhaps I wasn’t processing like I should. “My food?” I asked. “Your life,” he responded. Oh. Having left denial in the dust right around the end of my marriage, I felt pretty good about my recent newfound ability to process. I’d been forced to process some crazy stuff in the last two years, brutally hard and sometimes wicked fast, but I felt I’d been on it. Howard also reminded me that arms are for holding and that I might be holding onto to stuff that I need to let go of. Ah. I said, “Okay, that’s another story.”

“Yeah,” I told Howard, “there’s probably a thing or two more that I could let go of.” “Well then work on that,” he said, and then proceeded to stick little needles in my right arm and lower left shin. “And the next time your arm starts to hurt, stop what you’re doing and listen to it,” Howard said. “It’s trying to tell you something.” I nodded, “Got it. Listen to my arm. Will do.”

My arm stopped hurting right after my divorce was finalized. Shocker. But now it’s hurting again. So I’ve been listening. In the car, at the ATM, I’ve been doing my best to listen. I’ll be in the middle of helping my son with his homework and the pain will grow distractingly intense. I’ll have to say to my son, “Hold on, sweetie, my arm is trying to tell me something.” Then I’ll take a deep breath and look down. “Yes, arm, what is it? What are you trying to tell me? You have my full attention.” My son continues with his homework, which is a testament to his acceptance of his mother’s inherent kookiness I suppose, while I stare at my arm.

But I’m not getting any answers. I feel like a clueless farmdivorcee trying to intuit what Lassie is trying to tell me as she barks manically at the back door. “What’s that, Lassie? The barn? Is it on fire?! Or did you say boy. Is there a boy trapped in the well?! Barn or boy, Lassie? You’ll have to be more specific because they’re three miles in the opposite direction from each other. Is the boy in the barn?! Is the well on fire?! Oh, crimminy.”

So I’m trying. I feel like a pregnant lady talking to her belly, except that there’s no baby growing in my arm. Unless. Maybe that’s what Lassie has been trying to tell me all along. “Bark! Bark! You were abducted by aliens and your arm is pregnant with a hybrid alien baby which—bark—will be born from your elbow in about—bark, bark—6 to 8 weeks!!” Ah, thanks, Lassie, but I don’t think that’s it. So I cycle through all the things I thought I’d let go of but that perhaps secretly have held on to. Like a grocery list of shattered dreams. Or just an average life lived, risks and all. Maybe it’s that I have to let go of ever hoping to understand what my arm is trying to tell me and learn to live with the pain, accept it and move on. Did you ever think of that, Lassie? Didja? Still, it’s good to listen.

Noble Crusade

2011-01-06T10:21:00.001-08:00

Years ago when I was living on New York City's exquisitely blemished Lower East Side, I went to a colorful panoply of parties all year round. There were basement parties and rooftop parties, parties in gardens and on stoops. There were parties held in the back rooms of bars and restaurants because the hosts' apartments were too small to house more than four revelers at a time, and parties that spilled into hallways and staircases because the hosts didn't care that there was no room. The crowd I went with tended to live in cramped and occasionally squalid quarters. They had roommates-- sometimes two and three-- and slept on pull out couches, murphy beds, loft beds and in railroad apartment "middle rooms." Together we balanced plates on our laps and navigated common spaces the size of department store elevators. Not unlike the stateroom scene in "Night at the Opera," life was cozy, comical and we were used to it.

I lived on 9th Street between Avenues B & C, long before anyone ventured east of A. I moved in with a cartoonist whose ad I answered in the Village Voice newspaper. I never laid eyes on him and knew nothing about him before the day I saw the apartment, and even though my room had no closet and was too small to fit a twin bed-- 5' x 5'-- I took it. The kitchen had exactly enough room for a sink, bathtub and fridge, a hot plate, tiny table and two chairs. The toilet was located outside the apartment and half way down the hall. It was shared by other strangers living on my floor whom I never met or ever saw and I wisely chose never to imagine them; out of sight, out of mind.

When every so often I found myself at a party in a spacious apartment, it was a huge thrill. Walking into a giant apartment was like walking into a fairyland and I gasped as I marveled at the ability to walk more than two paces without bumping into furniture.

One chilly winter night towards the end of February, I recall ending up at a party on 14th Street in an enormous loft apartment with 18' ceilings. There was so much space with so many rooms-- 2 living rooms, 4 bedrooms, and a large, eat in kitchen!-- that I immediately suggested a game of Hide and Seek to anyone within earshot. I re-introduced the rules to ten or so eager campers and we scurried about laughing and squealing, giddy like children finally playing outdoors on the first day of Spring as we reveled in our ability to move around freely without hobbling layers of outerwear-- or walls-- to oppress us. Many of us hadn't played Hide and Seek for twenty years and I was thanked at the end for thinking of and organizing the game.

Guests continued to arrive in droves-- unwrapping themselves like presents-- and soon the party was amiably boisterous and bulging. I wandered from room to room thinking about how I would paint the walls and re-arrange the furniture if given the chance, when I spotted a guy holding a gallon sized zip-lock bag of something near the stove. He was of average height and build with one of those barrel chests like a pudgy William Holden except that his hair was shaggy, greasy, covered his ears and was a dull, tinny blonde without sun. His chin was weak and his nose, non-committal, and his skin appeared oily to the touch. I couldn't make out his eyes behind his thick, beige plastic aviator glasses that he wore without irony and with misfortune years before MTV's cabdriver character would plant the look in its viewers' gestalt. Sporting a slightly dingy, white v-neck t-shirt and baggy, olive green army pants, he was a sad sack in every way, and I watched him as he set the bag down and started rifling though the kitchen cabinets.

After a moment I moved closer and after a few more cabinet doors opened and shut, asked him, "Do you live here?" even though I was fairly certain I knew the answer.
"No," he said without looking at me, still focused on the task at hand.
"What are you looking for?" I pressed.
"Baking sheets," he said.
"Why?"
"I'm going to make cookies."

And with that he uncovered two baking sheets, pre-heated the oven, and handed me the zip-lock bag that was heavy with chocolate chip cookie dough.

"You're going to bake cookies?" I asked incredulously. The party was in full, deafening, cacophonic swing; there were beer bottles on every surface and it was after midnight.
"Yes," he said.
He was all business, no smiles.
"Right now at this party?"
"Yes."
I was flummoxed.
"Does the host know of your plan?" I asked.
"Nope." I thought for a moment. There must be something I was missing. Then it occurred to me, "Are there drugs in the cookie dough?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"So, you're just baking cookies for fun?" I asked.
"No. I'm baking cookies to meet women," he said.

Of course you are. Brilliant. I should have known. And I walked right into it. I laughed at myself as he spooned the dough onto the baking sheets, 2" apart as one does.

I said, "Because who doesn't want to talk to the guy baking fresh, homemade cookies at a party?"
"Exactly," he said.
"And does it work?"
"You tell me," he said and finally looked directly at me for the first time. He had either tried to shave or sort of quasi- didn't have to and his glasses lenses were smudged. I wanted so much for there to be something in his face, some visual hook that might make me want to kiss him, this cookie baking party man, but there was nothing there for me. I kept looking.

"Do you do this often?" I asked.
"Yes," he said and I believed him. He had clearly mastered the task at hand and as he single-mindedly went to work on the second sheet of dough, the mesmerizing smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies freshly baking began to waft out of context and out of the kitchen and through the cavernous apartment's labyrinth, reaching every corner and every nose; making everyone undeniably happier. The party's host finally wandered into the kitchen, appraised the situation and asked, "You making cookies?" To which the baker replied, "Yeah. I hope it's okay." "Cool," was the host’s blessing and then each man carried on as before.

People started to pop their heads into the kitchen and I could sense a show of sorts was about to begin. I hoisted myself up onto the deep counter, cozied up against the back splash and watched as girl after girl-- guys, too-- sauntered in to enquire about the incredible smell intoxicating everyone with thoughts of mother, home, and lazy, snowy days from childhood. He answered their questions, as he had mine, with the perfunctory duty of a busy research scientist being visited by a Girl Scout troop. He never touched a beer. And when the cookies were done, he scraped each one off the greased pan and onto a plate with purpose and finesse. Some guys wanted their freshly baked, right-out-of-the-oven cookies placed directly into their palms and ate them with reverence like over sized communion wafers. One girl found a thick wad of napkins and passed them out to the other ladies who made a big show of blowing on the cookies before coyly biting into them. Everyone thanked him and yes, the women talked to him. They reached towards him for more cookies and made alluring yummy sounds as they chewed. I watched him watch them and even saw him smile, but only once.

This guy was crafty; this guy was smart. He was self aware enough to know that he wasn't a looker and that he'd need some pretty good game to compensate if he ever wanted to get laid and that even his top game probably wouldn't cut it, so he came up with a plan worthy of an evil genius in a Saturday morning cartoon. I admired his pluck and I imagined the kind of life we could create together: Cookie Guy and Hide and Seek Girl. Yes, we met at a party and spent the rest of our lives in domestic, whimsical splendor, but I couldn't get past the aviator glasses with the double bar over the nose and the odd, patchy whiskers. Even as I gave him a shampoo, haircut and shave in my mind, then took him to get new frames, a clean T-shirt, and better fitting jeans, I knew it wouldn't work. He probably knew it, too. I wanted so much to be attracted to this guy, this ingenious baker with a heart of gold, and as I sat and ate a parade of warm cookies, I watched the women thank him and then wander away and out of the room, probably coming to the same conclusion I had and I wondered if that was why he didn’t smile more.

At 2am, the party was morphing into a different kind of beast and I was starting to feel sleepy and done. I slid off the counter and headed over to say goodbye. I told him that it was a pleasure to meet him and he told me his name was Wade. I said, “Well then, good luck, Wade,” and smiled but didn’t linger as I was less than noble. But I loved that he was committed to his gimmick and his boundless optimism made me root for him like the noblest of underdogs. I had high hopes that his crusade would yield fruitful results and that at least one of the women at the party would warm up to him. The night was still young to some, and Wade still had what looked like a batch and a half left.

Drunk Octopus

2010-12-19T07:56:00.001-08:00

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

2010-12-10T05:34:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-29T08:39:00.001-08:00

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

2010-11-17T09:43:00.001-08:00

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

2010-10-30T04:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-30T03:50:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-13T06:44:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-25T05:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-08T21:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-30T03:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Skinny Dip

2010-07-28T03:05:00.000-07:00

It's a pretty well known expression, to skinny dip. But folks tend to look at me as if I'd said that I used to rob banks. It's not like I invented it. John Quincy Adams and Theodore Roosevelt were famous skinny dippers. The Woodcraft Indians-- precursors to Boy Scouts-- made it mandatory. And at YMCAs in the 1960's-- prior to admitting women-- one could only swim nude because the lint from the woolen swimsuits clogged the pool drains. Plenty of fine art and perfectly fine movies, ("Oklahoma!", "A Room with a View", and the notorious, "Jaws") suggest that skinny dipping has been a matter of course for eons. It's just another option in the cannon of simple summer pleasures along with hiking and fishing, just slightly more exciting.

My yen for skinny dipping was embedded in me during my youth. My Mom and aunt had a kid swap that went on for years. When it was our turn for me and my sisters to go to our cousin's house for the weekend, we knew that skinny-dipping would be one of the activities, in addition to receiving dead-legs and Indian rope burns.

My three boy cousins lived in a house on what you might call a very attractive piece of land, out where the suburbs slow to a country crawl. They had a donkey named, Penelope; a big red barn; and a huge, gated, olympic-sized in-ground swimming pool about fifty paces up the green, grassy hill from their house. During the day, the six of us wore our suits. But at night, after a meal of Jersey corn, burgers and ice cream, it was skinny dippin' time.

We tromped up the hill, towels in hand. Uncle Doug turned on the pool lights so that the water glowed a vivid, almost nuclear shade of turquoise green. Little piles of wrinkling clothes dotted the cement patio at the shallow end of the pool as cicadas and fireflies punctuated the warm night air. My cousins were always the first ones in, cannon-balling near us to squeals and laughter. I'm sure we complained about how cold the water was before finally diving off the long, bendy, unregulated diving board. But I'm also certain I never had a regret once I hit the water.

We played a game called Pee Wee-- twenty years before Mr. Herman would adopt the same moniker-- wherein a tiny, toothpick-sized, black stick was placed at the bottom of the pool by a volunteer diver. Everyone else lined the pool's edge, standing out of the water, dripping, waiting and watching in great anticipation for it to surface. When the first person to catch sight of the teeny stick jumped in to grab it, the rest of us jumped in and splashed like banshees hoping to foil the spotter. This fierce, maniacal splashing ensued until whomever finally grabbed it signaled his or her victory by shouting, "PEE WEE!" The prize was the chance to dive down and place it on the bottom for the next round.

We played Pee Wee for what seemed like hours under the starry sky then wrapped ourselves up in towels and minced back to the house like mini geisha. Happy and exhausted, it was time to get ready for bed. Our summer tradition lasted until me and my older boy cousin became what our parents probably decided was "too old" to skinny dip in front of each other. The next summer we all went up to the pool after dinner in our bathing suits and that was that. Skinny dipping was over. But we still played Pee Wee.

Later on, spending weeks every summer at the Jersey Shore, I fell in with other game, out-doorsey teens who thought nothing of stripping down for a quick swim after dancing at a party for hours had coated us in a thin veneer of beer and sweat. We'd all grown up together like brothers and sister so our late night skinny dips never led to anything except for maybe a game of even later night ping-pong in someone's garage.

Under a moonless sky, and with the girls standing about thirty feet from the boys, our imaginations had to work harder than our beating hearts-- if we bothered to go there at all. Details were rarely factored in to our dip and most times even our silhouettes were amorphous blobs. Full moons were a different story, however, and on those nights the girls with the darkest tans appeared to be wearing white bikinis. Sometimes the moon's klieg light lit a blinding path right towards our merry band of swimmers and so we stood even further apart. We looked straight ahead while light conversation covered pretty much any topic except that we were all standing naked near each other. Anyone who had to leave his or her glasses on the sand, like me, could relax a little easier in blurry, blithe disregard.

Some had a challenging time relaxing for other reasons. When skinny dipping is done in a lake or ocean, as opposed to a pool, there's the added wild card of sharing your quiet swim with a kabillion or so aquatic neighbors. Who knows what lurks nearby? Unfortunately, we do. So a skinny dip can become an exercise in overcoming. Will I step on a crab or be eaten by a shark? (Thank you, Peter Benchley) Will my little pile of clothes still be where I left them? Can I enjoy this experience without working myself up into a paranoid froth?

I always seemed to conveniently forget about the challenges that faced me after my swim; getting my wet, sandy feet back into my jeans. Then, peddling home, I tried not to think about the two giant wet spots that had appeared on my shirt, or the lumps that my underwear and bra made stuffed into the back pockets of my damp jeans. Yes, I had to rinse off in the shower before I climbed into bed, but for me, this labor of love was worth it.

Recently skinny dipping came up in two separate conversations and both times folks were taken aback. (I was equally shocked that they had never skinny dipped.) I explained that it wasn't like I was going to Foodtown naked. It's simply an impulsive nod to our fishier selves; a slippery swim in the moonlight, not so much sexy as it is racy. Not illegal, just a bit lawless. For as hokey as it sounds, skinny dipping is a feeling of freedom like no other; a singular experience that can't be approximated in a hot tub or outside shower-- and I loves me an outside shower. It needs no equipment, no reservations or forethought. It's refreshing, a little daring, and something else to do on a hot summer night so that the day never has to end.

Delaware

2010-07-11T02:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-08T04:56:00.000-07:00

“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

2010-06-10T15:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-10T19:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-08T03:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-03T12:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-02T04:18:00.000-07:00

“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,

2010-03-23T16:56:00.001-07:00

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

2010-02-13T05:45:00.000-08:00

-- "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

2010-02-01T11:05:00.001-08:00

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.

Brave Heart

2010-01-27T09:13:00.000-08:00

It was the morning of my four-way with our attorneys, which, if you haven't already guessed, is the very definition of the opposite of sexy. I was a nervous wreck getting dressed, and although I hadn't had any trouble deciding what to wear, I felt naked. So I thought I'd bring a talisman or two to give me strength. It’s not that I didn’t think I could get through this day alone, I knew I couldn’t get through this day alone.

I grabbed the little Lego Princess Leia my son had given me off my dresser and found a necklace given to me by a childhood girlfriend. While rooting around in my jewelry box I found the phalanx of saints pendants I'd been given by my Catholic contingency while trying to get pregnant and strung them all on a chord and fastened it around my neck. That reminded me of the little flowered blanket that a random nun in Florida had sewn for me—also in the name of fertility-- and so I shoved that into my attaché. Then I went back to my jewelry box and grabbed every necklace, bracelet or brooch any girlfriend had ever given to me and threw them into a zip-loc bag. I put on a ring from my sister and a bracelet from my parents then remembered the children's book of zen parables that I thought would be a good reminder. Grabbing that, too, I flew downstairs; my bag now comically bulging.

In the kitchen I picked up a fortune cookie fortune that said my luck would change today—no kidding-- and ripped out the back page of prayers from an old church bulletin I found. On the way to get my coat I noticed a small, plastic Cat Woman sitting atop my son's warrior tin of action figures. I grabbed her plus a teeny plastic light saber even though I knew they flew in the face of zen teachings but had no time to debate the merits of letting go versus gearing up for battle. I figured I had a right, on this day, to both.

The bag was ridiculously heavy and to the average joe-on-the-street looked weighted with serious documents. I wondered how many leather briefcases I'd seen going into important meetings were secretly crammed with old Mad Magazines, baseball cards, golf scores and super balls then decided probably not that many. Just before and occasionally throughout our four-way I peeked into my bag and felt relaxed in the company of my support group and the love of my peeps. I listened and took notes. I let my attorney do the talking. I was calm. I felt strong. It was definitely worth the weight.

The second most terrifying day of my divorce was our first meeting with the judge. On my way to Newark I realized I'd left the zip-lock bag of strength and charms at home. Panicking, I looked around for something in the car-- anything to get me thought this day. I saw my son's turquoise terrycloth Pokemon wrist sweatband and put it on, tucking it up under the cuff of my blouse. I was glad that I'd happened to wear long sleeves that day, but would have worn the wristband regardless. Some things are more important that fashion, I thought, as I met the man who would eventually divorce me.

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 our case and felt taken care of in a weird way. 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. I was certain that he would have appreciated my turquoise Pokemon wrist sweat band, but resisted the urge to roll up my sleeves and show it to him. We were here to get the ball rolling. We were here to do this thang. We’d all rolled up our sleeves enough.

Loud

2010-01-22T20:53:00.000-08:00

Turned off the ignition
and slumped down a little
My driveway was dark and
the song wasn't finished

I dared myself further
to turn it up louder
The rear view was bouncing
the speakers now buzzed.

Holed up in the warmth, I
chose to stave off it all
closed my eyes turning
it higher and waited

for something inside me
to say cut it out, it's
improper to ache while
a guest in the studio.

The voice wasn't my own
and shhh he was counting,
tapping his foot
for the band to begin again

Grabbing the mic
he sang into my mouth
just as strings looked away and I
leaned towards him singing

He wasn't inside me,
my ears were still in the car
loose in the air
that was louder and listening

Breathing, he inhaled
and I felt his whiskers
then willed him to wear
what I wanted and he did.

High school and college kids
think they're the only ones
little do they know that
we know that place

that space in the car
where you listen so loud
that the singer is aching for me
not the other way
around.

Epiphany

2010-01-10T07:12:00.000-08:00

The sanctuary was quiet and nearly empty between services. "Thank you!" Reverend Sandye said to me as I walked past her lugging two giant boxes of diapers-- one under each arm-- and placed them on the enormous, fifteen foot wide, ever-expanding pile of diapers on the floor in front of the crèche's manger. "You're welcome," I said, "there's more in the car," and headed back outside for another armload.
"Well, we're very grateful," she said.
You don't know the half of it, I thought.

Years ago-- six and a half to be exact-- just after my son was born, I joined a mother's group. About twenty of us met every Tuesday at a little cafe downtown which looked like a refugee camp for the two hours each week that we took over. I was one of the few women who let her precious child crawl on the shoe-walkin'-food-droppin' floor-- thus inviting her son to square off with certain death. This was one sure fire way to separate the Tightly Wounds with the Loosie-Goosies-- and I eventually fell into an easy rapport with some of the other women who didn't inch their chairs away from me.

After about seven months of getting to know this revolving group of new mothers-- who came together for no other reason than we 'd all given birth within about four months of each other-- our little breakaway faction broke off. Six of us started to meet independently over wine, take-out, and no kids once a week; eventually sloughing the rest. We saw each other constantly, filling that great expanse of time that new mothers tend to meet with horror and disbelief. We set up play dates and babysitting swaps; met at libraries, IKEA and malls. We covered every possible playground and logged so many hours in each others' homes that after a while no one had to ask where the potholders were kept. And after about 18 months, when it was time for baby round two, I sounded the clarion call. At each of our weekly dinners for a while it seemed that someone announced that they were pregnant again, including me. Although I would soon miscarry, I quickly rebounded with the nonchalance of someone who had been pregnant before and would certainly be pregnant again.

We decided that in lieu of new clothes and plastic crap it turned out we didn't need, we would each give each other a giant $37.50 box of new diapers as a shower gift. My son had grown so fast that I had a third of a ping-pong table's worth of storage space crammed with the left over diapers from each baby phase. "Newborn," "Toddler," "Pull-Ups," and "Swimmies," they read and I kept them all under the ping-pong table because I knew that eventually my husband and I would have a second child, and being ever-mindful of waste-- as well as a granddaughter of the depression-- I hung on to them.

Months passed and as each bulbous belly popped out another bundle of joy, the rest of us loaded another box of diapers into the back of our cars. Four times I made the trip to Target for diapers, each time wondering when it would be my turn to open my trunk for the loading up and reap the benefits of good friends doing good deeds. I looked forward to the time when I would get to sit and nurse my second child while someone else led the older siblings in a round of Ring Around the Rosie, or separated the ones trying to wallop each other. I didn't mind setting out the bowls of mac 'n cheese or cleaning up the toys, really, because I knew that soon enough the tables would turn. "Oh, you'll do it for me," I used to say every time one of my girlfriends thanked me for running over to her diaper bag to grab another wipe, or for zipping back inside to refill the lemonade pitcher. "You stay there," I would say, "I'm happy to do it." And I was. I was beginning to get annoyed at myself, my physiology, my husband and my doctors for not getting pregnant, but I was happy to help my friends. It's what friends do.

One of the six of us asked that we not get her a big box of diapers. She reasoned that she didn't want to have to buy us all a box and so we shouldn't get her one. This proved to be prescient as she was the first to leave our little group in a torrent of drama and tears. Two would go back to work-- play dates replaced by full time daycare-- and another would drift away. Then, eventually, I would remove myself from the last with a final devastation the color and shape of a sudden, tragic death. The mother's group years, however invaluable for me and my son's first four were over. No one would be dropping off a boxes of diapers for me in the future, I reasoned, but that was okay, because I still had so many in the basement, waiting patiently under the ping-pong table.

During one of our usual arguments-- #612-- my husband implored me to get rid of the diapers. We had just closed out our third year of infertility treatments and I knew that even if nothing worked, we could still adopt, and so reasoned, would still need the diapers. I had pleaded with him to keep them as a harbinger of fertility triumph, optimistic in the same way one keeps a fallout shelter well stocked for nuclear survival. But we had bigger problems than nuclear fallout.

My husband eventually moved out and divorce loomed. Menacing clouds gathered but there was a clear bright side: now I could keep whatever I damn well wanted under the ping-pong table. I could store millions of styrofoam peanuts, hundreds of cans of cling peaches or a rubber band ball the size of a 4-H fair turnip there if I wanted to. I was the decider now. Hell, I could sleep on that soft bed of diapers, there under the ping-pong table in my very own basement lair if I so chose and I pictured myself in quiet repose, as if in a darkened, private couchette, the gentle rumble and roll of the train lulling me to sleep.

But I didn't do that. I kept my son's old fisherprice Howard Johnson's under there. I stored his bouncy chair, his doorway swing and his wooden play-sushi set there. And I kept the diapers. Because now that I was a single mom, no one was going to stop me from adopting, not even my future-former husband who threw a final match into the marriage when he told me he didn't want to adopt. It wasn't the whole ball game (trust me), but it was enough to signal the beginning of the end and so my dream of a second child, so recently squashed, was ignited anew.

Now I could fulfill my destiny. "Imagine," I told people who questioned my desire, "that you opened a restaurant and found that you loved it. The business thrived, everyone was happy, and you were ready to open a second location but were foiled at every turn; the cosmos literally fell in line to stop you from reaching your goal. Imagine you were an advertising agency allowed only one client, a doctor forbidden to see more than one patient, or a teacher with a single student. You were ready for more, had room for more, even ached for more, but fate said no more."

I put in a breathy, excited call to my domestic adoption attorney and she assured me that there are mothers who would give up their baby to a single, divorced, unemployed mother-of-one. Sure, my world was crumbling and my support system had flown the coop, but I was euphoric with the exhilarated optimism of a bi-polar simpleton. Woo-hoo, I thought, I'm gonna do this thing! And then I would ask my son if he still had enough love in his heart for a sibling. "Yes, Mommy," he would say, "when is he coming?" "In a while, I hope," I would answer and then I would look into the mirror as I wrapped my arms around my son, imagining the space that one more would occupy in our new family photos.

But I was crying a lot and losing weight and doing all the cliché things that women do to and with themselves when they have to totally re-invent their selves, lives and futures while under emotional duress. I would think to myself on a more rational day, I need to get my bearings. I need to hammer out the custody arrangements, find health insurance and take over the house finances first. I need to be a little less weepy and a lot more assured and then I'll adopt. But already, I could feel the other one slipping away.

Then the economy fell out of a tree and I had to put off adopting indefinitely. Who would hire me? Could I stay in my house? Then my dad died suddenly and I had to find a job, fill out divorce paperwork, keep and eye on Mom and my finances, sell a car and mourn my dad. Sadly, in more-or-less that order. And each day my phantom second child got further and further away from me like a camera trick in a ghost movie. I groped toward him with a little less intensity and daydreamed about us with a little less clarity. I doubted my ability to do it alone. I questioned my capacity to love. My son, now 5 1/2, finally stopped asking me, "When we were going to adopt my brother?" and "Are you sure you can't get pregnant again?" and why. Still, I continued to wash and fold the clothes he out grew and nestle them into labeled bins in the attic for his brother. And I couldn't shake the diapers under the pin-pong table.

I cried in therapy whenever I mentioned them, which wasn't often, but they were the 600 lb. gorilla in my mind that my mother had long since grown impatient hearing about and that I was too embarrassed to trouble anyone else with. "Get over it," the world seemed to say even though my therapist gave me permission to keep the diapers there for as long as I damn well pleased. The twisting knives and sharp pokes of complaining mothers-- too insensitive to realize that telling me how "lucky" I am that I "only have one", when they're "sooooo exhausted" from the demands of more-- also began to dull and fade.

I even found myself feeling more at ease taking up the sunny four-top booth with my son at the diner, (as long as there wasn't a waiting line). We were a bona fide family now and I finally felt worthy after a good year and a half of shrinking and saying, "only two" or "just two" when asked by the hostess, "how many?" Now I could say "two" on it's own and went from having to convince myself of it whenever I said it out loud-- awkwardly, like some homework assignment from a self-actualization retreat-- to saying it with a sub-surface elation because it had come out sounding natural and unapologetic. ("Do you have more children?" is still one of my most feared and loathed questions, but I can answer and move on now in seconds flat-- thanks to the modern miracle of telling myself to get over it.)

Which brings me to this morning. Epiphany Sunday is the day that church folk celebrate the actual day that the wise men arrived at the manger with their blessings and generous-- however impracticable-- treats of gold, frankincense and myrrh (a word I love to spell almost as much as I love to say). My reverend, nothing if not practical, asked that her congregants bring diapers to set at the foot of the crèche, explaining that Mary, all of twelve, probably could have really used some at the time, what with having to tend to her newborn in a friggin' barn. (Those are my words, not hers.) I became territorial and defensive about my diapers, predictably, but without the accompanying anxiety that I had last year. I hypothesized that if I gave them up they would end up at a charitable home for mothers who would actually use them on their actual babies, probably within the week. I knew this last year, too, but this year something shifted which led to a crack in the fortress under my ping-pong table and so I considered the inevitable (formerly unimaginable) as I drove home after the 8am service alone-- Jimmy was at his father's for the weekend.

Driving the short distance home, I let out a particular sort of gender-neutral, Cro-Magnon moan slash sob. Because I've done so much crying in the last two years, I found myself classifying these cries as an Eskimo classifies snow, even as the sounds were escaping. It was an old, familiar cry, like the kind I cried when I realized I had to end my marriage, had lost my best friend, and once I understood my dad was dying in two days. The pitches flew high and loose, pushing sounds out of me like a punk rocker taking a crack at a mournful Tibetan ballad (aren't they all?) And I didn't reach out or call anyone because I've recently learned it's best to ford these moments alone. I knew that this force of energy had to leave me in whatever way it needed to in the same way I understand that storms have to whip and whirl until they eventually subside. And so, I waited it out.

Within minutes of arriving home my crying downgraded into a more easy-going rhythmic sob, so I got to work. I cried as I knelt next to the ping-pong table, combing though the detritus like an obstinate squirrel, and carried the boxes up from the basement. I cried as I loaded them into the car. The act of lifting the trunk's hatch and putting those big boxes into the car reminded me of our mother's group pact years ago and of the diapers that would never get loaded into anyone's trunk on my behalf, but it was just a thought and then it was gone along with all the others. If I could have said, "That's life, pal," and slapped myself on the back I would have.

Driving back down to the church, I allowed myself one last hurrah like a sleepy toddler wailing against the inevitability of nap time; one last ditch attempt at changing the course of my destiny with the sheer force of my shrieks before packing it in and getting on with the business of the day. All that crying had not gotten me pregnant nor had it landed a baby at my front door, so there was nothing more for me to do. I saw my crying now for what it was; a healthy release, an exorcism, a private moment, a tussle.

My eyes were bleary and stung like hell. It took me four trips to unload the car when you count the giant bag of plastic bottles and when I was done I crossed back through the sanctuary to the pew where my reverend was just now standing to finish up a chat. The one hundred and fifty year old church would not be empty for a while. There was an early-bird family claiming their seats for the next service and a puttering alter-guy re-setting things like a well-rehearsed background extra. I knew this was my only chance and so jumped.

I walked right up tot he good reverend.
"Those were the diapers I was saving for my second child," I said.
"I know," she said slowly, boring her eyes into my wretched, weary soul.
I looked back at her then past her to the font, not sure how to word what I wanted to say.
"Do you think I could get a little, um, would you mind if. Could you-- I just--"

She reached up with her hand and squeezed me on the shoulder right at the neck. This was no namby-pampy pat but a real grasp, like the kind a coach gives a key player before the big game. I closed my eyes and listened as she summoned the strength of the ages on my behalf. Not one to mince words, she was so strong and spoke with such authority that there was a part of me that wondered if she was about to part the Red Sea, right there under the marble floor, from the very spot where we stood, in New Jersey. I nodded as she told me to let this dream go in order to make room for other dreams to be fulfilled. In fact, she pretty much ordered me to let this dream go and not to look back. This was not a helpful suggestion or a piece of advice for me to consider; I was to follow her directive so I nodded. She told me that it was very, very brave of me to do what I had done today and that I should use that strength and resolve to serve myself in the future. Then, she said that she was proud of me-- something my dad used to say; a phrase I now had to tell myself. But again, she said, let it go. "Only by letting go will you allow the space to be filled by some other dream." Yeah, I know, I thought. I knew she was right. I thanked her and hugged her quickly before scampering out the back door before anyone could see me well up. Again.

Back at home, I splashed my face then opened my computer to write this story. My son was safe and happy with his father and I had no other plans for the long stretch of the day. I turned on the radio-- Eileen Farrell was singing, "I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues" -- ha!--, burrowed into my favorite couch and warmed my whole self in the sun. It was a purely joyful moment. Not my ultimate My Moment in the Sun, I hope, but pretty damn nice as far as simple moments go. The diapers were gone. The ping-pong table was bare. And the clothes in the attic never crossed my mind.

New Year's / Old Fly

2010-01-02T09:47:00.000-08:00

I threw some plates up
onto sticks,
and spun them half-heartedly
Like and absent-minded hula-hooper
busy on the phone
And didn't care if they stayed up
or fell and broke and where.

It was for me an old fly
Big and fat and fun to watch
Not a nuisance, but with fascination
as it flew around the room
careening into windows.

Thwap-- it hit the one labeled, "Big Party
with Sparkly Dress, Loud Music
and Heels,"
But to no avail.
I smiled and shook my head,
silly fly.

I watched it hover
at the next entitled, "Doing Nothing-
'We're Just Going to Stay in,
My Boyfriend/Husband and I,
We'll Probably Cook Dinner, Watch
A Movie Then
Go to Bed By Eleven.'"

I wondered if the fly knew how not nothing,
how something that sounded to me.
Plip-- it bounced back, landing on the couch
stunned for a moment.
I watched to see if it would recover.
It did with blithe resilience.

It made one more last ditch attempt
at window number three,
like a game show contestant, running out
of time and options,
"Low Key, Hanging Out With Friends."
But that window was also made of glass,
slippery and translucent-- plap.

The fly gave up and left the room.
This night was like any other.
Its efforts made no difference
and I, like the fly, didn't give a hoot
for the first time
since I was fifteen.

I turned out the lights and drove
to my mom's.
The fly was on its own now
to bang its head against the wall
as many times as it wanted to.
As many times as it needed.

Me?
I was on my way to Mom's
singing in the car,
happy, New Year's Eve.

2010

2009-12-29T09:18:00.000-08:00

My mother, sister and I set out for a movie a few days before New Year's on a truly crappy, blustery day. The rain came at us sideways and I took my mother's arm, trying to hustle her under cover as I listen to her tell me for the zillionth time that she had short legs, a short gait and couldn't walk that fast.
"I know, Mom, keep moving," I said.
My sister followed up with, "Good hustling Mom, you're a true athlete."
"Yeah, right," she said, and as we got into line for a matinee behind other heartier, less soggy folks, Mom lit a quick cigarette.

Once inside we nestled into our seats-- Mom in the middle-- next to two women about my age. There never seems to be enough room for my endless veils of winter gear and we chuckled as simpatico travelers, passing purses and coats inward towards the designated Group Coat Chair. This being a small, boarder-line remote, New Jersey town, I could bet you cash money that one of the women was named Sheila and the other one, Lisa. But we didn't introduce ourselves; didn't need to. Would've been too formal. For a bunch of Jersey Girls we knew everything there was to know about each other: New Wave and Gunne Sax dresses; shitty boyfriends and getting chased by the cops off of golf courses at night. Like comrades in a long-forgotten uprising, we'd all been there. "Jerz," my sister often said to describe a certain crass je ne sais quoi to describe our indigenous sisterhood and I know just what she meant every time. So Jerz.

The lights dimmed and within minutes of the first preview I was passed a styrofoam cup filled about three quarters to the rim with what I was pretty sure was red wine. Cheap red wine. I leaned forward and looked over at my sister. "It's for you from the girls," she stage-whispered. I knew she was smiling even though it was dark and I knew what kind of smile it was; mischievous, appreciative.
"Nice," I said, not all that surprised, "tell 'em thanks."
"I did," said my sister. Mom smiled, too. Christmas had been rough, our first without Dad. It was a crap-ass day, pissing rain. We were doing our best, we were cold to the bone. What the hell, I thought as I took the cup in both hands. I'm worth it, I said to myself, I've earned this kindness and took a sip.

A moment later, still in previews and digging into my Raisinettes-- a nice counterpoint to my cup 'o wine-- I was passed something else; something substantial, wrapped in a napkin and, whoa, what's this, it's warm! I leaned forward again. My sister whispered, "It's an egg roll. They want you to have it." No shit, I thought.
To think I was content; totally psyched about my Raisinettes. And a movie! Who needs blue skies and margaritas, bare feet and steel bands. St. Barts is for pussies. It's a lousy day and I'm happy. And then wine! Outta no where! Followed by a deep fried slice of heaven. This was beyond. This was true Jerz.

"Tell 'em thanks," I whispered to my sister.
"I did," she whispered back.
I took a big bite. It was sublime. It soothed my soul and gave me hope. I looked over at my mom who was still smiling. After all she'd been through. Still smiling.
"Wanna bite, Mom?" I asked.
"No thanks, dear," she said as the last preview came to a close. The wowie-zowie action faded to black and the music decrescendoed with a lingering, ominous tone. Then, stretching across the giant expanse of black screen, a single line of white text faded up in quiet resonance: "COMING SOON IN 2010".

It was the first time I'd seen the new year written out anywhere. It looked impressive as far as years go. It had gravitas; was a little intimidating. The audience was silent; perhaps stunned like me. And then a voice broke through, a voice so clear and resonant it could only belong to my culinary benefactor; my soul mate in the shadows just a few seats down.

"Holy crap," she said, "it's gonna be two thousand and ten? What the hell have I done with my life?!"

That cinched it. Everything was going to be fine. For I, was not alone.

Christmas Eve

2009-12-29T09:17:00.000-08:00

This isn't really a story; it's more of an archive. Since my dad died, I'm even more interested in chronicling past experiences that I was before. For one thing, my memory is ridiculously, almost comically bad. Unless the moment was set to music or filmed on a Warner Brothers back lot, chances are slim that I remember it at all. (My sisters and I are convinced this is the direct result of growing up with too much tin foil.) My second thought is that if my dad can die in a week maybe I can, too, and believe me there is one hell of a lot of psychic and emotional housekeeping-- on all fronts-- to cram into one's last few days of life. Something as piddly as a pleasant childhood memory would, I'm almost positive, take the backseat to more pressing matters. As I write this I am reminded of a brief conversation I overheard between my mom and Dad on the day before he died.

Mom bent down and whispered gently to Dad, "Honey, I hate to ask, but, do you know offhand what the code is for the answering machine to pick up messages remotely?"
Dad looked up at Mom with genuine regret, "No sweetie, I don't. I'm sorry."
Mom smiled down at Dad, placing her hand to caress his forehead, "Oh, honey, it's fine. I just thought it was worth a shot."
Dad smiled back at Mom, "Yes," he wheezed, "always worth a shot."

So, while the Christmas season is upon us like an unshakable a swarm of locusts and I'm enjoying a rare moment of childhood clarity, I thought I'd write this down:

My Grandmother was Danish. Her name was Ingemargrethe. Her mother's name was Duodecima Henrietta but that's another story for another time. Ingemargtethe went by Greta and would have been horrified to know that I was telling everyone her full first name. Horrified not in a mummies-are-groping-at-us-through-the-shudder-slats kind of way. More in the vein of, "I can't believe you put the ketchup bottle on the dinning room table. Pour a little in a tiny bowl. No, not that bowl, I'll get you the right bowl." She was creative, resourceful, elegant and vain. With one eye in the mirror and the other on the social register, her husband, Norman (my grandfather), never stood a chance.

Greta and Norman had three daughters; my mother, who they named Christine, then Virginia and Laura. (Norman had wanted to name his daughters Carolina, Virginia and Georgia, but Greta would have been horrified.) Every morning Greta rose; set her hair, put on nylons, a dress and full make-up, an apron and heels then woke her daughters without a trace of nostalgia for sleep. They were teenagers in the fifties. They wore bobby socks, bobby pins, and dated boys named Bobby.

Years later, when my mom was twenty-four, she announced at the dinner table that she was getting married. She'd been dating my dad for five weeks and Just Knew. She also knew that she was pregnant, but that's another story for another time. After a round of snaps, my grandfather, with both eyes on the price, muttered, "I hope neither of you other girls are planning on getting married any time soon." They glanced at each other over the the tiny bowl of ketchup on the dining room table. They would both marry their boyfriends within the year.

Granddaddy was Scottish and I suppose because the Danes (vikings!) were tougher than the Scotts (kilts), our clan ended up claiming Christmas Eve for itself because that's when Scandinavians celebrate the holiday, which worked out fine because then each family could do their own thing on Christmas day. The three daughters quickly bore eight cousins between them-- four boys and four girls-- and Christmas Eve became our own private kinder-bacchanalia. Sure we saw each other from time to time through out the year, but rarely all together at the same time, so Christmas Eve was our big night and we got goose bumps just thinking about it.

After leaving a cookie and glass of milk next to the fireplace, Mom, Dad and my two sisters and I drove down to the Jersey Shore where my grandparents lived, wearing the matching outfits that Grandmommy had sewn for us out of navy and green blackwatch plaid-- jumpers for the girls, and short pants with suspenders for the boys, who would be arriving at the same time. My Canadian cousins (a brother/sister team of two) had already settled in for the week, waited for us all to arrive with tightly-wound combustible anticipation.

The frigid December stillness of the tiny, seasonal, beach town enveloped our car in a somber cloak of quiet as we rolled towards their house, passing no other cars on the road and endless closed-up houses. Then with a shake of the cloak everything changed as we approached the gaily lit home. Echoing that indelible scene from the "Wizard of Oz," the front door opened onto a wild world of swirling movement, sound and color. Charm bracelets tinkled and ice cubes clinked as coats were carried up to the bedroom and laughing kids slid down the banister. The long, grand dining room table was set for sixteen with the addition of two extra leaves, and individual place cards, hand-written in Greta's distinctive old-lady script instructed us where to sit. Red and green folded cloth napkins and unobtrusive centerpieces of red roses and holly added color to the sea of stem glasses and shiny, silver flatware. Tall, white taper candles in polished, brass candlesticks stood down the middle of the table like an orchard. The smell of roast turkey, scalloped potatoes, creamed onions and steamed red cabbage mingled with whiffs of wine, beer and scotch, which lingered in the stuffy air after hugs, kisses and hellos.

My mom and aunts always looked so beautiful with their hair set and their best jewelry glistening. All dolled up with powder blush and lipstick, wearing festive dresses, nylons and aprons, they helped Grandmommy ready the meal in the small, cramped kitchen. The men-- who wore winter wool blazers with pocket squares and Christmas ties-- mostly tended bar and kept a loose eye on us kids from the living room's outskirts. My grandfather looked especially dashing in his apple colored sweater and my dad wore the green tie on which I had painted a red and white Christmas tree and a reindeer when I was about four. I painted the tree upside-down so that Dad could look down while he was wearing it and see it right-side-up. It was sloppy and silly, but he wore it every year, without fail, and said that it wouldn't be Christmas without it.

Within about thirty minutes of wiping out the cheese and crackers, mixed nuts, and shrimp cocktail, all the cousin's shoes were off and shirttails were out. We chased each other around the small living room, jumping from winged-back chair to couch, tossing the throw pillows on the ground to use as stepping stones so that we wouldn't have to touch the shag carpet that was teaming with alligators in hot lava. Around and around we went at breakneck speed, panting and squealing; small beads of perspiration forming at our temples until someone banged their knee on the coffee table giving the rest of us a chance to catch our breaths while they cried. We also played, "Bull," with one of us down on all fours as the rest of us darted from sofa to chair to avoid being tagged. This kind of crazed, high-speed red rover caused the crotch on my wool tights inch to just above my knees, slowing me down, so I took 'em off. Then all the girls did, too. Eventually the house got so hot that one of the men would open the front door to let in a little cool air while Granddaddy muttered about heating bills.

Dinner was finally served, which was good because the sooner we ate, the sooner we could open presents. (We would open presents from the real Santa and our parents in the morning.) Dad always said grace, not because he was the only Episcopal, but because he was a man-- which still counted for a lot in our family, even though it was the seventies-- and considered the most churchy after Greta. Also, because he spent the better part of his adult life monologuing at dinner parties about his spiritual quest. We held hands, bowed our heads, and listened to his sincere, ad-libbed prayer that would have to carry us all the way until next Thanksgiving since that was the only other day out of the year our family ever said or heard grace.

Waiting for every last person to be served and for Greta to be seated and raise her fork could take a while. Sometimes we kids hanged spoons from our noses or played, "Iggy-wiggy, I'm a Piggy." And sometimes the adults played jokes on Greta to lighten the tension that the mounting kitchen stress threatened to chip away at our holiday cheer. Someone might sneak a bottle of ketchup onto the dinning room table and we'd all wait, stifling giggles, to see how long it took her to notice. One year, dinner took a little longer than expected and Uncle Tom was getting peckish. So he headed out to McDonald's for a quick hamburger, bringing Greta's horror to new, unimagined heights. The next year my father wrapped up a burger in Christmas paper and ribbon and gave it to Uncle Tom as a gift. Before we left, Uncle Tom sneaked out to our station wagon and hid the burger in the glove compartment. My parents discovered the burger, eventually, and tucked it away in the freezer where it stayed until Dad took it out and wrapped it back up to re-gift to Uncle Tom for next Christmas Eve. "Don't forget the hamburger!" Mom would call out to Dad the week before Christmas and we all knew what she meant. The hamburger hijinks went back and forth for years with the hamburger (and its subsequent replacements) cropping up in different hiding places each time. Until Uncle Tom ran off with his secretary; then the game ended.

After dinner my dad would usually make some crack in front of us kids about how he was too tired to open presents this year and how maybe we should just skip it. A roar of, "Nooooo wayyyy!" went up in the crowd and then Dad would smirk which signaled that it was time to head back into the living room to wait for Santa's arrival.

We sat on the carpet nestled between the corduroyed knees of our dads and uncles while the women folk loaded the dishwasher as fast as they could so that they could turn it on and get it started. Then once all the adults poured themselves another drink and found a seat, we heard jingle bells coming from somewhere distant. Or upstairs, as the case was. Our eyes grew wide and we sat up straight like prairie dogs, pivoting our heads from cousin to cousin in stunned amazement. Then a loud, deep man's voice bellowed, "Ho, ho, ho!" getting louder and louder until Santa ambled down the stairs and right into our very living room. We were pretty sure it was Granddaddy in that velvety red suit with the wide, black shiny belt and the snow-white furry cuffs. But under the silky, white beard and mustache with all that long, white hair flowing from underneath his red hat it was hard to tell, so it was easy to believe that Santa had walked right into our lives. The magic didn't wear off until it got so hot in that little body-filled room, that Santa had to take off his itchy, hot beard and hat and take the pillow out from under his jacket before passing out the rest of the gifts; in descending order, according to age.

We cousins always got eight of the same present from Greta and Norman. My favorites were the solid, black and white Westinghouse clock radios, which stood on our bedside tables and for years no matter whose room I went into in my house or at my cousins'; there was my clock. I also loved the heavy, bright-colored-metal, old-fashion cash register banks. We panhandled my uncles for change, dropping coins into the slot then pulling the lever down to reveal the creeping total. It didn't take us long to realize that the banks would remain locked for days and then weeks until the total amounted to ten dollars and only then could we push back the door to receive our windfall; the whole of which I usually spent at Woolworth's after long and careful consideration.

All the grown-ups exchanged gifts with each other and we got presents from our aunts and uncles as well. There were tears of joy, inside jokes and a huge amount of hooting and laughing among the adults. Sometimes we got the jokes and other times they had to be explained to us. After all was said and done we rolled and reveled in the shallow pond of wrapping paper and ribbon before Greta tossed large, green, plastic garbage bags at us and told us to get to work.

Then it was time for the Annual Favorite Gift Picture. Dad set up the tripod while the rest of us hemmed and hawed over which present to hold up for the group photo. Any present that had made the receiver either cry tears of joy or laugh 'til they cried was a no-brainer, so they usually found a spot on the couch first. Sometime I would try to fudge the parameters of the favorite gift picture by draping my new rainbow suspenders on my head, hanging fancy argyle socks from my ears, and holding up the big picture book, "Free to Be, You and Me." But one of my boy cousins would knock the suspenders off my head or rip the socks from my ears so, so much for that. The older kids perched along the high back of the couch while the adults sat on the cushions, arms and stood on the sides. The little ones filled in on laps and the floor and were ever being reminded to save a spot for my dad. From behind the tripod, he would say, "There will be a series of two photos taken," then he would press the button that began the blinking-red-light countdown. "Hurry! Uncle John, hurry!" people called out as Dad scampered over the tri-pod's legs and over to the laughing mob where he dove onto the floor to sit cross-legged in the middle just in time. More often than not, he forgot his favorite gift in all the hoopla which is why the second in the series of two was always a little livelier with folks shouting, "Uncle John, remember your gift!" and "He made it!" just as the camera flashed and clicked.

Folks stood, groaning wearily, making cracks about getting older then reached down to help one another up as we headed back to the dinning room table one more time for home-made plumb pudding with hard sauce, and cookies decorated in the shapes of angels and Christmas trees. We cousins usually skipped the dreaded plumb pudding and opted for two-fisting the Christmas cookies before heading upstairs to put on our pajamas. It was about 9pm now and we'd been gunning it on high speed since about 4pm. We were pooped, every last one of us. Packages were gathered, coats were exhumed and thank-yous made the rounds while our cars purred out in the street, warming up for the long ride home. I could never believe that Christmas Eve was already over. It went by so fast.

When Dad went out to pack up the car, he must have folded down the back seats and laid out our all- cotton sleeping bags because they were always there, three in a row with the corners turned down and our pillows at the top just behind the front seats. We wriggled in and hunkered down while Dad tuned the FM radio to which ever station was playing Christmas carols. I remember looking up out the side window at so many stars-- too many to count-- and listening to Bing Crosby sing, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," in low volume from the tinny, front speakers while Mom and Dad debriefed each other on the evening's B stories and long-running subtexts that went over our heads. In those moments before I succumbed to sheer exhaustion, I was tingly with excitement. Soon I would be asleep and then I would wake up to Santa's certain arrival. It's one of my happiest, coziest, most contented memories, laying in the back of that car on that night. I am safe, I am loved and Santa is on his way.

Pulling onto the Garden State Parkway Mom reminded us to keep and eye out for Santa and his sleigh in the night sky as she passed a little tied bundle of Christmas cookies to Dad so that he could hand them to the toll booth collector who had to work on Christmas Eve. "Merry Christmas," Dad said brightly as he placed the bag and a quarter in the toll collector's open palm. And that was usually the last thing I remembered him saying before I drifted off to sleep.

Back at home, Dad carried us in from the car to our beds, in ascending order. As I got older I would wake up when our Volkswagon's rumbling motor was cut in the driveway but I faked being asleep so that I could still be carried in. Eyes fluttering, I wrapped my arms around his neck and once my bed was warmed up I quickly willed myself back to sleep because-- as Mom had told us, time and time again-- Santa didn't come until we were all fast asleep. And do you know she was right.

Santa always came. He always would. And nothing would ever change.

Retail Therapy

2009-12-29T09:03:00.000-08:00

With a small, wordless shift in our gaits, my mother and I turned and stopped to read the little hand-printed card in the bookstore window. Mom and I are about the same height now so it's easy for us to convey these little detours to one another, especially when our arms are linked. We're also both single now, living independently for the first time in a while and re-fashioning brand new lives for ourselves from the dregs of our recent marital losses; groping our way towards new balance and rhythms. I think that makes us simpatico in a way, more synchronistic than most, but I don't think she thinks about that. I thinks she's too full of missing Dad to think of much else.

Christmas was pressing down hard; not in a welcoming, warm, panini way; but more like your taxes are due the day after tomorrow. We were trying to make the best of it by pumping some Santa dollars into my quaint village's local economy, but I recognized our ladies lunch by it's true name: retail therapy. One of the stores we walked into sold porcelain kitchen spoon rests that said, "Rest in Grease," in script across the top. I picked one up and Mom and I looked at each other, deadpanned. I knew we were both wondering silently if it would be too inappropriate, so soon after Dad died, to buy them to give out at our first Christmas without him. Then her mouth curled up and I knew she agreed. We bought three, one for each of us daughters, in honor of Dad.

Mom and I had just spent lunch discussing holiday season strategies for safeguarding ourselves against any public displays of hysteria or private spirals of despair. We'd even cried briefly-- between our soup and sandwich course-- and brought the stiff, white, polyester napkins up to our eyes to sop up the tears, but the cheap, restaurant-grade fabric was useless. Instead it was some joke that one of us made that got us smiling and nodding and managed to stop the flow. Probably about how there would be no more mylar balloons at birthdays now, thank God. She'd always hated the shiny, stupid balloons and secretly pricked holes in them so they would die faster. She repeatedly told Dad how much she hated them but he brought them home anyway; each time with a smirk. When I suggested it might be funny to buy mylar balloons for-- she cut me off. "No," she said with all seriousness, "no mylar balloons."

Outside now the sun was warming the afternoon and we enjoyed our constitutional with a reprieve of absolute contentment; that kind that even the most pathetically maudlin can usually waive after a lovely meal and full belly. There was plenty to look at as we peered in the charming shoppe windows. Our town had enjoyed a recent boom of artist types and creatives who'd set up residence and opened up new stores and their window displays had a certain sophisticated composition, whimsey and panache.

But the bookstore was different. The dolls in the window weren't much to look at. They were awkward and unappealing and wore ill-fitting clothes made from lame, cheesy print fabrics; the kind with sketches of beige watering cans and brown wheelbarrows. They looked incongruous among the books so we moved closer to investigate. The hand-printed index card sat in the lap of the center doll surrounded by others. It read something to the effect of:

"Hand-crafted by the artistic members of our mentally challenged community."

Mom and I both stood quietly for a moment, looking back over the dolls. Then I said, "Clearly."

Mom started to laugh and then I started to laugh and then there we were; two adults doubled over on a public sidewalk, in essence, making fun of retarded people, a week before Christmas. We laughed at how wrong it was and how I'm probably going to hell and how inappropriate that line of thinking is much less saying out loud and Mom said, "That's just what your father would have said." And we laughed some more as we imagined Dad there with us, giggling over the sad, handicapped dolls (they, too, looked mentally challenged), and how funny he was. And how Mom always got his jokes and was just as funny right back.

Mom said, "I really miss that about your Dad. I could say anything to him. Or he could just look at me and I would break up because I knew what he was thinking."
"Yeah," was all I could say. For all the speeches about healing and moving on, keeping busy and embracing the future, you don't ever get that back. This is no approximation for a constant companion who fully knows his or her audience. Every comedian's dream-audience of one; who gets every joke, every time.

So I've been thinking about life's gloriously inappropriate moments and how different they are, now, for Mom. All the embarrassments unscathed; cringes left to hang in the air. All those thoughts precipitated by, "I could never say this to anyone but you..." and then you say them, because you can, because you know the listener will get it and love it, but keep it safe and hidden like found change in a warm pocket. All those moments begging for comment; like when a minister pronounces the deceased's name wrong, or when a rehearsal dinner speech gets too personal. When the waitress with the lisp walks away with your order or the docent on the museum tour gets it wrong. Those are life's new lonely moments; the ones that beg for a pal. Anyone can spend the afternoon watching TV, reading or answering email in pleasant solitude, but who do you turn to when someone farts while you're stuck in line at the airport? Those are life's new hurdles. They're the ones that hurt now.

Later I called and left a message on her answering machine as she drove the 30 minutes back to her quiet home-- my childhood home-- and her evening without Dad.
"Thanks for a great day, Mom, lunch was delish," I said and then paused, "retail therapy really does work, doesn't it? Every time. It's astounding. Anyway, thanks for everything. Love you, bye."

I hung up the phone and then remembered why mom cried at lunch. She and dad used to go to the mall all the time. They would have nothing to do and so, to get out of the house, they'd put on their coats and go to the mall.
"I would shop and shop and never find anything for myself," Mom said, "and your father would buy sixteen CDs." We laughed. "Then we'd go sit in the food court with our lunch trays and look out at all the people and just sort of talk and laugh." That's when she started to cry. "I went the other day by myself and when I got to the food court with my tray, I started crying and couldn't stop. I had to leave."
"Aw, Mom," I said, tearing up, "I'll go with you to the mall any time." Now I was crying.
"I know dear, thanks," she said, "It's just not the same without your father."
And she's right. It's not.
"I know," I said, "but it can be sort of close," I brightened. "I'm almost as funny as Dad, and I'll buy seventeen CDs."
She laughed. We both did.

Rest in grease.

Reunion

2009-11-10T11:04:00.001-08:00

It couldn't have been more humid on the night of my 25th high school reunion. I'd just learned to blow-dry my hair in a way that would make my latest cut respond with a certain adult containment, which would surely signify maturity. I might finally look the part of a grown-up, wizened from years of searching, traces of recent heartache. But no, the humidity saw to it that I looked the way I had, when the air commanded the frenzied curl of a teenager too busy to blow-dry her hair now that the Curling Iron Seventies had given way to the Mousse and Scrunch Eighties. My hair was like Debra Winger's hair, which was a good thing back then, the bigger the better, the off-shoulder sweater-- a sort of Flashdance sans flash-- but this was not the eighties. So off I marched in the drizzle with nothing particular to lose and nothing reasonable to gain.

Lou, who has maintained the same big-hearted open manner and guileless smile since high school, was the perfect choice to host our fee-less reunion's Friday night get-together in this, our eighties legacy; post-economic gloom. He had thrown this reunion together with six or seven other big-hearted guys in the last few months. A scrappy troupe, they'd done a great job, winging it BYOEverything.

It was a modest yet gun-ho crowd of about thirty that gathered at his place in the drizzle. Lou and his new bride live in the back cottage apartment of the dog kennel his family has owned and operated for generations and he arranged the plastic chairs in circles around the bonfire that he spent all afternoon building. Once through the door, the familiar combo of bonfire, Bud and burgers transported all of us back to where we'd been, all those years ago, as if we were taking part in a living history experiment, the way they do at Waterloo Village, churning butter and wearing bonnets. Except our exhibit displayed the way high school kids spent their autumn weekends twenty-five years ago, awash in new wave and mud, big hair in a small town-- minus the crippling insecurity, seething resentment, paranoia, invincibility and fear.

Sadly, the rain persisted as the seats gathered puddles but we were just as happy to stand cozy, elbow to elbow, in the warmth of Lou's kitchen, just like the old days; parents on vacation, hours before the cops would arrive to tell us to turn the music down and confiscate our beer. The errant children of some of my old classmates ran, muddied, through the back yard, keeping gene pools in tact and reminding us that it's just rain, for petessake. They discovered the s'mores fixins' that Carl had thoughtfully bought that afternoon and gathered sticks with pointy ends. The rain ebbed from time to time and we ventured outside and huddled under tents and tarps, about thirty of us, chatting up a storm and laughing our brains out, guileless at last (finally, like Lou) and partied like it was 1984.

I learned a thing or two about a thing or two between Friday night at Lou's and Saturday night at our town's local bar where the turn-out grew to forty-five, maybe fifty. People came and went even as our hairstyles stayed more or less the same, and I slowly came to understand that these weren't the people I thought I knew so well. Twenty-five years before, as we rallied against the imprisonment of being stuck in a "boring" one-horse town, where "nothing ever happens," we were incubating the adults we would become and our errant ways were festering and evolving in ways I never could have imagined in my wildest dreams. These are the stories I heard about and directly from a random sampling of average Jerseyites and what has become of them so far, twenty-five years since high school.

Let's start with Ben. One of the two or three smartest guys in our class who could always be found in the "computer room," Ben emailed the reunion committee that he couldn't make it because he was in grad school in Seattle and couldn't get away. But he sent us all a link to the charming Thai website he created and manages, helping enthusiasts to learn the language and discover the Thai culture's charms. I clicked on the link and found a small photo of him there on the lower right, looking fit and relaxed, and was gratified to see that he'd done well for himself. At the reunion, I learned that he left out the footnote that he'd been arrested by the FBI for running an LSD lab and had gone to prison. (I'll say, relaxed) No one knew the time line for this episode in Ben's life, so it was unclear whether or not "grad school in Seattle" was a euphemism for jail.

Julian and Fritz, best friends in high school and inseparable thereafter, had a falling out and stopped speaking to each other after one of them tried to kill the other with a pick ax-- so the story goes-- when they were working together in the African diamond mine that Fritz's dad bought for him to manage in the early nineties, long before he bought the ski mountain in Vermont and just before he embezzled millions from the German banking system and ended up on the lamb in L.A., wearing disguises in order to leave his apartment to buy half and half at the local food mart. Fritz, who is a German emigrant from long ago, couldn't make it to the reunion, sadly, and is now a poet and real estate agent living in L.A. Julian-- who grew up in New Jersey-- still lives in Germany, we think, where he married a much older woman and was last seen managing a Ralph Lauren Polo store. This was all according to Djurmo, the Estonian.

Djurmo, the son of the local Estonian veterinarian, got his family's land back when the wall came down twenty years ago but I already knew that. What I didn't know is that the reason no one knew him until senior year is that he spent every weekend with other clandestine New Jersey Estonians, learning their folk dances, eating their folk food, and speaking their nutty Estonian language. I got to know him on our senior class trip to Disneyland in Florida where we laughed for four days straight. Who knew Estonians could be so hilarious, so numerous, and so drunk? I do.

One classmate of ours, an effortlessly popular guy throughout high school and long before, married quite young and had some kids. On his 35th birthday his wife asked him for a lady lover. It seems she'd already had just about everything else she'd ever wanted-- he'd done very well for himself over the years-- so this couple folded another classmate into their lives and loins, taking her to bed and on vacation as if she'd always been a part of the family. This big, happy pajama party worked out for everyone for quite some time until the married couple upgraded to a Florida stripper. (The Floridian ilk of stripper, it's been explained to me, is a much higher caliber than that of New York strippers.) I couldn't tell you if they're still in touch or even still married and to whom. Sadly, he didn't make the reunion.

Ilsa, who was teased for singing like an opera singer in chorus class while the rest of us sang like street urchins in a Charlie Brown special, became-- wait for it-- a professional opera singer. Ilsa didn't make the reunion either, but emailed the committee that she had wanted to come. A tall, sturdy blonde in grade school with thick, Viking ringlets and excellent posture, she sailed past us in the hallways with purpose while we all slumped around stooped shouldered and aloof. She lives in Vienna now with her husband and daughter and performs around the globe. Ilsa sings at Carnegie Hall and we don't. Now who are the idiots?

Jerry (now Gerald) showed me photos of him feeding a tiger at the local wild animal sanctuary were he volunteers in upstate New York when he's not working for the road department. Just a simple snapshot of a big lug of a shy guy putting a baby bottle to the gaping jaws of a striped tiger, for fun, on his off hours, after putting in a long day draining a sewer. Because why not. Our class, it also turns out, was lousy with lesbians. We could all name at least ten but nary a queen, (although we seemed to be in agreement on a few married guys we suspected.) I'm hoping the ladies all had a rip roaring good time back then, sneaking off after field hockey practices-- all sweaty and panting in knee socks and mouth guards-- but it's more than likely they didn't. Which is too bad, because there were a whole bunch of them and they would have had themselves a time.

Catherine and Margaret, two super-smart school friends became attorneys and moved away, which surprised no one. Two other pretty, best friends, Lisa and Amy, became housewives to local bankers, and stayed in the area although they kept in touch with only a few folks, which also surprised no one. Only Catherine was able to make the reunion and wished that she'd kept in touch with Margaret, who counsels in D.C. or was it Chicago. In a way, I'm kind of glad that Margaret wasn't there, otherwise I might not have gotten the chance to catch up with Catherine, who, it turns out, is very funny. (In high school she worked so hard that there was little time to be funny.) Lisa and Amy, sneaked out the side door of the bar half way through Saturday night, mouthing that they'd be back soon, only never to return. This, too, surprised no one.

Billy, the sweetest kid you've ever met with sunshine eyes and a wide, quiet smile, became a cop and has been policing in the same Jersey town for 24 years. My own personal hero of the night, Billy, together with Rick, who became a fireman, admitted to loving their wives and kids and thoroughly enjoying their jobs; wouldn't trade their lives for nuthin.' For a brief, glossy moment while I waited for my beer to arrive, I wondered how my life would have unfolded if I'd married a sweet guy from my high school class and stayed in town. Then my beer arrived.

There were lots of second marriages and a couple of recent firsts. Julia Gilariano got married just last year, for the first time, at 42, after having gone through a bout with cancer and skipping her first-- and possibly her second-- marriages. And no one knew what happened to Julia Reggiano, but everyone wanted to know because she was the sort of person that you just knew wouldn't disappoint. All night people asked Shelly what happened to Julia-- they were BFFs for ages-- and Shelly hadn't the foggiest, a notion that I don't think really hit her as a bit sad until she had to tell the eleventh person who asked her, "I have no idea."

Shelly really wished that she had stayed in touch with Julianne Denise Cassandra Reggiano or at least knew what happened to her. (I can't tell you my license plate number but I can still recall Julia's full name, including her communion name.) Shelly, who's son was born missing fingers, and Mary, who's daughter was born with a hole in her heart, swapped stories about kind doctors, nail-biting surgeries and the indomitable spirit of kids with moxie. Shelly, who was one of the funniest, bawdiest, Jerseyest girls growing up described what a crazy pisser her son is and how she honestly can't fathom where he gets it. (And she wasn't joking.) Mary told me that she was sorry to hear about my dad then went on to tell me that her dad died recently but was brought back to life. Personally, this sounded like a pretty neat trick, having just lost my dad to permanent death, and I wondered if my dad had been at whatever miracle spa her dad had been admitted to, if he'd still be alive and puffing on a cigar on my iphone, just like Mary's. I also wondered why someone would tell a story like that, in just that way, to someone who's dad had just died for good, until I remembered that I was talking to Mary, after all, and that it was just the kind of thing she would say. This brought me odd comfort as I moved on to talk to someone else.

Susie fluttered by with her camera, talking away as she clicked, raising the camera up to her eye, lowering it, then up again; her hands vying for air space amongst the steady stream of words that tumbled forth, crowding the area around her pretty mouth. I wouldn't have thought she would turn out to be so striking. As a child she had thick glasses with thick frames which hid her alert brown eyes; pupils big and black. Her Dorothy Do had let go of its stronghold and the baby fat that softened all of us back then, gave way to small, sculptured features on Susie's unconventionally beautiful face. I caught up with the ticker tape of her monologue just as she was talking about being in a 12-step group for clutter; which made sense, if you remembered her house growing up. All I could recall were the candy dishes on the end tables (Holy crap, candy!) and the piles of up-going flotsam along the right side of each step of the staircase. Later, Cate tried to remind me that there were tall piles of magazines, newspapers and all manner of detritus in all the rooms, on all the surfaces, with little narrow alleyways that carved paths from room to room. Oh, how I wished I could remember those exquisite images, but my visual retrieval system came up maddeningly short, yet again. (I asked my Mom the next morning if she ever went into Susie's house in all the years she dropped me off and picked me up at her house after playing and she said, "No, why would I?" God love the seventies.) But I admit that I think of Susie every time I set piles of folded laundry, smoke alarm batteries or my son's light saber on the steps to go upstairs. And I am wary.

Cate, a straight-A student and statuesque, natural blonde with flawless skin, bright teeth, and smart, clear eyes, married a Mormon-- imagine him finding her attractive. She reminded me that we didn't get our periods until we were fifteen or sixteen, a long-missing piece of information, occasionally asked for on medical forms, that I've groped for in the dark recesses of my health history but it always seemed too outlandish of an answer in this day and age when girls get their periods at age ten. Cate became an attorney with a terrific streak of chutzpah, once removing her entire family abruptly from the middle of a Sunday sermon when her priest went on a bit too long about how women should obey their husbands no matter what. She laughs a lot more now than I remember her doing then although we must have laughed a lot then, too. I wished I could remember but I can't remember much.

Phil, however, remembered everything. One of the funniest men at the reunion and the token stay-at-home dad to five kids, Phil also grew up very Catholic and went to a Catholic all-boys school taught by Benedictine monks. This much I knew. What I didn't know was that when his parents renewed their vows before the sanctity of the church after twenty-five years of marriage, under the guidance of their beloved priest-- also one of Phil's Benedictine monk teachers-- his mother fell in love with the priest and he with her. She left her marriage and he left the church and they got married at which point Phil's teacher and priest became his stepfather Father. His dad was still his dad, and sadly, out of luck, the house and his marriage. Not sure if either Phil or his Dad continued to go to that church. I forgot to ask.

Dawn and Jim, high school sweethearts, married early and had three kids who are now around 10, 12 and 14. Last year Dawn presented her family with the news that she was pregnant, which was received warmly by her husband and only luke-warmly by the older teens in the house. The recurring parents thought, What the heck! and jumped in with both feet. The newborn infant arrived just two weeks before the reunion, and Dawn, voted most beautiful and best hair for a seemingly endless run in junior high and high school, looked fabulous. Another classmate, Norman, we discovered, also bestowed his wife and three young teenagers with a fourth miracle in the last two months and so we joked at length about vasectomies. Their wives didn't laugh as heartily. They may have been too tired.

Finally, a classmate not named Melanie asked me about an absent classmate not named Jim. Seems Jim had found her on facebook and was looking to meet up for drinks and "catch up" in the city. Melanie, single and unattached, mentioned it to me remembering that he and I were friends back in the day and wondered if I happened to know much about him. I said that I did; that he was married with kids; and that seemed to surprise her. We ended the conversation abruptly with the understanding that we didn't have to say out loud what we were both saying to ourselves. I took this unfortunate news as far as my next sip of warm beer and then swallowed it along with other thoughts and judgments. It's none of my business; la, la, la, la. No one knows, not really, nor should we even suppose. So I drop kicked it from my mind and turned to talk to Mario, one of the top ten nicest guys in our grade, who suddenly and thoroughly lost all his hair a few years ago. All of it. From all points on his body. They figured out what it was and he's going to be A-okay and his wife still loves him because, as she said to me wryly, she didn't marry him for his hair.

The reunion finally wound down after midnight or so. Allison, who's dad was the local mortician and grew up above the town's funeral parlor-- and would have won the award for Changed The Least, if awards were given out-- confirmed what I had heard: that she really did compete in synchronized swimming in college. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven and could now leave the reunion a full and happy woman. I hugged and thanked our rag-tag committee one last time and walked forward into the night, back through my home town bar's portal to the present.

For years while we were growing up we complained that we were so hopelessly normal and our town was so painfully boring. We were a bunch of whiny, disaffected teens, half-giddy, half-annoyed at the specter of another Saturday night, jammed elbow-to-elbow with a bunch of classmates in the back of a pick-up, in a basement rec room; aching for action, yearning for sex, wanting something to happen; gossip, intrigue, anything that would tilt us a little further back on the rear two chair legs in our amped-up minds. How were we to know that our lives would get odder and more extraordinary and then more reasoned and sure? Only time had told who had surprised us in curiously bizarre, unpredictable, and comforting ways. Marriages and divorces, births and deaths, successes and failures-- life, it seems, is long after all. There's still room and there's still time and no one is who you think they are, not entirely. Which is excellent.

Paris

2009-10-27T10:42:00.000-07:00

When your ex is flying to Paris
over Thanksgiving with some French au pair,
Try not to fantasize about
what they'll be doing there.

Don't picture them out strolling
dans le Jardin des Tuilleries,
Where they might pause a little
pour embrasser in les trees.

Or picnicking at Père Lachaise,
like my days à l'université,
Après, peut-être, a quiet visit
par l'awesome Musée d'Orsay.

Then, lounging at Les Deux Magots;
sipping panaché for fun,
Arrêtez avant you see him watching
her warm her face dans le sun.

Don't see them stretch their legs, baiser,
et après, regard à la vue.
Then retournez to her atelier
to take un nap, or two.

The autumns leaves; d'or, magenta, et rouge
will beg them to awaken,
but even the smell of croque monsieur
will be pas possible to shake them.

For they are dans a ville magique;
far, far from les Etats-Unis.
Time will elude them, his life won't intrude on him.
He's one lucky bastard, mais, oui?

On Thanksgiving Day I'll prenez ma fourchette
and stab a creamed onion or two,
run it lazily through my piscine of Mom's gravy,
Honestly, what else can I do?

Then I'll help clear la table, grab my sweet fils
and snuggle on the rug for a while,
Maybe ride bicyclettes, then marchez sur la plage,
let the long jour unfold without guile,

Gaze out at la mer, and be thankful I'm here
because Paris isn't going anywhere,
"The trip is the trip," as my père used to say,
and my vie is beaucoup plus than fair.

Hot Damn

2009-10-21T05:05:00.000-07:00

Found some money!
Right there in my pocket.
Fifteen bucks!
Hot damn.

Found some money
right out of the gate.
First thing in the morning.
What a day.

Reached in and there is was.
Waiting for me to find it.
Just waiting. No rush.
Like anything else lost,
or not yet found.

I felt the paper
with my two longest fingers,
that particular "money" paper,
--kinda soft, kinda friendly--
and I knew before I knew.
It was money!

Then I realized,
These pants are mine!
These pants I'm wearin' belong to me!
So this money must be mine!
I get to keep the money!
Yipee!

I guess it was my money
all along.
Not really extra, one could say.
But it's more fun
to think of it as a treat. So,
I'm gonna think of it that way.

Found some money.
Didn't even matter how much.
Coulda been two or coulda been twenty.
But I counted it, anyway.
Fifteen bucks.

Not a bad haul.
For reachin' in my pocket.
Day's lookin' up.
Hot damn.

Beer and Corn

2009-10-17T11:46:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, the morning after a rather new babysitter sat, I turned on my computer to find right there, in the previous evening's history: porn. His brains lodged squarely in his pants, my new sitter didn't have the where-with-all to clear the history before I arrived home, so there it was. Porn, porn, porn. The very next day he became my former sitter and I began a "No computer usage" rule among my varied stable of high school sitters. I also had my laptop password protected. So much for, "Can I just borrow your computer to do my homework, Mrs. Chicky?" The answer was now, "No, you may not."

I'm still very pro boy babysitter for my son and always have been. Now that his father lives elsewhere and even when he technically lived here, it was the boy babysitter who taught Jimmy how to throw a frisbee and hold a lacrosse stick. It was the boy babysitter who shot hoops, played tag and sat on the floor with him for hours building lego ships and discussing plans for an outer space satellite sub station with duel action laser shields, blasting power and plenty of storage space for energy pellets. The girl sitters tended to watch, standing slouched with their hands on their hips telling him what to do and what not to do, but the boys sat down and did it with him.

Fast forward to this past summer to when a couple of teen brothers-- lovely young fellows whose parents are childhood friends of mine-- offered to babysit for my young son. They're good kids who actually like each other's company and so I offered them the gig together. I rattled off bedtimes and optimistic notions of book reading and teeth brushing and as I scribbled down my cell phone number said off-handedly, "If you get hungry, help yourself. No beer, no porn." And then I took my leave. I said it to be funny. I said it because I know their parents. At any rate, I said it.

Apparently what happened was, the older of the two let the comment roll of his back. What-ever, Old Lady. Do you even know what porn is? He was probably thinking. If he thought about it at all. But the younger of the two thought about it. He thought and thought. And the thing of it is, he thought I said, "Corn."

He wondered silently to himself why on earth I might forbid him to have corn. He though back on everything he knew about corn and considered that he may have missed a crucial piece of information, but how? And what?! Was she saving it for something? Was this corn super special? Maybe there's something very bad about corn and I don't know what it is, he thought. How could I not know? Does everyone else know but me? How could this have slipped me by? For two weeks he thought about corn and it's potentially damaging properties. Was it an age thing? Choking perhaps? Is corn illegal in some states? Is it poisonous? Maybe there are kids who are allergic? But he'd never heard of such a thing. It must be so obvious, something everyone accepts as common knowledge because his big brother didn't even flinch.

"Huh, corn," Little Brother mused. Who knew?

He had to find out but was too nervous to ask. Why else would he let two weeks get by? That's a long time to stew. And when was the right moment to ask about corn? He had to time it just right. Finally, he approached his dad while he was reading.

"Uh. Mm, Dad?"
"Yes, Dear."
"Um remember when we babysat for Jimmy?"
"When?"
"When we babysat for Jimmy that one night. Remember?"
"That was two weeks ago."
"Yes. Remember?"
"What's up? Everything okay?"
"Why is corn bad?"
"Yeah. Mrs. Chicky, she said, 'No beer. No corn.' Why is corn bad?"
"Why is-
"Why can't we have it?"

Well you can imagine my friend as he looked at his young son. The light bulb switched on. His face flushed red. He shook his head and a smile cracked so wide across his face that for a moment he looked like a muppet. His older son locked eyes with him and they both began to laugh hysterically.

"You've been thinking about this for two weeks?" Big Brother asked.
"What, Dad? C'mon tell me," said Little Brother. He chose to ignore his older brother and wait for his dad to answer but Dad was laughing too hard at this moment and wanted to compose himself so that his tone would be respectful enough that his young son wouldn't feel even more embarrassed than he already was.
"C'mon, jeeze, what?" his younger son implored. He, too, was starting to blush.
"Porn, not corn," Big Brother chided. My friend was still laughing.
"What? Porn?" Little Brother said.
"Yes, Dear," their Dad answered, "She said, 'No beer, no porn.' She didn't want you drinking beer and watching porn while you were babysitting."
Little Brother finally got it. His eyes seemed to leaf through the imaginary porn file in his mind and he inhaled deeply.
"Ohhhh," he said. He could relax now, mission accomplish. The anguish was over and all was right with the world once again. Porn not corn. Phew! Little Brother smiled, got up and left the room. Big Brother went back to what he was doing and Dad laughed about it to himself for the next two weeks.

Now, I'm told, whenever the boys are getting ready to go out somewhere; to a friend's house or a soccer game; a guitar lesson or movie; their dad reminds them of their curfew, reminds them to watch out for each other, then adds-- thanks to me-- "And remember, boys: No beer. No corn."

Pen Pals

2009-09-30T19:31:00.000-07:00

I was at a movie tonight wherein our two bright stars-- love struck naïf’s with small pores and Hollywood hair-- scratched away, furiously, with stark, ink pens at stiff, white paper for the better part of the film. Besides being entertaining, the movie transported me back in time-- against my will and the will of the actors, who were fine, really, perfectly competent. Good teeth, nice hair.

In the beginning I watched, rapt, as their words hurried out from between blackened fingers, their scripted shapes arcing and slanting to keep pace with their nimble minds, faster and faster until their thoughts, like their hands, (and their doomed love affair) finally slowed to a stop. But then for moments towards the end I began to drift just above the movie-- still submerged in it's special brand of Jane Campion pathos, luxuriating in his fabulous lips and her incredible clothes-- and started to notice memories of my own hand crowding the story. Back before carpel tunnel, before word perfect, there were imperfect letters and I must have written hundreds in my heyday; between my first crush and my last crushing blow.

As she ran to her room and tore open the letter, I, too, remember walking briskly from the house to the back yard, lowering onto our swing set's bouncy seat then stilling myself as I turned over the envelope in order to confirm what I darn well knew-- that the addressee's handwriting was indeed his.

Nowadays it might be ages before I'll get to know some one's handwriting. Women still have a chance, buying and sending birthday cards as is our want, but men? Forget it. Back then you might know a suitor's handwriting long before you could recognize his smell. And the fantasies it conjured... well you remember. Forward-leaning letters meant confidence while broken Ts and Ks-- can't commit. Too loopy? Too daffy. Actually, most handwriting tags seemed to mean confidence or some synonym, and only cheerleaders and smokers dotted their I's with a circle. I paid close attention to whether or not the top of his T joined, headstrong, at the neck and was wary of indecipherable chicken scratch. Unfortunately, that described the bulk of the boys I wrote to, except for the gays and future architects, whose penmanship was like a fairytale.

Soon, I learned to decipher chicken scratch as I replied, filling pages (double sided) of Ziggy stationery. Sets were particularly exciting-- with their cardboard pockets and matching lined envelopes-- and I received scads of them at birthday parties and for holidays. Pens became more important to me the more I wrote and I finally ended up eschewing ball points after brief and, I'm sure, annoying phases where I swapped out colored pens (turquoise and pink, every other line) and later, in college, wrote with pen and ink. Eventually I would begin what would become my long-time, monogamous, love affair with Paper-Mate roller balls. To this day I wander the house in search of the right pen for the right occasion. Note to teacher? Roller ball fine. Note to self? Fat Sharpie. Health forms in triplicate? Okay, you got me where you want me. I'll use a ball point, but I won't be happy about it. Borrow my roller ball? I'll watch you like a hawk.

I could traverse oceans and ravines with the pages I wrote, and get nauseous with the stamps I licked. Hyperbole, you say? How can I be so sure of myself, so certain of missives sent? Very simple, I say, for I've saved every friggin' letter I've ever received. Horrifying but true. They're all tucked away in the attic in jars, suitcases and files. Every note passed. Every thought scribbled. Letters from boys and letters from Europe. Letters from girlfriends, pen pals and Mom.

Mom used to write me letters at college, even though it was only an hour away. Sometimes she'd just xerox a mention from the local police blotter, something really dumb that some incompetent spaz had gotten caught doing. And then dash off a remark, a three-word retort, and mail it off to my dorm room. I laughed every time I glanced at them and hung them on my wall. Friends would read them and comment on how funny my mom was. "Yes," I'd say, "She's hilarious."

Dad's letters were more intense. Why we should vote for someone or other, or why the country's going to pot. He'd write exhilarating monologues if he'd just come from an art opening or heard a particularly inspirational seminar on oneness and being, let's say. I never wrote him back. It didn't occur me to. I'd call or email, or bring it up the next time I saw him. We'd talk about it some more, Dad reiterating what he'd written. I'd agree and that would be that. Maybe I should have written him back. It's fun to get mail. My mom knew that. I'm sure my dad did, too. But I didn't.

Sadly, there have been few letters since my first email account rendered my stellar stationery collection null and void. All that monogramming for naught; rainbows and lightening bolts ignored.

I did write a letter recently, though, to a friend, just for fun. It had been so long and yet, I remembered all at once as I searched for the absolute best place to compose, with adequate light and proper ventilation. I made some tea and found my pen. I put on wordless, classical, letter writing music. I took pains to chose the right stationery, aware that it would set the tone, of what it would convey. Then I headed off.

I ran headlong into my spelling, crashed into punctuation and ran after after-thoughts. Then made small, yet thoughtful decisions about how my cross-outs should look. Hash marks or scribbles? To block out or slash? I made great, sweeping, arrogant capitals and wrote quickly, drunk on my own penmanship-- I've always been complimented on my penmanship-- until E came before I and I was humbled. Now I'd gone too far. I had to slow down. Time to wrap up; in conclusion.

I chose the right stamp-- hyper aware that there are wrong ones-- and dropped it into the void. I waited, forgot, then remembered before feeling that long-ago familiar rush of adrenaline. I knew the handwriting. It was exciting to get mail. I waited until the time was right then searched the house for the right chair-- the swing set long ago dismantled-- and, peeling back the sealed envelope, sunk further into the page. I read the letter slowly, like eating ice cream in September. I'd embarked on a familiar journey full of chicken scratch and pathos. Full of hurried thoughts and cross-outs. Full of long ago desire.

Billy Collins

2009-09-20T03:07:00.001-07:00

How does he know when to break
at the end of the line then begin again
with the next simple, elegant thought?
I count the syllables and eye the stanzas
but it's all Greek to me.
I'll tell you how he knows,
he went to poet school, that's how.

He probably spent every waking moment
inhaling the classics, skinny and pale,
a preference for his father's upholstered
reading chair, legs dangling,
while I frittered away my youth
making up dance routines to the Carpenters
on the back stoop
of a neighborhood pal's patio
in bare feet.

Then perhaps his career really took off
with creative writing classes, his teachers
noticing a spark of genius, mentioning his wit
to one another over cobb salad,
while I nurtured my hand by passing notes to
friends during quizzes and wrote
ten page tomes to pen-pals in the same county.

All I remember from senior English poetry
was having to work too hard to figure out
what they meant. Underlining and re-reading,
I didn't care that Man had a thing against Nature.
I just wished my hair could look as voluminous
as that cheerleader's at the away game,
second to last from the right.

And that, in a nutshell, is why Billy Collins
is a U.S. Poet Laureate,
and I am not.
He was probably an English Major,
devoured the masters,
read and read and you-name-it-he's-read-it
while I ended up majoring in acting and film
but waited tables, mostly,
and fretted about men.

Then I learned to diaper and garden and spackle.
And maybe he has learned to as well, Old Bill,
but can he do the time step
and a pretty decent cartwheel?

Probably not and who cares because he
can write the pants off a poem
and not just because he has a drawer full
of heavy medals on thick, shiny ribbons,
but because his poems are fun to read and easy-as-pie and
feel as though you've just hung around a bit
with that wise older guy from up the street
who doesn't say much, and pretends to shoo kids
off his lawn in the summer,
but you know to be funny-as-hell when he invites you up
onto his porch for a beer, and you listen, rapt,
mostly because you love his lilting Irish brogue.

But none of that is true.
He was born in Manhattan and went to high school in
White Plains. He's friends with Bill Murray
which makes sense. Just a regular schmo
who likes to write
and does so with grace and aplomb,
so that some oaf like me can read his poems,
and feel smug while saying, "Do I read poetry?
Why, yes, love it. Why do you ask?"

But no one ever does, which is fine by me
because that's not the only reason I read them.

I'm able to understand and get a kick out of
his poems. I use them to get out of my head
when I haven't much time,
just a minute here and there
to whisk myself away, slow my breath, quiet my mind.
Anyone can. Many people do.

Then I close my book-- it's easy to stop--
and picture Billy Collins sitting, groggy, stubbled,
at his kitchen table,
a wreath of laurel balanced, askew on his bed-head head.
With one finger he moves the medal hanging
around his neck, just out of reach so that it
doesn't clink against his mug
then pours a smidge of milk into his morning coffee.

He starts to stir with his wrong hand then,
without looking, reaches the other forward
and gently slides all the awards out of the way,
groping for the sugar bowl.
Just another day in Poet-Laureateville.

Mom vs. Ants

2009-08-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

My summer has come to this: my mother is Sartre in drag and I'm living in the front row of a kitchen production of "No Exit."

"L'enfer, c'est les autres," Jean Paul supposedly said, but, "Hell is other ants," is what Mom would answer aloud to herself if asked in the Times crossword puzzle. If only they would ask.

We have an ant problem at my parents' vacation home. Actually, it's my mom who has the problem. The ants appear to be mind-numbingly chipper. They don't react in the least to her when she pads into the kitchen each morning in her powder pink, old-school, bathrobe and slippers. I've noticed, living with her this summer, that her hair always looks great in the morning, but I think it’s safe to say that the ants don’t notice her at all. My mom, however, goes bullshit when she sees them.

"Goddamn ants," she says in her throaty first-words-of-the-day morning voice as she squashes away in rapid succession like Godzilla with her mighty index fingertip. "Shit," she adds to her original ire in case they didn't hear her the fist time. They laugh their noiseless, flippant cackle before going down in a firestorm of flesh and formica. My mom squishes them with the guiltless panache befitting a woman who’s reached the age of Don’t-Mess-With-Me-Fella. For a moment there is silence and triumph as she measures out her cup of coffee but two to ten minutes from now, they’ll send in a phalanx of fresh-faced recruits and her co-dependant, Sisyphusian struggle will start anew.

I imagine what she's really thinking when she comes into her kitchen and spies the merry dance of the fairy ants: six to twelve tiny black drones tracing manic loops on her clean, snow-white counter tops. "You are not welcome," she might rather say, "this is my house and my life and you are uninvited guests. You, my snide little friends, are the worst kind of crashers. You bring nothing to the party save for inestimable stress and the constant reminder that I am not in control of my life. You mock me and I hate you, and you and you and you and everything you all collectively stand for. Now, all of you, go take a long walk off a short pier!"

But she doesn’t say any of that. “Shit,” is her profanity of choice and she uses it to punctuate each and every smoting. The imaginary foreign exchange student in our home would nod and then later on, while standing on the sidewalk in front of a CVS, might look down and say without hesitation, “Look! Look at the shits on the ground near my popsicle drip. So many shits. Many hundreds of shits.”
“Yes,” my mother would say, putting out a cigarette in her traveling purse ashtray, “many, many shits.”

We've contracted all manor of exterminators for purposes of elimination, but like disillusioned suitors, none of them has worked out. I finally took to the yellow pages myself and called the local bakery for their personal and professional recommendation. Never having seen a single ant in 40 years of ordering glazed donuts there, I thought for sure that this was going to be the ticket. But, no. Nice guy. But. No.

Once, after a particularly robust morning verbal assault, I suggested to my mom that she embrace the ants. I’m not saying that I applaud the ants. They’re a bonafide pain in the ass. But like adult acne and the DMV, they’re a part of life that is never going away.
"They're never going away," I said.
"I know," she said. Her shoulders slumped.
"We're going to have to live with them for as long as we own this house."
"I know," she said then sighed and reached for her bottle of Windex.

Ever since the second Ant Man told us to squirt them with Windex instead of Raid, we have the cleanest counters on the Eastern seaboard. But it's a tepid consolation and Mom wiped the counter down with heavy heart.

I suggested, "Maybe we should embrace the ants, Mom. Welcome them into our lives like loyal companions."
"What, and give them names?" she said. I could tell she wasn't going for it, but I tried anyway.

She put down the "ant sponge" and, tired of rinsing dead ants out of its nooks and crannies, tore off a new post-it note. Mom got the idea to use the sticky edge of post-it notes as a sort of grim reaper-meets-lint brush, thereby not only flattening them, but lifting them off the counter in one fell swoop. So now instead of having to grind ant carcasses into her slacks as she wipes them off her fingertips, we live with upside-down post-it notes, speckled with dead ants, littering our landscape. Once the post-it note is full, it's unceremoniously tossed and a new one is peeled off and put into action. It's a small price to pay for a summer vacation home. At least that's how I'm choosing to look at it.

"Sure, Mom, good idea. Let's give them all names." Maybe I'd hit on a solution after all.
"How about Aunt Bea and Auntie Mame?" she said and squished another ant.
"Sure," I said, "or Aunt Edna and Aunt Jemima." I could do this all day.
"Yeah, well," she said. Squish, squish.
"Yeah, I suppose that's not your style."
"Nope." Squish, squish, squish.
Game over. So much for the reincarnation angle. Maybe they're Dad, I thought of saying. It might have made her laugh. Or cry. Hard to tell.

All I know is that I need an angle. I've got to spin it or else I'll also go slowly out of my gourd, stressing out over my mother's stress, which, let's face it, is every dutiful daughter's star-spangled birthright. Or albatross, depending on the overhead light and mirror in the dressing room. There must be other solutions. If everything's a gift, as my Chinese acupuncturist, Jason, once told me, then what are these ants to me? Are they in my life to teach me to allow Mom to choose her own battles and not suit up on her behalf? Are they offering me the bonus challenge of a double dose of detachment? Yowza! Or are they my Dad, come back as a cosmic joke-- ants in the summer, squirrels in the spring. Thanks, Dad. Hilarious.

I secretly think that the ants arrived to keep us company, to help smooth the transition after Dad would die. They're kind of nice the way they keep the energy moving in what will be now be a mostly still home. So many hearts beating and minds whirring, walking in circles, looking to keep busy, not unlike you-know-who when he was alive. Mom couldn't ignore him either even if she'd wanted to. So will the ants keep coming until she learns to put them out of her mind and tend to her own life? It might be her second chance at a near impossible feat. Will she take it? She's got the sense of humor for it. The salt and pepper shakers on the table are naturally, giant, shiny black ants.

My question is this, are they really taking their toll on Mom or serving an important function in her life? They've done wonders as an outlet for whatever pent up rage and frustration she's toting around these days. Dad did die, after all, with only a week's notice. A dozen or so mini-ventings a day for the price of a stack of post-it notes and a bottle of Windex is a pretty good deal in most parts. The grieving process was never so clean cut; with such clear objectives. And visible results! (Remember our counter tops.) Such a deal. Not to mention much easier than kick boxing. And ultimately a whole lot less trouble and quieter than a foreign exchange student.

I think we'll keep them.

Sex-y Spouses

2009-08-28T20:12:00.001-07:00

Seems there are well-worn paths and covert plans of action that coupling parents must engage in in order to have clandestine sex when sharing the house with teenagers-- teenagers who are too drunk on their own hormones to question why they're miraculously getting another thirty minutes to stay out after curfew.

I have one very young son and no husband to speak of, so at a dinner party this summer, I was enlightened. We sat, thigh to thigh, six or so couples and myself surrounding a centerpiece of white, summer garden hydrangea. No strangers among us, we were all friends; old friends married to childhood friends. The comments grew ribald, the laughter rolled and crescendoed and I had little to add on the subject, so I listened.

I listened carefully to their tone and noticed when they reached for their wine glasses. I looked at their spouses and tried to catch the signals-- shifts in posture, the timing of their sips, small smiles lit by candlelight-- and took it all in. I scanned the long, rectangular table and looked at their eyes for traces of something that might tell me more than what was being said. But I caught nothing because there was nothing to catch. Their smiles remained genuine and no one snapped or scolded. Maybe they do at home-- in fact I'm sure of it-- but here, at this dinner party, they laughed. They were simply folks who'd married their best friends. Under a spectacular seashell chandelier, rubbing elbows as they carved their fillet, they were well-fed and contented, and at this moment, they were in love.

Not dewy-eyed in love or Hey-world-we're-in-love, these couples had logged twelve, sixteen, eighteen years of marriage. They weren't trying to get pregnant and they weren't in competition, they just enjoy having sex with each other and so they do from time to time. They drive each other batty and go through painful, dark, rough patches but they work it out somehow and eventually wind up giggling together as they sneak around, in the dead of night, to the far guest bathroom while their in-laws lay sleeping.

The candles burned down as their banter trailed off. Then one of them announced that they'd all gotten together and hatched a plan to fix me up with one of the local, universally-understood-to-be-closeted gay men. I reached for my wine glass, took a breath, then a sip. I asked them why, if this man is such a catch, didn't any of them snap him up? For ten years, while they were all single and dating they could have had him. "How did such a gem of a guy slip by every single one of you," I asked, "and why is he so perfect for me?"

I know that they just want to see me happy and that their suggestion comes with the best of intentions, but haven't I illustrated, quite dramatically at times, that being married to the wrong person makes me unhappy? Don't they get that being with Any Guy or Some Guy is not the solution to being single? And isn't the greater problem the possible issue that being single, in their eyes, seems to be something that needs a solution and must be fixed at all costs and right away? Like that adhesive stripping that people stick around the cracks in their window jams in the winter. Quick, do something, anything.

I put down my glass and collected my thoughts. I explained that if I were going to be fixed up with a gay man that he'd better be a big queen. He'd better be hi-larious, love to dance and do my hair for special occasions. He'd better want to cook for me, travel with me and stop at every single yard sale from here to Bora-Bora. He'd better be gay with a capital G so loud that it jumps out of a cake wearing pasties. Otherwise, I'll pass on the mearly whelming patch job, thank you.

In the meantime, I find comfort knowing that there are husbands who go home to their families on Friday nights or who dance with their wives the whole time. I relish the minutia, I'm thrilled it exists. I see husbands cross the lawns at bar-b-ques with a glass in each hand and wordlessly give their wives the drink they didn't have to ask for. "It's cold, take my jacket." "When you're tired, we'll go." I'm privy to their pleases, thank- yous and, "Great haircut, Honey,"s and I log these moments with invisible ink. They've been doing it for so long that it's rote now: the non-verbal endearments; their knee-jerk kindness; the quiet, faceless kisses. The love.

I have a friend who's so crazy for his wife-- after seventeen years-- so flabbergasted that he caught such a dish, that he'll tell you outright, "I'm the luckiest bastard." Then shake his head in wonderment. Another guy I know was describing his life to me a while ago. He said offhandedly, "I get to commute in to work with my wife every day." He didn't say, "I commute in," or, "I have to commute in," but "I get to commute in." With my wife. Every day. What fortune, what a coup, what a life.

I know that their arguments have been fierce and their venom can be strong. I know there is imbalance and want. I can spot a floundering marriage from fifty yards away now, so attuned is my misery-dar in light of it's recent recalibration. But when a man touches the small of his wife's back as they cross a quiet street with no car in sight, or burrows his feet under her warm thigh from the chair next to the couch, where she's turning the page, just to be touching her, just to be near, just because he likes her, I'm comforted. That's my goal, if I must have one, to like and be liked. The love is easy.

Back at the dinner party, birthday candles were being blown out. When given the chance to sit anywhere, my friends had all chosen to sit next to their spouses. And why not, (they don't wonder), this is the person I chose. So until some one chooses me and I them, until that some one finds that sort of comfort in me, I'll pass. The view from where I'm sitting has it's fair share of perks. It may not be my first choice, but it's my choice at last and my standards haven't been lowered. On the contrary. The bar's been raised by the very same childhood friends passing plates of cake counter-clockwise. I want my cake and will eat it, too. Until then, I'm just fine.

Baby Mamma

2009-08-07T04:24:00.000-07:00

I misunderstood the invitation’s homework assignment which is so typical of me in my state—that of a newly single mother, responsible for all the household finances, navigating a divorce and finding a job while raising a son to love his father when what I really want to do is whisper all the jerky things he’s done into his precious little ear as he sleeps.

The occasion was a baby shower for my girlfriend, Celeste. We were supposed to write letters to her gestating daughter to be read aloud at Saturday’s cocktail hour and again, in theory, when she’s older. I goofed and wrote a letter in the voice of the baby to her mother, but was forgiven by the crowd who’d assembled in the hotel’s lounge, wearing sundresses and sandals-- too giddy to notice the whir of Thomas Circle and still high from the lack of humidity during our spectacular day in D.C.

All baby showers are special, but this was ultra-special in that there’s no father in the picture. Celeste-- a well-respected, headstrong broad with a bright mind and glistening career-- decided to forge ahead with her unexpected pregnancy as women have done for centuries-- some of their own choice, many without. After logging myriad hours as aunt and dear friend to so many children who adored her, Celeste knew that this might be her last chance to cradle her own, so, tentative family and steadfast friends flew in to Washington from all over the country to fete the bravest woman in the room.

I had been her staunch supporter from the get-go, knowing first hand that not all babies’ fathers are the answer to the wail of two a.m. feedings or five p.m. colic. Many fathers need to be coerced into getting on the same parenting page concerning breastfeeding and bedtimes, discipline and diapers. Some fathers I know work late, go online, you-tube and tune out while others simply disappoint and disappear.

My estranged husband had been pretty good in many ways but the thought of having ample means to provide for a baby myself alone sounded, I’m afraid to say it, a little dreamy to me. I couldn’t imagine my son’s formative years without the added stress of our incessant bickering and now that we were separated I was getting a taste of the simple life and it was sheer heaven. Save for squashing bugs, fastening bracelets and rubbing sun block on my middle upper back, single parenthood was a much smoother ride. Having far less money to work with now and needing to return to work just served as a reminder that the compromises we’d pledged in marriage don’t end when the marriage does. So I told Celeste to go for it although I don’t think it made a difference. She had made up her mind with steadfast calm and steely resolve from almost the moment the child was conceived. Almost.

As we took turns reading our letters full of love and support for Celeste and the life-altering choice she’d made, I secretly siphoned off a bit for myself to fortify the life-altering choice I had so bravely made. We would both be on our own, now, to boldly go where millions of women have gone before us and we would do our best because that’s all we can do. There would be no pats on the back and few words of encouragement from our respective peanut galleries. It was up to us, now, to tell ourselves we were doing a good job. We were it.

I thought the letter writing was a good idea and wondered if it was too late to ask my friends to write letters for my first-grader to read about me, years from now, when he’s surly and hormonal and blames me for the divorce. I could sneak them into his smelly duffel bag as he’s stomping out the door to go live with his father. Or I could post them on his Facebook page. Or decoupage them to his nightstand.

Celeste’s nameless baby kicked in her mother’s itchy tummy as my guileless, young son kicked a soccer ball with his father somewhere in New Jersey. I rose to stand, squared my shoulders, and read my letter from a baby to her mother, when it occurred to me that in too many ways, I had written it to me. Which would account for my choking up towards the end. Either that or I was just tired.

Mom, You’re Beautiful When You’re Tired

I know you’ll look at me and think, jeeze, what do I do now?
I’ve changed your diaper, tried to wipe your tears and made a solemn vow
That if indeed you do stop crying, I’ll do anything you want
I’ll feed you all day, rock you and sway while remaining nonchalant
As passers-by and women (not shy) who will stop you on the street
Following questions with suggestions, “How’d you and your husband meet?”
And when you nod and smile demurely, thoughts of strangling with wire
Keep in mind I love you so and think you’re beautiful when you’re tired.

There may be nights that I’m not sleepy and you’re teetering on collapse
Put me to bed, earplug your head, I’ll fall asleep and then perhaps
I’ll learn to trust you as you’ll trust me to still love you in the morn
Because forgiveness, pure forgiveness beats a path to hearts well worn
So I will wear your silly outfits, I’ll roll over on command
I’ll learn to talk; I’ll not stop walking toward you, craving for your hand
You’ll guide me gently, bruised and bloody, let me slobber with desire
I’ll look a wreck but what the heck, you’re beautiful when you’re tired.
Yes, beautiful when you’re tired.

I may not thank you right away for letting me try then trip and fall
I will grow bolder as I’m older—I’m your daughter after all—
I’ll push the envelope quite often, challenge you to make me think
Of ways to get my way all day but deep inside I may be sinking
Wanting boundaries and your guidance, yearning for the tantrum’s end
So discipline me, time-outs give me— you’re my mother not my friend
And if you’re wondering if I love you bet I do with heart afire
You are my sun, my moon, my stars and you’re beautiful when you’re tired
You’re so beautiful when you’re tired
You’re amazing, you’re incredible, and you’re beautiful when you’re tired.

Erma, Son and the Holy Ghost

2009-07-07T08:31:00.001-07:00

There are about four or five sock puppets hanging around my shoulders at all times, sometimes whispering, sometimes barking at me to remember how to deal with the sudden loss of my dad, the savvy navigation of my divorce and boundaries to be maintained with my ex, the mindful single-mom raising of my only-child son, the finding of a job, the maintaining of all the household finances without said job, and the low-grade yearning I still have for another child which surges every time someone asks me how many kids I have. These puppets are in lieu of a best girlfriend-- something I am sorely lacking these days but am clearly not meant to have at this time-- and a husband-- something I have chosen to do without. So my sock puppets fill in. They hover at ear level and say things like, "Let go," "Accept," "Be Strong," and "Forgive." They whisper, "Be there for yourself," in one ear while cooing, "Reach out towards others," in another. They keep me from throwing all of my estranged husband’s belongings onto the front lawn and kicking him in the shins. Like me, they're doing the best they can.

Last night it was vaguely suggested to me that life is unfair, bub, and I'm welcome to go jump in a lake. I had just that morning been to therapy and yoga and found myself in a swivet that church was days away. Who would mollify my whiny prattling in the interim? Who would soothe me with balms of reason? My kitchen cabinets were bespeckled with self-help post-it notes but suddenly, they seemed lackluster and dusty. My sock puppets lacked pith.

There was one thing left to do, I thought. (Actually, there are the drugs and prostitution cards I'm still keeping close to my chest.) But before I play them, there's this other thing I keep hearing about. They call it praying.

I know. I make a slight squinchy face every time I say it, too.

People I know talk about it and others I would never suspect slip it into conversation. I figured I’ve got to try it. I know I probably should have been doing it all along since jumping back on the church bandwagon last year, but I haven't. Not in a person-to-person sense. I've chimed in for the rote-learned religious limericks that are the mainstay of every organized service. I take heart the messages embedded in the little stories that we mumble in unison reminding us of Jesus and his father and friends, and the epic Spanish soap opera that was their lives, but alone in my car, in my room or my head? No, I don't. I don't "do" praying.

But last weekend, two unsuspecting friends, a Christian and a Jew, both told me that they drop to the floor in the mornings before brushing their teeth. One hits her knees and thanks the good Lord for all her blessings. (The Jewess) The other slithers onto the rug against her bed and meditates for a full ten minutes. (The lapsed Catholic) I was surprised at both of these revelations. I wouldn't have pegged either woman for the type. You know, the praying kind: the Wal-Mart-shopping, bible-meeting-attending, teddy-bear-collecting, scrapbooking kind. In other words, not me.

Maybe it’s the lexicon. I could call it meditation. That would be socially acceptable to the others in my 30 Rock-watching, Target-shopping, NPR-listening demographic, but then I’d have to actually meditate. As far as I can tell, praying is different from meditation. Meditation, from what little I've learned from my kundalini yoga teacher and from reading “Eat, Pray, Love” only once, is the emptying of one's thoughts so that the mind may be clear and hollow enough to allow one's own strength and wisdom to bubble up from within. It's the act-- or, non-act, as it were-- of listening to one’s inner teacher or honing your intuition but only after emptying the head of all its administrative and emotional pablum.

Sound easy? It is and it isn’t.

The sock puppets get in the way, interfering, as is their wont. They leap into my head with all the subtlety of a Mexican hat dance, reeling off lists of phone calls to make, emails to return, chores to do and permission slips to sign. Most importantly, they remind me not to obsess over things out of my control. It’s loud and crowded in there. Asking them all to leave with an alamand left seems like a worthwhile pursuit but one that might take a full lifetime to master and monks don’t get health care benefits.

So, always one to explore the easy way out, I thought I'd give praying a little go round. Praying is more like a little chit-chat with your supreme being of choice, your own personal god or what have you. I liked the idea of it because I could just keep talking and complaining, as if I were on the phone, to my imaginary friend, who, I'm told, is always listening. When I've said my piece and explained my side of the story, I can wrap up the conversation with a closing sentiment akin to, "So, there you have it. Please give me the strength and guidance to see this through in whatever manner you see fit. Ball's in your court." And then I would sign off with pretty much the same panache as hanging up a phone. No stillness or time to reflect on the solution. Gotta run.

I remembered Carolyn's advice. "As soon as you wake up, get right onto the floor and pray. If you don't do it first thing, you'll never do it." Easy I thought. If I can remember to put a thermometer in my mouth the moment after opening my eyes, still supine, which is what I did for all those years while trying to get pregnant, then I can do this. I called her a few days later.

I said, "Carolyn, I just wanted to tell you that I thought and thought last night before bed about praying in the morning."
"Good," she said.
"I went to sleep with it on my mind. I even visualized doing it the next morning," I said.
"Excellent," she said.
"It was the very last thought I had before slipping into unconsciousness," I went on.
"Fantastic," she said.
"And do you know what happened the very next morning?" I asked.
"You forgot," she said very matter-of-factly.
"I forgot," said I, "how did you know?"
"Because it's hard to start. It's hard to get in the habit. Keep tryin' and keep me posted."
"Alright. Seeya," I said.
"Bye," she said and hung up.

Then, this morning, I visualized my conversation or my prayer if you must. I thought about praying to Jesus, who always looked a bit too much like a Dead Head for my comfort zone, but praying to him seemed dishonest-- too fake, too Grammys. I envisioned Mister God with his fabulous, white Grizzly Adams hair and beard, all tumbling down and well groomed. But what does he know from girlfriends and husbands, mothers and pregnancy? My god needed to be a woman, at least to start with. I know there are a bazillion goddesses out there, but I'm not familiar with them and didn't want to feign familiarity. I was already on thin ice in that department. So I thought and thought. Who would I cast as God if I could cast anyone?

I started with Madeline Khan, of course. I pictured her draped in white silk, very Dior, cut on the bias, her auburn hair fluffed up around her face like a halo but she seemed too young and flip for the job. It’s imperative that my God have a great sense of humor, but also the gravitas to take her responsibilities seriously. I needed someone with a little heft, a little deity-esque bravado. I considered Bea Arthur. She's got the seasoned age thing and the white streaks in her hair so she certainly looks the part. I would put her in something long and loose with bell sleeves and a golden rope belt. She'd want to wear one of those long-to-the-floor vests she favored on "Maude" which would be fine with me as long as it was white, too.

But my god is a benevolent god and Maude was tough and cutting. I needed her to have warmth and compassion, the scathing remarks I could do without. My own local reverend fit the bill, but I was wary of deifying anyone mortal and refused to have her in the running. She was politely asked to leave the audition.

Then a face came to mind; female, wizened, kind and forgiving, with a great sense of humor and a warm, comforting smile. My God would be Erma Bombeck. Or at the very least, have her face. I put her in something scoop necked with pleats and long sleeves because, like my mother, she is mindful of the loose skin under her forearms dangling. A shimmering white, cotton-poly blend would be most flattering and breathable and she may chose to belt her robes or not depending on how fat she feels that day.

I think I chose well when I chose Erma. It's been a few weeks since I started this essay and I would say that I remember to pray about half of the time. Curiously, I rarely conjure Erma’s face or anyone’s face for that matter. It’s just nice to have her on retainer if I need her.

I wake up and roll down onto my knees, my head and upper body flopping onto my folded arms on the bed because I’m too tired to hold up my spine. If anyone shuffled by at 6:30am they might think I was drunk. I begin by briefly thanking Erma for yesterday, and then ask her to give me strength and guidance for today. I acknowledge, with the nudge of a sock puppet, that I’m not in control and that I’m sure she’ll do right by me. A handful of times, I’ve slithered onto the floor and done a few deep breaths, clearing out the lungs as I attempt to quietly empty out my brain. This is my spine’s big chance to straighten up and fly right and my mind’s opportunity to shut down. It doesn’t. It thinks about the day, and I berate myself for being so inept. Then my sock puppets berate me for berating myself. So, up I get to brush my teeth and forget about the whole thing until the next time I remember.

I'm trying. Like someone determined to follow a diet, I'm going to try with all my might. Why is it so hard to fold this into my routine? The ground seems so far away. Do I think I'll get sucked under my mattress? Am I afraid of becoming a weirdo? I put toothbrush to tooth and these thoughts, too, fly out of my mind.

"Chicken," the sock puppets say, moving their heads side to side, eyes cast down. With a few muffled clicks of their wooly tongues they say again, “chicken.”

Blue

2009-06-09T06:09:00.001-07:00

Ok. You need to hear about my divorce like you need a hole in the head, but there is one little morsel I'd like to share, a little sum-sum that bears repeating, and trust me, there is precious little worth repeating that you haven't read in a dime store novel or dozed through on the small screen about my divorce. It's your basic garden variety split laden with all the hack dialogue and cliche scenarios you would expect. Except for this:

Back in our salad days of love, when we were about half way through our seven month courtship, my soon to be ex-husband-- soon to be husband at the time-- let me paint his toenails dark blue. Once his size twelves dried, he galumphed proudly up to the beach and around the conservative little shore town where my family has spent their summers for generations. Some folks raised their eyebrows but most raised his glass and toasted the man who was presumably "made for me." He was smart, funny, creative, driven, then throw in the confidence of throwing caution-to-the-wind and he was a dream come true. Sound the trumpets.

So we did.

Months later, we were engaged. Ten months later, we were to be married. A grand wedding was planned. A lovely dress was bought. We were feted and fawned over until finally the big day arrived.

My father-- a memorable public speaker who reluctantly embraced the spot light-- had worked hard and surreptitiously on his father-of-the-bride toast and now it was his turn to speak. He stood there, beaming and be-tuxed, and told 180 of our nearest and dearest how pleased he was that Jim and I had found each other. He made mention of his first favorable impressions of Jim and how excited he was for our future. Dad had looked up on the Internet some phraseology from Jim's entirely foreign career path (my father was an artist, Jim was the opposite) and wove his newly-learned definitions into the speech with a panache that suggested how proud he was of his new son-in-law's impressive career path and smacked of his willingness to embrace him as family. Wrapping things up he said, "You know, there were some in this small town who clucked when they saw Jim's blue toenails, but I'm hear to tell you," and he leaned into the mic and steadied his voice for effect, "any son-in-law of mine who wants to paint his toenails blue, is okay by me." Then he stepped away from the mic, bent down, and took off his shiny black shoes and socks to reveal that he had, indeed, painted his toenails dark blue. The crowd went wild. My dad had brought down the house.

Fast forward eight years. Our marriage had reached the harrowing depths that marriages have to reach before something or some one gives. Jim and I separated with Jim moving an hour away to the big city-- city of dreams-- for the usual textbook last-gasp rigmarole. After a year of separation, my dream died and so did my father. By now I expect the marriage to expire, my dad's death, on the other hand, was a complete surprise. I was blind-sided. But after the year I'd had, I was almost used to this feeling of harrowing, moaning-groaning despair. Almost.

Six weeks after my dad died and a day after we scattered his ashes, my pending-ex-husband did something that necessitated that I retain a divorce attorney pronto. Time to get this ball rolling. And so with that, I headed into her office with calm resolution, empty tear ducts, and a sharpened number two pencil. My attorney was a whip-smart, toughened Jersey Girl in her forties-- her haircut, like her suit, was no nonsense. She laid it all out for me and explained the deal in the simplest of terms and then we set about disentangling our finances, which, for those of you unfamiliar to these waters, is really all a divorce is at the end of the day. The rest is emotional muckety-muck which should be directed at one's therapist or drinking buddies and has no business in the crass bureaucracy of divorce. When we were nearly through, she got up from the table to make a xerox. When she returned, I glanced at her feet.

She was wearing open-toed sandals. Her toenails were blue.

My conservative, beige-suit-wearing divorce attorney's toenails were dark blue. The same shade of blue as my ex and my dad. On this day of all days, of all seasons, of all time-- the same freaky shade of friggin' blue. Not green or purplish, light blue or mauve, or any one of a jillion shades of red which, lined up end to end could reach Pittsburgh and back again, but dark blue.

I asked her about it and she laughed and then told me in a clipped aside that no, this was not her usual shade. Her teenage daughter put her up to it. I told her the abridged version of my story and she touched her forehead to the table in disbelief. Yeah, you and me both.

The next day I told an old friend my story. She got goosebumps. She was convinced that my dad was sending me a message.
"And what message would that be?" I asked.
"You know, that you're doing the right thing," she said, "That your dad's still behind you 100%."

My dad had been my greatest advocate in my life's Spanish soap opera turn of events. Not because he didn't like my ex, but because he wanted what was best for me and my son and was convinced that I knew what that was. Remarkably, I did and I do. I think he was also secretly pretty relieved that I hadn't turned to drugs or prostitution as a result of my last year's undoing. Now, as I fill out the at-times overwhelming tsunami of paperwork, I occasionally imagine his particularly exuberant voice telling me how proud he is of me. Then I push away from the calculator and have myself a little cry.

I told my friend that I liked the idea that my father was sending me a message via my attorney's toes, but that I would prefer to think of it as a sort of cosmic wink. After all, I've known for months that I would have to make this decision myself, with no outside influence or encouragement. And that ultimately I am making the right choice, regardless of what signs or signals Dad sends me. Although, I do get a huge kick out of this sort of thing and hope they keep 'a comin'.

So there's a little full-circle fun for ya. The next time you get a pedicure, you can think of me and my dead marriage and deader father and my alive and well divorce attorney.

You know I will. And I won't be choosing dark blue.

Putting the U.N. in Fun

2009-05-30T20:53:00.000-07:00

Recently I found myself hanging out at the U.N. bar with a bunch of Middle East dignitaries not named Michael.

The U.N. bar is not some hipster haunt in Williamsburg, and no, "middle east dignitaries" is not code for "other suburban moms." I was literally at the United Nations delegate's lounge-- a guest of my girlfriend, Dahlia-- chatting with foreign dignitaries who asked that, were I to write about them, they each be identified as Michael.

Dahlia's been my girlfriend for twenty-five years and working at the U.N. is the culmination of a string of global career moves she's made to keep herself engaged in foreign politics and the plight of the war torn and emotionally mending. For years she's brought me hand woven scarves, hand bound journals and beaded strands of beautiful craftsladyship that have made it all the way from Rowanda, East Timor, Nepal, India, or Hong Kong safely back to me in New Jersey. She travels alone, always has, and has never so much as batted an eye at narrowly evaded military coups, raucous uprisings or surly cab drivers. I've marveled at her unflappable gusto and wanderlust-- which blows mine out of the water-- ever since we met in Paris on a trip to Moscow all those years ago. And now she's in New York City, for another ten months (or ten minutes), until her next opportunity opens up and she flies out the window, leaving yet another sublet to store her bare-bones belongings in some basement in Queens. She's got boxes all over the world filled with the flotsam of sudden moves-- undeveloped film canisters, needless formal wear, letters and trinkets-- awaiting the day when she makes her global rounds to claim them. I love her because besides being ballsy and wearing all the world's hearts on her sleeve, she's funny and laughs at my jokes.

The Delegate's Lounge was located at the end of a massive room the size and scope of a large museum cafe. One wall was compromised entirely of windows-- an interesting safety choice for the U.N.-- and the ceiling was in another stratosphere, which was a good thing, because on the opposite wall hung the most exquisite and enormous rugs I'm ever likely to see.

I was immediately frustrated that I didn't bring my camera.

One rug had an Escher-through-the-looking-glass design that began broad at its edges and pointedly delved into such dizzying minutia that I couldn't help but picture the famous Iranian artisan, crouched on the floor with his forehead pressed against the fibers, a knotted carpet thread in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other. The other rug was also a gift, from China, and its topic was the great wall of. It was a breathtaking depiction-- just the sort of misty mountainous vista that I get lost in leafing through expensive glossy coffee table books or watching animated Pixar movies. It was so exquisitely detailed and so ridiculously huge that I felt for a moment that I was perambulating the great wall itself. Completely encompassing my vision, I followed the wall as it snaked and wound between enormous teal green mountains, low lying fog clinging to forgotten blackened trees, until eventually the wall, too, disappeared into it's own distant minutiae.

I'm no rug-hugger, but I was completely awestruck and I asked Dahlia, if this bar was open to the public. Everyone's gotta see this rug, I thought. Goodness, no, was her reply which I should have known as I recalled her having to meet me at a gate about eighty yards from the building where she presented me to a security guard only minutes before. Then Dahlia told me that this summer they'll begin renovating this 1950s vintage monument to Bauhaus Buck Rogers architecture-of-the-future and I felt an immediate concern for the rug. What if it doesn't make the new interior designer's cut? What if they go with flocked wallpaper and a nice arrangement of plates? I’m going to miss the wall-to-wall carpeting, hospital-blue formica and all that curved, blonde wood paneling. Where will they store these rugs and how did they get them into the room in the first place? My concerns gave way to introductions as I was lead to a table under the windows and introduced around.

Five relaxed, attractive, swarthy men in jackets and ties looked up to greet me as Dahlia introduced me around the table counter clockwise. "This is Michael, Mike, Mikey, Mick and Mack," she didn't actually say. Their true names were more colorful to me, but really they were the Tom, Dick and Harrys of the Middle East, or to be more current, the Dave, Steve and Johns of my generation. I found in them no trace of bravado or outward display of chauvinism. They each looked me respectfully in the eye-- something I'll admit I hadn't expected them to do-- and were modest and soft-spoken. I knew I had no business talking to these guys and I was smart enough to know that I'm not smart enough to engage them in any variant of meaningful political discourse that they haven't had a zillion times before. There was nothing so tedious to me, in the many months over many years that I spent in Europe, as having to have the same clichéd debate over and over with smug, humorless internationals, most of whom, had never been stateside. So, as they looked to me to inject new life into an hour old cocktail conversation, I threw them a curve ball.

"What kind of games did you play as children growing up?" I asked.
They looked at me and finally, one of them spoke up. Mike, I think it was.
"You mean games with other children?"
"Yes," I said, "Tell me about the games you played with your brothers and sisters and all the kids in the neighborhood where you grew up."
There was a bit of shifting in chairs but it was Mike again who spoke up.
“There was this one game we played where all the kids ran around while one kid chased after them and kicked them in the bottom. If you sat on the ground, you couldn't be kicked, but the moment you stood up to run, you were chased and kicked again.” I thought this sounded like fun. Also like something the Little Rascals would have played. I considered asking them if they wanted to play. There was certainly enough space. We wouldn't even have to push any tables aside. I smiled.
"Sounds hilarious and really fun," I said.
"It was," said Mickey. He was older, a friend of the dignitaries and a doctor now, but remembered playing it as well.
"What else?" I asked.

Michael told me about a game they played on a flat surface with round flat pebbles or thick discs. The object was to knock your opponent's to the corners of the table, (or out of bounds or off the table), by flicking. Each player took turns. I asked them what the flicking looked like. "Show me," I said. Michael leaned forward and moved his beer out of the way, then he held his bent forefinger back with his thumb and flicked it low against the table. I asked Mickey if he had the same flick. No, he said and he showed me his. He held his forefinger back by his index finger and the two fingers stayed straight while they flicked.
"It sounds a bit like pool or billiards," I said.
"Yes, it's very much like this," answered Mack.
"Did you all play this game?" I asked. They had grown up in different parts, mostly cities, of two separate but neighboring countries.
"Oh, yes. Everyone played," said Mick.
"Will you all show me how you flicked?" I asked, "I want to see everyone's flick."

They all sat up and moved their beers aside to show me their own individual flicking positions. Each one differed from the last and every finger was used to a unique effect. I thought about how these men must have learned their particular styles from their older brothers and fathers before them. Or maybe they came up with their own. For a brief instant I pictured these well-respected and well-comported men as excitable five-year old boys, studying the older kids and then racing off to perfect what would one day be their own signature style.

It was then that I heard my girlfriend say something to one of the Michaels about how she could fit six spiders in a matchbox. "What did you just say?" I asked. She grew up in the Philippines, raised, along with the chickens, by nuns. Electricity was available every other day. Easy Bake Ovens and Big Wheels were not.
She said, "If you sectioned off a matchbox you could fit six spiders perfectly in each compartment."
"To keep?" I asked.
"No, to fight," she replied.
"I don't understand."
She explained, "When I was a child we used to catch spiders and keep them in matchboxes. Then we would find a stick and someone would hold it. Then two people would put their spiders on either end of the stick and we would watch them fight until the death."
"I beg your pardon?" I said.
"They would move to the center of the stick and fight each other until one wrapped the other in its web around the stick. That was the winner." I didn't know there was an arachnid version of the cockfight.
"How long did this take?" I asked as I imagined this drama unfolding with the riveting speed of a six-hour cricket match.
"Oh, two minutes or so," was her answer.

Wow. Clearly it is not a small world after all. It's a big, big world and my slice-of-America ala mode upbringing looked nothing like theirs. All those childhood hours I logged making up dance routines to The Carpenters I could have been ass-kicking and spider-fighting. I suppose I can still teach my son these games. Of course I'll have to make him promise not to tell the other mothers where he learned them.

Our round table chat took on the feel of an intimate campfire heart-to-heart and the dimming dusk light softened our faces and defenses. Stories of childhood games turned to the re-telling of cherished lore: epics of romance and the quest for God and love. The men sitting around the table grew from boys to lovelorn teens in my mind and their eyes grew a bit lonely and remote. Years before they would find themselves eating take-out dinners with plastic forks and defying parking signs in New York City, they were gangly teens, at home with their families, craving the kind of unattainable romantic perfection they had only read about in school and whispered about in the dark. It's then that they began their grope for what they perceived as true enlightenment. Half way around the globe, I was doing the same.

The barmaid took one last sweep of our empties and a security guard gave Michael a sideways glance. The room had darkened and I looked up to see that the rugs had lost a bit of their command. Rising from the table we wordlessly shook off whatever intimacy had been garnered over the last few hours. The men walked ahead, their faces out of view and Dahlia and I followed, arm in arm, a few steps behind.

That much I had expected. The rest was a pleasant surprise.

Hair Care

2009-05-21T08:34:00.000-07:00

I went in for a haircut today. It’s a cozy, small-town salon with four chairs and a sink. And though the palette and décor is steely blue and cool, there is undeniable warmth to the vibe. The last time this woman-- the owner-- cut my hair, my marriage was on the skids. I’d been losing weight, sleep and marbles. As she draped the cape around my neck with the finesse of a lady matador, she asked me what I wanted in her signature bright and measured tone. I straightened my shoulders, tossed back my hair, and said, “Something that will save my marriage.”
“You mean the number five,” she said.
“Yes, give me the number five,” I said and we shared a tentative laugh. I added, “No pressure,” then took off my glasses and we relaxed into the business at hand. (Needless to say, that haircut did not save my marriage. I did not fault her or the haircut.)

Today I went in for a whole new do-- a different one from a year ago. She did her thing and then asked her question with the same earnest verve as ever.

I smiled impishly. I'd be dropping another bomb today, which some might think not only cruel but in poor taste, but I went for it. I need a chuckle, and if anyone could handle it, she could.
“What can I do for you today?” she chirped.
"Can you give me something that will bring my father back from the dead?”

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry,” she said and she meant it as she touched her hand to her chest. I followed up quickly by saying, “It’s o.k.!” but I felt a bit bad for using my dad's recent death as material. I was pretty sure he wouldn't mind. He'd think it was funny. Then we laughed and I settled in to tell her my tale and we got down to the business at hand.

The more I talked, the more she listened, and she did that with finesse, too. She combed and cut and talked and listened and I imagined the compartments inside her brain whirring, like a jazz drummer using both hands and feet and smoking a cigarette while he plays. She wove strands of our old conversations into this one effortlessly-- her mind able to retrieve nuggets from my spotty client history without delay. This impressed me even more than the cutting hair/chatting, patting-head-rubbing-tummy thing, since I rarely see her out of the chair and only come in three or four times a year.

The things I've told her in that chair-- on and on as if there were soundproof walls separating me from the dye job next door. But there aren't. There's just hair and air. I don't even have the excuse of flimsy hospital curtains to act as a veil for my delusion of privacy. (And my payments have lapsed on my personal laser shield.) For some reason I'm able to carry on and on as if the other occupants, inches away, are stuffed mannequins, deaf or European. I've never, in my life, been able to recount someone else's conversation in the chair next to mine, so, perhaps they pump something into the air. I'll go with that for now.

My cut wound to and end and my dad did not materialize-- some things not even a haircut can fix. I complimented myself by complimenting my hairdresser then walked out of my haze and into the haze.

I thought about women and discretion, that little-spoken, much-considered notion of generosity.

All my life I've read and heard of a man's character described as great or strong. A man having good moral fiber or keeping his word have been germane to the great American novel and most black and white films since long before cable, but not enough credit is given to hairdressers and bartenders and the woman I've sat next to in waiting rooms. Not enough merit is given to women for discretion, most of whom, after all, are like walking skeleton closets-- reams and reams of personal information, available at the sip of a tea.

Girlfriends are forever coming and going as their distances are assessed and re calibrated. The concentric circles of friendships that ring every woman like so many hula-hoops, reverberate with confidences and data. And the onus is on us to not divulge. There are no meter maids for innuendo. The files of past friendships are thick and bulging with hardship, infidelity and sex. There are biological descriptions and renewed prescriptions and run ins with cops and his ex. Children and parents, husbands and neighbors, there's enough material there for a lifetime. But it's hard to read clearly the expiration date on a friendship. Like so many lines, it's smudged.

There's a powerful seduction at play with most women, to use this fodder to grow closer to another, newer friend. Confidences are currency and the strings that bind us become thicker and more cord-like with each moment two bodies lean in. But women have choices like the men who wear hats in the movies. They can say, "It's not for me to tell," or "You'll have to ask her." "It's in the vault," is a phrase I admire. Then they can lean back and change the subject or get themselves a refill. They can reconsider. They can stop.

It's not easy to do, and I'll admit, I'm no warrior. I've leaned in and recounted thickly veiled yarns mostly by saying, "this woman I used to know," or, "an old girlfriend of mine once," but there are times when I'm weak. There are times when I leak. I've eaten more than my share of dangling carrots.

At the end of the day, trust and discretion are a valuable portion of what amounts to a woman's character-- poorly lauded, perhaps, not as attention grabbing as other brassier traits, maybe, but no less valuable. And when you add a good haircut on top of that-- well, then you've got yourself a woman of fine character and considerable talent. What a find! And all too rare, indeed.

Little Voice

2009-05-05T07:53:00.001-07:00

Here's the situation and grim doesn't begin to describe it:

I've just found out that my dad is dying fast and although The Good Doctor has told me that he thinks Dad's got as many as five days to live, I just don't see him lasting much past three. It's Thursday afternoon, and just five days ago, on Saturday, we were all sitting at the dinner table together at my parent's house. Since then he's gone into the hospital, deteriorated, spiraled, and now we're breaking him out of the joint to take him into hospice care at our family's summer home at the Jersey shore. So, to recap: In five days he's gone from a man feeling not quite himself, eating a sandwich at a dinner table, to a man unable to walk, strapped onto a gurney, with the knowledge that he's got a few days to live nestling into his psyche. And my head is about to explode.

It's an hour and a half drive south to the beach and Mom will be riding in the ambulance with Dad. Since we've all descended from different points on the map, everyone-- both sisters, my brother-in-law and me-- will each be taking one of four separate cars. And everyone's left. I'm last to leave.

Now, for reasons too tedious to go into, I'm driving my beat-up, second car-- the station car-- with a near empty gas tank. It's a twenty-year-old manual shift junker that I adore madly, but it's seen better days. There are no airbags because they weren't mandatory back then, and there's no right rear view mirror, because they were optional at the time. Optional! There's no AC or FM radio, no lighter and not a single computer chip to be found. The car is totally off the grid and looks it. There are bumper stickers of varying degrees of irony and a bit of a side swipe-y looking dent over one of the back fenders. It's a work horse of a four speed with manual windows and manual steering that got me back and forth safely across country and through years of parallel parking in Boston, San Francisco and L.A., but, let's face it, it's a glorified golf cart.

And it's out of gas.

Then. For reasons involving the chasing down of nurses, doctors and hospice coordinators in the ICU, and the magazine article Mom read once years ago about hospital theft, my wallet is in my mom's purse. My mom is in the ambulance with my dying dad and the ambulance has left. I have to get my car out of the hospital garage, pay for parking and put gas in the car with no money. And I'm crying pretty hard. Nope, scratch that. I'm probably crying harder than I ever have in my life. This is a pre-verbal cry of such depth and anguish, that I don't feel exactly human. We've held it together for five, long, dizzying days, and now, with no more information to leech out of anyone, no patient to advocate on behalf of, and no loved ones to hold it together for, I've lost it.

I'm rolling down the window to tell the nice shift worker in the little garage tollbooth that I have no money to pay the seven bucks for the garage. She manages to decipher what she can from the hysterical gasps and sobs coming from the crazy, sallow-eyed lady in the little, blue shit-heap and waves me through saying, "Drive carefully."

Now that I've cleared that hurtle, there's the problem of gas. I'm thinking, thinking. Every one's left. I guess I could have gone back into the hospital and ask one of the nurses for ten bucks, but I didn't think of that at the time. I considered driving directly to a gas station and asking the pleasant, swarthy, foreign man who seems to manage every gas station in New Jersey now, if he'd give me some free gas. Honestly, he might not give two hoots. I just couldn't be sure how the sympathy card might be received across cultural boundaries or how much fudge factor a small business owner has to play with at the pump. On this day of all days, I couldn't chance it.

I know, I thought, I'll ask some stranger for money. Over the years I'd handed cash to strangers. Maybe some one would hand some to me.

There was the midwestern looking mom and her teenage daughter who I noticed crying to a cop in Times Square once. I walked up to the mom, asked if I could help, handed her forty bucks, and smiled and walked away. There were the three other people I shared an uptown cab with the day of the black out. They were low on dough and I'd just been to the ATM so I handed them each twenty bucks, just in case. In seventeen years of living in New York City I'd lost my wallet three times and each time it was returned to me with everything in it. I felt I'd seen the magic of money karma at work in my midst and that there must be some errant pixie dust floating around somewhere, perhaps in my glove compartment. So I looked around.

A man in a dark suit was about to cross just in front of me. Bingo! I thought. If this guy is in a suit, there's a good chance he's employed. He looked like a pharmaceutical rep; mid- forties, maybe not the countenance of a super benevolent guy, but not the look of a total jerk, either. I wiped my pink, puffy eyes, tucked my greasy hair behind my ears, brought my sobs down a notch and craned my head out the window.

"Excuse me, Sir," I said, "you look like you have money."

My god. Can you imagine? I could have said, "I hate to trouble you, Sir," but no. I said, "You look like you have money," like he's from an old, New England family. Like some pick up line from the Great Gatsby. And if you've forgotten what kind of shape I'm in or what kind of car I'm driving, re-read the above. I'm a blithering mess. But I have gotten his attention. He walks towards me with a slightly pained look on his face-- the kind of face I make when someone asks me if I have a moment to take a brief survey.

I stammer. "I'm s-so sorry to ask, Sir, b-but my muh-om's in the am-bu-lance with my f-father and she's g-got my wah-hallet and I'm-m out of gas and, he's d-dying, and I'm-m s'posed to f-follow and could I puh-please have t-ten dollars?"

He glances down at my ridiculous car and my wet cheeks and bleary eyes and his furrowing eyebrows say to me, Really, lady? I don't have time for this. Are you serious? Can this really be what they're teaching in Small Con School these days? But he's reaching for his wallet-- albeit slowly and with a look of achy, quasi-resolve-- so I continue.

"I just nee-ed enough to g-get me an hour and a half-f down the parkw-way. Ten dollars sh-should be enough."

He hands me a five.

I nearly laughed. 'Th-thank you s-so much," I said, "thank you, Sir, th-thank you." He gestured meagerly and I drove off. And I gotta tell ya, it cracked me up. It actually made me smile. For a brief moment in an otherwise dark, forbidding stretch of time, I had to laugh at the guy who thought, Yeah, what the hell, I'll give this dame some money, but I'm sure as hell not giving her ten bucks. She'll take five and like it. Jeeze, I gotta be crazy. Women, today. Criminy.

So I drove to the station and put gas in my car and made it all the way down to the shore where I joined my family in helping my father die; which he did, incidentally, a day and a half later. And I couldn't have done it without that surly guy, in the navy blue suit, who didn't really want to help me, but did anyway. He'll always be part of the motley cast of characters that made that incredible week even more surreal that I ever could have imagined. And the next time I'm at a dive bar I'll order a cold Pabst in a can and toast to the little voice inside that man that kicked his ass into leaving the trajectory of his morning, to walk over to a shit-heap of a car, where he took one look, pried open his wallet, and spotted some hysterical broad a fin.

Artist, Funny Guy, Dad

2009-04-27T06:11:00.000-07:00

The thing about funny people, that is, if they're really funny, they're funny 'til the day they die. Such was the case with my dad.

He died a couple of weeks ago, and if you think there's anything funny in that, there is, remarkably.

On the oncology floor of the hospital, Dad was king of the A jokes. His style was dry, his timing spot on, and every single joke killed. Even as the nuances of his delivery and subtlety of his facial expressions went over the nurses' heads, he kept us in stitches. We laughed for five days straight, my mom, two sisters, brother-in-law and me. Doubling over behind the fabric curtains, hiding behind hospital promotional packets, our bodies shook with muffled laughter. That is, when we weren't crying. Or trying to hide the tears. Or laughing through them.

Then one or two cancers morphed into three as we pried the truth from his doctors. When Dad figured out he was dying, he asked my sister point blank. She answered yes and he told her that he wanted to go home. So we unhooked, untethered and untangled him from the ICU, and off we went-- home again, hospice, jiggity-jig. We settled him into his favorite sun lit room, with his own sheets and favorite squishy pillow, down at the Jersey shore where he loved to paint the skies and sail his boat and watch his grandchildren swim in the ocean. He was now very, very home.

He continued to make us giggle although things were growing darker even as the sky outside was bright. Two of his dearest friends came for a visit and brought more mirth and thoughtful conversation. Even the minister had a great sense of humor. Very thorough and exceedingly honest, he spoke to my father with tempered delight which, in turn, gave Dad great comfort. Dad listened, saying, "Wonderful, wonderful," as he heard the wise words with closed eyes. After the good reverend left, Dad asked us repeatedly if we were OK. We lied and said we were.

That perfect day would be his last and he died the very next morning. He died quietly and without physical pain, in the bosom of his family. He always loved to say, "In the bosom of my family." And he would linger on the m as his mouth turned into a grin. That very same impish grin, as it turned out, would follow him out of his body and off into the sunset he so dearly loved to paint. We laughed and sobbed as we watched him go. Like a transatlantic voyager, which in a way I suppose he was, leaving for an extended trip. We tried to be happy for him, knowing that he'd pondered this trip his whole life-- had been perusing its brochures for eons. And now he was finally off and it was so hard to comprehend. It had been just seven days since he'd gone into the hospital and he'd only felt odd for two weeks prior. But as rushed as we felt saying so long and farewell, he left us with calm assurance and full closure. He died with his ducks in a row. He left us with a smile on his face.

Days later, my mother, sisters and I would circle the dining room table with his random stuff spread out like at a flea market. The mirror ball he installed in the ceiling 35 years ago hung over our heads, still. My mom had wanted to do this. "It has to be done," she said. So we surveyed his life and we laughed.

My one sister asked for the scrolling LED light up belt buckle that he wore with a smirk and reprogrammed for family holidays. My other sister asked for his other belt buckle, the one with the pink lips that we all remember him wearing in the seventies, with an even bigger smirk. I asked for his Michael Jackson "Off the Wall" album cover imprinted-onto-mirrored-sunglasses, which I can promise you, we all begged him not to wear out in public. (He did anyway.) And we each got a Buddha. It took a while, but finally, it was all divvied up and done.

My mom mostly watched. She had already kept what was precious to her-- his Soupy Sales autograph, his saved ticket stub from the Newport Jazz Festival. This round was for us.

So now I've got to find a place for his Swiss army knife and his grandfather's pocket watch. I'll pack away assorted bow ties for my son, should he grow up to be the sort of man who wears them. It's a crap shoot, I know, and he's only 5 1/2, but what the heck. They're his grandfather's ties. And books, and pipes and a trucker hat that reads Tolstoy in curly red letters across the front, which I'll wear intermittently with my South Park baseball hat when it rains and shines. And I'll keep his T-shirt that heralds the onslaught of the menacing "Med Fly" folded up with my "Free Pee Wee" tee. And maybe I'll set his little carved, wooden man-scratching-his-head statuette next to my framed photo of my sister mowing her lawn in Vermont, topless.

And I'll be reminded of his sense of humor, as dorky, cornball and endearingly hokey as it could be, when it wasn't masterfully sophisticated and clever. And I'll be glad that I have mine and my mother and sisters have similar. And I'll thank him for it. And remember.

Because if there's ever a time to be grateful for a sense of humor...