Dream House

In one of my many dreams of public acknowledgment, Domino Magazine (RIP January 2009) asks to do a photo layout of my house.

Ever since my first dorm room, my various shares, pads and apartments have been little more than a string of repositories for an unfulfilled creative exuberance and obsessive compulsion for composition. One could always find me limp from paint fumes, shuffling through take-out containers with a cordless drill at my hip. I had a maniacal look in my eye, like the seven dwarfs' evil cousin Shirley-- but no whistling, just raw, pent-up design hostility.

Many moons later, I live in a house which is so stuffed to the gills with accumulated nostalgia and rummage sale treasures that I should have visitors sign a waiver releasing me from indemnity should the offended guest have a seizure.

There's so much internal baggage that I've either shed or shelved in the last nine months that now all I can see when I look around is what everyone else has always seen-- a cozy little house over-laden with too much crap. It's all I can do not to jetison the stuff out the window like the brooding, lithe model in that moody lame jeans ad-- an Italian opera blaring in the background. And there it would be in a pile on the damp lawn; the popsicle stick lamp from my rummage sale wedding shower; all the art I bought off the sidewalk from homeless guys in the east village in the eighties who dumpster dived for unclaimed portfolios in front of Cooper Union and SVA during locker clean out week; the stack of vintage suitcases I used by default as a media stand and never upgraded and every other piece of shit that I see and think either:

1. Oh my gawd. Someone maaaade that! Look at that color combination/wild design/insane person's vision realized! Some sweet little old lady in a crafts class, way beyond her prime and silently seething for giving up her dreams of being a graphic designer so that she could raise seven kids, made that. Look at all the work that went into that! So many teeny googly eyes and so many fuzzy pipe cleaners. It's enchanting!

or

2. Oh my gawd, it's how much? Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea what this is worth in Nolita/Tribeca/Williamsburg/on Antiques Roadshow?

So I buy. I have a collection of strange wire trees with shells or pebbles for leaves and angel food cake cutters with Bakelite handles. I have a set of dinner plates comprised of souvenir US state plates from the 1950s. (But they're only two bucks each!) And at least five paperclip and contact paper necklaces from the seventies. I have paint-by-numbers, Chinese silk fans and calling card rulers from the last hundred years. And I. Can't. Stop. Because I can't stop appreciating the work or the artistry or the trouble that the person went through to create this incredible thing that has ended up at some rummage sale for six bucks. Or seventy five cents. So I buy.

Which I guess is a good thing, because I'll never get my home in a magazine and even if I did, it would go a little something like this:

I glide effortlessly towards the front door in a robin's egg blue cinch-belted day dress with rustling crinoline and black pumps. (collar smartly turned up) My hair was set the night before and I kept my curlers in an extra two hours after I awoke so as to keep my natural curl (wink) for as long as possible. The pillows are pouffed, the dishes are done and the magazine folks have arrived to a clear, cloudless day. The garden's in bloom, the photographer's ready and his reporter's pencil is poised on a little spiral ring palm-sized notepad. I clear my throat and begin.

"Let's start in the foyer (pronounced foy-yay), as you can see, we chose floor colors that would enhance the mud that would be tracked in daily in both states of wet and dried. The mud, I'm proud to say, was dislodged by foot and has been tracked in from as near as the back yard and as far as the local playground, with up to thirty-two exotic locations in between. In the winter, the salt from the snow on our boots dries to makes particularly darling Rorschach-esque lily pad designs all over the floor. On some days, when my son or I forget to take off our boots at the back door, the little salt designs look like the paths of pixies have graced our dull wooden floors to our sheer delight."

"Speaking of our wooden floors, we've chosen not to re-varnish the gaping cracks between its slats so as to showcase our impressive collection of organic cookie and cracker crumbs. We believe it pays homage to similar crumbs on Native American tee-pee floor coverings that may have been erected on this very plot of land before they were driven away or slaughtered. Right this way to the kitchen." I turn on a heel and clack my way through the dining room, glancing once at the photographer in a surreptitiously flirty way.

"Notice the dried oatmeal stuck on the kitchen table." (I run my long, lacquered fingernails over the table's charmingly bumpy surface.) "We think this gives the table a nice topography evoking the quotidian warmth of use and wear. We're glad you like it, as we can't seem to clean it off, no mater how many sponges we soak in piping hot water." I smile and wink at the photographer again. His name is Gus. He's looking at my floor under the kitchen table. "These pizza crust and grilled cheese crumbs have been left on the floor purposely to evoke a sort of olde towne corner pub peanut-shells-on-the-floor feeling. We like it. And until we get a dog someday, which will, quite frankly, never happen, the crumbs stay." I smile and twirl one perfect twirl to the other side of the kitchen.

Opening a cabinet I say, "I put the shelf paper down myself when we moved in, and, although we've only been in the house a mere eight years, I like the smooth patina of olive oil, worcestershire and soy sauce that has masked the original paper's design. The sticky swath of dark, murky guck at shelf's bottom helps to keep the peanut butter and vinegar from slipping off the shelf although I do wish it didn't seem to glue down the Morton's salt shaker in it's wake, but what's a girl to do? A couple tugs and presto!" I tug at my Morton's salt canister and it doesn't budge. Gus leans over me, reaching up with his strong, manly arm and with one yank, also can't get it to budge. I close the cabinet and chirp, "On to the living room!"

"The Sofa? Why is it so soft? I thought you'd never ask. Once a season, I harvest the dust bunnies from all over the house and wad them into little balls creating a cotton candy-like puff of spun silk and nestle them in the cracks of my sofa. It's so much more time effective that plugging in the vacuum cleaner. And it makes the couch bouncier, see?" I bounce a little, giving Gus one more come hither look to seal the deal.

I stand and gesture out the picture window, "The garden, we've left in a state of permanent need to weed because we think that it says to our neighbors, 'We're too busy living life to its fullest to pull out last fall's annuals and the tangled net of weeds you see before you! Come join us in our lust for life!' Or so I think it says." I look out the window. The garden is pathetic. "I guess that just about does it," I say, "the rest you can see for yourselves. I'll leave you alone to do what it is that you do do." And with that I toddle off.

They leave soon thereafter and I immediately take off my pumps and rub my calloused feet. I realize, too late, that I've been saying, "We" this whole time, as if speaking for my husband or my staff, both of which I have none. I guess that means I've blown my chances with Gus. No matter, he looked a little sweaty anyway. And besides, I have things to do! I'm a very busy woman, busy, busy, busy! There are still rooms to paint and pictures to hang, furniture to upholster and curtains to sew because, when I get right down to it, I do love my house. It's my sanctuary, my steady boyfriend, my one constant companion. It's my dearest true love and I wouldn't change it for the world! Not a spec, not an inch. La di da.

Christmas Bird

I was driving to my 12 step Coda meeting the other night. You know, the one where I'm supposedly learning to let go-- the one where I'm learning to accept people and situations for who and what they are and forgive, forgive, forgive.

I take unfamiliar highways because apparently there are so few people in the tri-state area who have control issues such as myself that I have to travel great distances to get there. AA meetings? Please. You can't go thirty yards without tripping over some grisly pack of loitering, smoking, over-caffeinated alcoholics. Their meetings are conveniently held everywhere and at all hours-- hundreds of open doors within a few square miles beckoning with hot coffee and folding chairs so that their personal demons can kibbutz and cavort with the voices in their heads.

But for those of us afflicted with a penchant for trying to control the stars' twinkling and the snows' falling ("No, no snowflake, you land there, and you land there..."), the ones who need to be tied down from helping out when help wasn't asked of us, the ones who see themselves through a giant pair of circus clown glasses, the lenses jam packed with the faces and imagined judgments of his or her community instead of just themselves-- for us, there are but a few scant meetings. So I drive.

On the way, I was signaling to get over into the right hand highway exit lane so that I might, you know, exit. (Exiting being the perceived key to me getting to my meeting, learning to let go and becoming a better person, a better friend and all around stellar human being.) The driver behind me and to my right wasn't giving me enough room to move over but wasn't passing me either. I felt myself winding up as my exit loomed closer and made the executive decision to bully my way over safely, but none the less, under driver's duress. The other car, now behind me, flashed his or her brights then passed me with no intention of ever exiting. That's when it hit me.

I must flip this person the Christmas Bird.

I must show him or her the err of his or her ways. Clearly, that's my job, right? My anointed duty to point out injustices, to right wrongs? To show people that they're not being Christian at Christmastime, even if they might be Jewish, Muslim or Agnostic? Christmas is no time to refuse someone entree into your lane when they're clearly using their directional signal. Would this person refuse a pregnant teenager a room at the inn? Probably. I had to do something. I had to act fast.

I reached for the electric window button to roll it down so that my Christmas Bird might be thrust into the brisk night air with poignancy and panache. In that split second I thought to myself, You know, Self, every one's safe, thank goodness. There were no egregious errors made, no resulting accident. Perhaps the other driver was locked in heated conversation or silently ruminating over some recent bad news. Or was blasting the radio, singing joyfully and full of such reverie and gusto to "Tainted Love" that they spaced out for a moment and didn't see your turn signal. Maybe the flashing lights were more of an "I'm Sorry" gesture than a "Hey, Jerkface." Sure, there could have been a small pinch of selfishness or aggression in the other driver's actions, but really, is it worth getting out the bird for?

"Heck, yes!" was my Self's reply.

So I pushed the down window button. Nothing happened. I pushed it again. There was a minute lurch, but with no result. The window was frozen. There would be no Christmas Bird. Jesus, my co-pilot, laughed.
"What, Jesus," I snapped.
"Nothing," he smirked.
"No, what's so funny?"
"Your window's frozen shut."
"No, duh. Did you do that Mr. Miracle Man?"
"Didn't have to." He sunk down in his naugahyde seat and tried to muffle his snickering with his robes. I was pissed.

I took the exit ramp then said, "You know, Jesus, you think you're so funny."
"No, I-"
"Mister Love Everybody, Mister Kindness and Forgiveness, you try getting to your meeting on time. Oh, I forgot, you're so perfect, you don't need any meetings. It must be nice, feeling so superior all the time. And please take your grubby sandals off my dashboard."
Jesus sat up and after a moment casually reached for the radio's tuning knob and said, "Oh, c'mon, relax, I'm just trying to make light of a light situation."
"What, you're trying to tell me that it wasn't worth flipping the bird over?" I steamed.
He said nothing as he listened for a salsa station then found one and smiled.

We were on secondary roads now, the occasional evergreen boxwood wrapped in tiny lights twinkled. Passing all those lit up reindeer and blow-up Santas forced me to relax my grip on the steering wheel.
"What?" I asked guiltily.
"I was just wondering why you choose to take everything so personally. Other drivers, your family, your in-laws, watering your Christmas tree, gift-wrapping, Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve, shall I continue?"
"No," I sulked.
"It's not your job, you know. None of it is," he reasoned, "you are your only job."
"Ah, ha! What about my son?"
"Sure, you should clothe and feed him and love him, but ultimately--"
"Yeah, I've heard. I get it." I turned off the main road and pulled into the dark church parking lot. Warm bodies lit up the inside of the building.

Jesus asked, "That superhero feeling, the one where you feel responsible for righting wrongs and fixing everyone around you, how's that working for you?"
I pulled into a spot and turned off the ignition. The car ticked as the motor cooled.
"Sucks."
He started to crack a smile, which got so wide he had to turn his head away from me.
I got defensive, "Jesus, Jesus! So what do you want me to do then? Let me guess, be kind, love everyone, be forgiving, let go and let your Dad handle it? Your Dad, God, who supposedly got Mary, an innocent thirteen year old pregnant with you? Nice. Happy Birthday, by the way."
Jesus said, "I'm just saying try doing nothing."
"Yeah, yeah. Let go," I said. I'd heard it all before.

I stewed. Then I had a glimmer of a thought. I turned to Jesus and said optimistically, "I've done it with my ex-husband. Let go. No more expectations. Finito."
He sat up straight, "Good! And how's that going for you?"
I brightened, "Sad but good. And muuuuch better. I'm actually happier."
"Well then, Merry Christmas to you," Jesus said in his kind-Jesus voice, "Now, try it with the rest of the world."
"O.K., I know, I'm trying," I said, because I am.
"I know you're trying. Cut yourself a little slack, too. The whole forgiveness shtick? It's for you to do to yourself, too."
"Yeah, OK. Got it."

I gathered my stuff, reached for the door handle and said, "I'd love to stay here and shoot the breeze with you, Jesus, your being so wise and all, but I gotta-- what is so damn funny?"
He had started to crack up again.
"The next time you want to flip some one the bird..." Jesus trailed off. He was laughing too hard to continue. I cracked a smile. I tried to be tough, but I couldn't help myself.

I was wearing mittens.



Merry Christmas to everyone. And I mean everyone.

Seven

I was tagged by my imaginary friend, Blabber Mouse, to divulge seven random and weird things about me in the blogger's version of a chain letter.

This private hell for me is two fold. For one, I hate chain letters. Nay, hate is too panseyass a sentiment. I loathe chain letters. And I loathe them from experience. In my youth I copied prayers, xeroxed poems and wrapped up dollar bills, socks, dish towels and whatever else my conscious harangued me to. Wouldn't want some one in Flippin, Arkansas stranded at the dirt bike rally after dark without my socks to keep them snuggly warm. I waited in post office lines for hours-- hours that I'll never get back-- clutching soft little packages and over sized envelopes. My guilty conscience, back then, was mammoth-esque in scope and I had about as much gumption as an albatross. I was an obedient little Girl Scout and did not break a single chain, and for my trouble I was rewarded with a sound night's sleep. But did my wishes come true? Nyet.

Only once did I see the fulfilled promise of a dream. I did get, in fact, one dishtowel, once. Not the twenty I'd been promised, but I did get one. And it was fugly. Never received any socks and was never shown the money ("$500.00 in two weeks!" they said).

Each and every time time I participated in a chain letter I was forced to take inventory of my friends. Could I trust them? Would they follow through and meet a deadline? Did Dawn, from the marching band, count as a friend even though she was two grades older? Would Debby from tap class do the chain even though she goes to another school? I sat down to assess. Tina would probably break the chain because she has too much homework with all those AP classes. Kelly wouldn't send it on and wouldn't give a damn. I always admired her moxie-- why couldn't I be more like her? Becky and Julie probably already got the letter from Sally, who'd sent it to me. Did I have twelve friends left after that? Should I go out and make more so as not to break the chain? The pressure was awesome.

At some point in my thirties, I started deleting chain emails with a vengeance. Laughing in the face of fate, I dared bad things to happen and do you know what? Bad things did happen. Puppies were run over and governments were toppled but I was fairly certain that none of it had to do with me or the fact that I'd broken a few chains. I was a Bonafide Chain Breaker and I reveled in my new found defiance towards the guilt ridden world of chains.

Now I am free to forward and delete as I feel fit, letting little more than whimsy and the moon's gravitational pull on a wave chart to guide me. I am a chain email atheist. Yes, they happen, but they're not responsible for holding the cosmos together and neither am I. It's nice, this new found freedom. It allows me to consider who my gullible friends still are and that superstition can still have a powerful grasp on even the most rational adult's reasoning and psyche. And that once in a while, it's good to be bad.

But this one I'll do. Just this once.

1. I don't have pierced ears. Never have.

2. I once tap danced and played "I Want Your Sex" on the sousaphone on MTV wearing a purple sequined dress.

3. I once stopped myself from asking James Brown for his autograph for my mother because he was on his way into the bathroom and I thought he deserved his dignity. I've since come to realize that he didn't and that I should have gone for it. Mom would have loved it.

4. I am a spectacular parallel parker. Truly Olympic.

5. My old college ex-boyfriend is a former Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Another one for the books.

6. I have a collection of 16 wisdom teeth, given to me by various friends, that I hope one day to make into a dazzling charm bracelet which should go nicely with my old mouth retainer that I made into a brooch and wore to art openings in the eighties. It was, at the time, the most expensive piece of jewelry I owned.

7. I Still shine the occasional moon, but it must be at the right moment, must be done with panache and must be for an appreciative audience.

Young Monks

Young monks, shooting the breeze, on the journey to attaining total enlightenment:

Stan: "Nothing gets to me, I am one with everything."
Rick: "Wow, I'm impressed."
Stan: "Gotcha! You're not supposed to be impressed. That's suggests envy or ego."
Phil: "But can't he just be appreciative of-"
Stan: "Nope."
Phil: "Not even a little?"
Stan: "Eh-eh."
Alphonso: "Well, I'm totally living in the moment and loving every minute of it."
Rick: "Wow! That's amaz-- oh, shoot. I did it again."
Stan: "My friend, just listen, acknowledge and be present for the next moment, whatever it may bring. Don't attach any meaning to anything. Let the words you hear be like curling ribbons of vapor, disappearing into the ether without a trace."
Stan: "Yeah, just let it go."
Rick: "Everything?"
All Monks: "Everything."
Rick: "I know, I know, it's just that I forget and get so excited."
Phil: "It's only natural. Don't be so hard on yourself."
Alphonso: "You'll get there. Takes time."
Phil: "Yeah, hang in there little buddy."

All the monks stand quietly, shuffling a bit, looking down at their bowls. It's an awkward silence, even though they all know it's not supposed to be.

Manny: "Is that why there aren't more female monks?"
Stan: "What do you mean?"
Manny: "You know, the part about not attaching meaning to anything and letting everything go."
Alphonso: "You mean, they way women internalize and over-think everything?"
Phil: "Yeah, that and the fact that their imaginations go wild which makes them looney."
Stan: "And there's the beating the dead horse thing."
Rick: "And the control thing, God I hate how they need to always be-- awww, shoot. I did it again, didn't I."
Stan: "You did."

All the monks smile and chide Rick good-naturedly. Rick blushes then re-arranges his saffron robes.

Phil: "Everything's so personal with them."

The group heaves a collective sigh.

Manny: "So, you're saying that if women could detach from their own thoughts and extrapolate only the facts from what they hear others say..."
Phil: "And not take anything personally."
Alphonso: "Or attach any meaning to any other person's words or actions..."
Rick: "And relinquish control..."
Stan: "And let it all go..."
Manny: "They might have a chance?"

There is a long pause. The young monks stare out into the vast expanse of rubble. They are wistful in their musings. Manny picks at a grain of old rice dried onto his bowl.

Manny: "So that would explain why--"
Rick: "Yep. That pretty much sums it up."
Manny: "Got it."

Thanks

When I was in high school I had a friend named, Steve. Actually I had about eight friends named Steve, but that was the name back then.

Steve had a mop of wiry, curly, red apple hair, slightly gnarled teeth, the bluest eyes and an Irish twinkle that got him into trouble for little more than breathing. He was gregarious and silly which easily masked the fact that he was brilliant. I think he may have wanted to keep his intelligence covert because the honor role kids-- the ones who spent their off hours in the "computer room"-- weren't nearly as much fun as the mischievous, messed-up kids-- the ones with a very dry sense of humor, who smoked pot and thought up clever ways to deface the school without leaving permanent damage.

He hung out with the musicians and the artsy crowd and was himself a drummer in the marching band and an art room star. But like all charismatic charmers who manage to defy high school's damning peg system, he was also a nimble wrestler and played varsity football. Steve was so friendly, to literally everybody, that he was voted homecoming king, hands down, over all the straight-teethed Arian offspring and some of our high school's more superior genetic lottery winners. He made the exchange student, "Hor-Hay from Ecuador," his best friend, and treated all teachers with a gentlemanly respect that, in hindsight, was just shades away from abject mockery. He was inconsistent academically and his teachers, who had mixed feelings about him, couldn't help but smile at his jokes. He was an exceptional hugger.

When he learned that he couldn't go to the senior prom because of his latest run in with the Principal, Steve decided to throw his own. It was to be called, "Lil' Stevie's Prom." I drew up a flyer in cursive and gold dust and taped them all around the school. (Clearly subversive plotting through stealth action was not part of my oeuvre at the time.) The idea was that everyone would give Steve twenty bucks, which he'd keep in his pocket. We'd use most of it for the rental payment on the Knights of Columbus dining hall and the rest on kegs of Bud. The cover band, for which I sang and played tambourine, would play for free and we'd all have the prom of our dreams, with Lil' Steve as our master of ceremonies and nothing but dancing and beer. The school was abuzz in no time and people were so friggin' excited about it you would have though Evel Knievel was comin' to town.

We hit our first roadblock when the rental hall discovered that no one among us was eighteen. And then there was the little issue of the legal drinking age in New Jersey, which was, as you might have guessed, not seventeen. Our teachers went berzerk. My flyers were taken down and we were all reprimanded by school authorities. Steve refunded every one's money.

I didn't know what went on in Lil' Stevie's home growing up. If it wasn't part of my own scope of experience then it didn't occur to me. So much of what I later learned about people's home lives would have gone right over my head back then, even if I had known. Heck, even stuff about my own childhood went over my head until very recently. To this day I don't know very much about Steve's private life but I wish I new more. I know that he graduated and at some point went into the army. He was stationed at the DMZ zone, on the 38th parallel in Korea and learned Korean. I was a fierce pen pal in those days, a real US postal force to be reckoned with, and we exchanged letters often.

When he returned, he taught me how to say, "Thank You," in Korean. "Kum-sahm-nee-dah," he would say, and I would repeat it to myself, sometimes calling him to ask if I was saying it correctly. As a reward for being a good student he taught me, "You're Welcome," or "Chun-mah-nay-o."

By this time I was living in New York City and going to NYU where Korean delis dotted the landscape, at least one on every corner it seemed. Every time I bought a NY Post or an ice cream sandwich, I got to practice my phrase, and in doing so, thought of Steve. Usually the busy cashier didn't notice my mumblings or perhaps thought she'd only heard it in her mind. But every so often, she brightened, smiled and looked up into my eyes. "You speak Korean?" she'd ask excitedly and before I could answer would shout over to her friend. And each time I would feel embarrassed to say, "No. Just kum-sahm-nee-dah and chun-mah-nay-o." But they didn't seem as disappointed as I was in myself. They seemed happy that I'd taken the time or made the effort, and I, in turn, was happy to practice my phrase and think of Steve. This little ritual went on for the nearly twenty years that I lived in NY, LA, Brooklyn and San Francisco and continues to this day with the nice family who owns the dry cleaner in my New Jersey suburban town.

As the years accumulated I kept tabs on Steve but didn't see him. I knew, with a sort of lazy complacency, that I would most certainly see Steve again, and so I didn't even try. He wasn't in my graduating class, so he didn't come to my reunions, but I knew he lived in Boston, was married and had kids. He was one of those people where if you'd ask me whom I'm most curious about from high school, Steve would have made the list. And every time I said "Thank you" in Korean he was right there with me, making some crack about buying another box of Mallowmars or ribbing me for how I got that stain on my shirt.

Maybe it's because he was always with me that I never looked him up. So when he died at around age forty, I was pissed. Pissed at myself for taking him for granted and pissed at him for the obvious. I couldn't believe that I would never get that chance to see if his twinkle had made it through the years, though his face had aged, and to just hang out and shoot the breeze for a while. It didn't occur to an old boyfriend from high school to tell me about the service, so I missed it. I felt robbed.

I guess that's the way things go when you get right down to it. Most people will never know who've they affected and how. And maybe that's for the better. Maybe knowing how you've affected some one is too much information, or not necessary or down right none of your business. But no matter. I've forgiven myself for not looking him up and for taking him for granted. For assuming he'd live. Now I'm content to think of Steve, every so often, in a very healthy and friendly way, attached to the smallest expression of kindness, which was a big part of who he was. I think he would have gotten a huge kick out of it. And maybe when he unwrapped the plastic from the hangar before putting on his lightly starched shirt, he would have thought of me, thinking of him, saying thanks to Koreans, everywhere.

명. 고맙습니다

Joy

Yesterday I felt a shiny nickel's worth of joy again.

It all started with our new President-elect. Nothing sexier than a whip-smart family man with an action plan, a steady hand and a irresistible grin. I feel better just thinking about him.

A few days later I had a delightful lunch with an old friend topped off by a malted milk shake-- black and white godliness with extra, extra malt-- so good I danced a chair-jig. Then I ran for the A train and caught it just in time. Speedy and nimble like Wonder Woman leaping through a shrinking portal, I had just enough finesse and swirl to keep my cape from getting caught in the closing doors. I actually had to stop myself from winking at a fellow passenger as I stuck my dismount, cocky and head sure, hands on hips to the tune of the subway's familiar, "Bing-bong."

The real pinnacle of this day's fiesta of personal triumph came when, walking briskly through Penn Station, the gum I was chewing fell out of my mouth and I caught it in my hand! I could have peed in my pants with pride and accomplishment. "Holy moly, I'm on a roll!" I thought, "Nothing can stop me now!" I popped the gum back in my mouth and nearly pumped my fist in the air with a leap and a guttural, "Yeah!" usually reserved for football games, campaign rallies and the last scene in every John Hughes movie.

Smugly, I sauntered to track 3 with a subtle bounce in my step not known or felt for sometime. Things were lookin' up. To the uninitiated I was a gum-crackin' suburban lady on her way home to a life of filling stations and shopping carts, but I had a glint-- a rarity these days. I had hope, I had luck and I had the gum in my mouth to prove it. I was a woman with just enough naivete, (and a smidge of blithe denial), to feel certain, if only for a moment, that everything was going to work out. Our country was going to be fine, my son was going to be fine, the divorce was going to be fine and that I, in the end, was going to be fine.

So let's raise a glass to President Obama, a long life, hope and small joys.

I've said to folks going through tough times, "Things may be brutal now, but this will all be cocktail party banter before you know it." Such will be my divorce. One of life's little anecdotes in a laundry list of experiences, I'll reel it off with the same world-weary inflection given to tap dancing and playing the tuba on MTV, getting kicked out of Lenin's tomb and taking a hammer to the Berlin Wall. The older the dame I become, the longer the list I'll recite. The more husbands I go through and filter less camels I smoke, the droller my delivery, the snappier the comebacks and the better the wilting hors d'oeuvres will seem to everyone tipsy around me.

I once asked a friend, sitting numb in her car, how long would I Feel This Way? She said that we usually feel shitty until the feeling passes and then we feel OK until the next time we feel shitty. She said the trick was in knowing that the feeling will pass and that it won't last forever. "If it did," she said, "we'd all be in the hospital."

I think of that advice often and then connect the dots through each variation, disguised in different texts or spoken to me from different mouths, over and over, day in and day out. It's all the same message, no matter how you slice it. And if I can just remember it, tattoo it to the inside of my eyelids, the milkshakes may appear more often and my gum may stay nestled in my cheek, with joy sticking to me like burs on a sweater or just within reach, like hail at my feet.

Not Funny

You know what's funny about getting divorced? Nothing. Nothing's funny about getting divorced.

I keep trying to find the humor, the ridiculous, the sublime, but it's just one gooey, mucky mess of self-help books and Mallomars, hairy legs and burning eyes, weepy mornings and lonely nights. God, it's lame and I'm the lamer for it.

Crying through church, therapy, yoga class and my 12 step program has become a sort of homage to Mary Tyler Moore in my own fashion. You remember at the end of the funeral episode when Peanuts the Clown is crushed by the elephant and Mary's relentless giggles are replaced, a bit too tardy perhaps, by hysterical sobs? That would be me. All the time. But with out the canned audience laughter. Jest me, hogging the Kleenex box, puffy and bleary eyed. Blechhh. Gross. How gross? Gross me out the door, that's how.

I'll keep you posted when things start to get hilarious, though. I was at the ready during my first meeting with my divorce attorney, but, nope. Nothing funny there. I was poised for puns when my son's kindergarten teacher told me that he was, "acting out lately." Wait, maybe... Naw. Children of divorce are decidedly not funny. I've stopped going to weddings, so there's no chance of self-piteous hijinx there. And the staggeringly impressive arsenal of humorless self-help books stacked at my bedside ensures that I go to sleep every night with a perfect frown on my face. Just like Nixon.

On the up side, I'll probably lose more weight. Fewer disposable razors to buy and fewer presents to wrap at Christmas. I'll get to flex those "bitter muscles" that have been on brief hiatus since my adoption fell apart and my husband moved out. And I'll just keep waiting for the hilarious to present itself to me. Whether it's hashing out a custody arrangement or looking for gainful employment in our New Stinkin' Economy, I'll be ready. And to be honest, it could be much worse. Like, daylight savings could end or I could find out that I have cancer. But daylight savings isn't for... oh, really? Shit. Well, I don't have cancer, knock wood. I'm healthy and my son's healthy and this is just gonna suck for a while, that's all.

As someone said to me not that long ago, "It'll be exhilarating!"

Right. Exhilarating the way water-boarding is exhilarating. Sure, there's that. Meantime, for the love of God, somebody step on a banana peel, will ya? I'm dyin' here.