The Grandma

Two and a half years ago I became a granddaughter. In life very often you will marry into a family and receive in-laws of all shapes and sizes- sister, mother, brother. This was not the case. The actual truth of the matter is- in the divorce-someone ELSE's divorce- while party A (my husband) and B (his ex-wife) split their marital assets amicably and divided custody of Elder and Little between them with grace, there was one asset that didn't quite fit into that careful, politically correct and oh-so-modern "happy divorce" settlement. That asset was Grandma Annie.

VLH and I were fortunate enough to find a house literally around the corner from where Elder and Little live with their Mom. This fell into the picture of the "perfect" divorce. I say these things in quotes because I know how much pain and even as time passes bouts of discomfort arise as fallout of something as emotionally devastating as the breaking up of a family. Finding a house so close to the boys felt just a little bit like even if they had two homes- at least they were close enough together that forgotten mittens or lost iPods or just a little unscheduled Dad or Mom time could be had with relative ease.

As the newcomer to this equation I understood all the benefits of moving into the neighborhood. But there was one benefit I hadn't anticipated. That benefit arrived on my doorstep the morning after we moved in. We spent the 1st night in outhouse with Elder and Little who were excited to "move in" but not so excited that they felt moved to unpack anything so day one dawned with me attempting to wade through boxes finding clothing and two shoes that matched for all parties. The bedrooms looked like a gypsy caravan had parked in them overnight with hastily thrown together beds, the living room was awash in wires and the only clear spot on the 1st floor was between the TV and the couch, because my husband and the boys had their priorities in order- we couldn't find a drinking glass but HBO and Showtime worked perfectly.

While I could find the TV I could NOT find VLH. I figured he was in another pile of boxes and I would find him eventually- like in the Spring when I went searching for the seder plate.

I was upstairs trying to decide between locating clothing from this decade and making the bed when I found my husband. I actually HEARD him- he was opening the entry door and I heard him speaking rather loudly- to someone and then I heard a stranger yell "YOOOO-HOOOOOO". "Come Down" VLH yelled up the stairs "I got someone you need to meet".

Standing at the bottom of the stairs beaming up at me was a - well- a little old lady. White haired, wrinkled comfy-shoed. I walked down the stairs smiling but unsure. "Hello,,," I said tentatively. "Melanie!" she yelled (I was standing in front of her) "I'm the Grandma!"

That was the beginning. Antoinette Dellaquilla roared into my life - 5'2" of solid enthusiasm. At first I was confused- shouldn't this elderly Italian lady be... well, MAD at me or something? Where was the spiky discomfort that came from the idea that somehow *I* had something to do with the divorce. All of that was definitely my issue, not hers.

At first I called her Annie- we would visit often as she lived literally around the corner in a house she had occupied since about 1960. VLH would cook things and send them over or we would stop by so a lightbulb could be changed or a smoke alarm battery replaced. Annie's front door is unusual- there is a traditional screened storm door in front of a wooden door with a 50's style cut-out of three circular windows that allow you to peek inside. The front of the house had all manner of small decoration- little American Flags, decals of flowers, 2 plastic chairs sit on the porch and through the little windows of the entry door you could see a little paper sign tacked up with a charicature of a man, grinning and the words, "Keep Smiling". A wooden sign to the right of the door reads Dellaquilla and there is a woodcut of a butcher carved into the face-Annie's husband John was a butcher. In the time I knew Annie I also got to know John- though he had been gone for almost 25 years he was alive in that house and in Annie.

Annie very quickly became a part of my everyday life. There was always a reason to stop by- a piece of cake or a bunch of flowers that caught my eye as I came home from work. I never really needed a reason- and she never asked why I came. She greeted me as if I were visiting royalty running to make coffee or tea, pulling cookies from a drawer or artichokes, beans or peppers from the freezer, each plastic container labelled with a yellow post-it note shakily inscribed in blue ballpoint script "Broccoli OK " or "Peppers OK ". We never understood why she labelled them that way but VLH would joke that he would not eat them if Grandma didn't label them "OK".

Yesterday morning Grandma passed away. It is an almost unbearable torture to sit here and write this. Remembering her and our time together when the loss is so fresh hurts more than I have words for. But the thought that today, and tomorrow and each day after that, that I would begin to forget all the special little things that made her so amazing- that tomorrow or some day soon after they will begin dismantling the house she spent fifty years putting together and the life and love she stored in those walls will be scattered among children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. There are things I don't want to forget

She loved vegetables. After being married to a butcher for 49 years Annie almost never cooked meat after John died. She lived on artichokes, broccoli, beans and escarole. Her grandchildren and great grandchildren among so many other things will miss grandma's broccoli as it was the first solid food most of them ate- tiny pieces fed lovingly by hand into their mouths. Last night as we missed her we wondered about the fate of the pot she cooked vegetables in- some women leave jewels- here the family will carefully decide the fate of the broccoli pot- so many memories of her invested in that small bit of cookware. Elder's new baby brother though fortunate enough to have been held by Annie will have to taste his first artichoke leaf from his brother's hand. A tradition, I am certain he will follow, scraping the tenderly cooked leaves on tiny lower baby teeth.

She did not like figs- there was a tree in her back yard that yielded a bumper crop of black mission figs each Fall. Annie tied everything including pouring bleach on the roots of the tree to kill it, to no avail. I think ultimately she respected the tree's ability to withstand adversity and with good humor distributed the figs among friends.

When worried she would pray to Saint Anthony- a statue on her bedroom dresser. She prayed for her health and for the hopes and prayers of those she loved. Though she spent a fair amount of time talking to Saint Anthony I am certain he knew who was boss because if Saint Anthony didn't answer her prayers she would turn him upside down- on his head- until he gave her what she wanted.

She loved to dance. I danced with her at her daughter's 50th wedding anniversary party- she outlasted me and three other partners before sitting down.

She wore hearing aids in the last year or so of her life- she did not want to miss any bit of a conversation. But she really didn't need them- I know only how she was with me but she always knew without being told how I was- if I felt a bit off- "You're Mushy!" she'd say- "What's wrong?". I arrived at her house one evening stressed after work and she began speaking of a man who had just died. Annie claimed he made himself sick from worrying- "We don't worry about little things do we Melanie?" And whatever small issue from work faded away. Life was too short to waste worry on little things.


She used to hit and occasionally she'd give you a bite, proud, I think that she still had her own teeth. I know that sounds strange but Grandma only greeted you politely if she didn't like you. Each time I visited Grandma would slap my chest or grab my shoulder or reach around my neck to pull me close and whisper to me how much she loved me. And remind me to love my husband when I got home. I watched her pull the hair and punch the shoulder's of VLH's friends- often endangering their lives as she would do so while they were driving!

And speaking of love-from the very first day Grandma was very clear with me about her views on love and marriage. Literally on day one she pulled me aside and told me You love him? she said- Of course you do. Love him up she said- Don't be stingy. Men don't like that. She often spoke about sex- not in a vulgar way- but she let you know that it was very much a part of her life with John- up to and including the day he died- and that you should love every day. It was even more than that-


Grandma would speak about Love as if it was all that mattered. She had no bad word for anyone she knew-" Love each other" she'd say. That was the thing I think she'd want me to remember, that and her neighbor's recipe for escarole, I promise to try. I will miss you so much- I am missing you now.

I'm not your Target Consumer, Pal

The email subject line said "Sensible Shoes for Women and two-day free shipping".

Why am I getting this? Targeted marketing...

Recently I purchased Merrells for VLH and Elder Son on the internet. For the uninitiated A word about the Merrell company and their shoes from Wikipedia

"Merrell was founded by Clark Matis, Randy Merrell, and John Schweitzer in 1981. The company has designed and produced performance outdoor footwear throughout much of its history... The company started out by creating hiking boots that fit like cowboy boots with a wide toe box and narrow heel to accommodate the North American foot shape Also, almost all Merrells have Vibram and an unpopable air cushion in the heel."

Comfy yet stylish and a big hit with VLH. Elder son has a habit of unfailingly wearing "Chucks". For the uninformed these are Chuck Taylor All-Stars, or Converse All-Stars, also referred to as "Chucks" or Cons are canvas and rubber shoes produced by Converse. Elder son will don these regardless of weather or miles to go or how wet or stinky they might become. As he has inherited VLH's wide, flat, Flintstone feet- that's gotta hurt- so Elder son too received Merrells. Little Guy is just this side of too little for Merrells but as he too has flat little North American feet- we found Merrell-esque Sperrys for Little who rewarded us by running rather than walking in them. As Little is built for comfort, not speed this was most surprising in a good way.

But all these good deeds could no go unpunished. The other day I received three disturbing bits of flotsam from the universe- an email regarding a sale on "Sensible Shoes for Women" and a catalog of "Comfortable Walking Shoes" and a letter inviting me to join the AARP.

I could barely move- and it wasn't even my shoes'fault. Whether it was the walking shoe purchases or the fact that databases throughout the world have been alerted that in 90 days' time I will leave my fourth decade behind me- I had been profiled. Old and in need of shoes that close with velcro and a month's supply of catheters. Its a wonder they did not just send me a gun with a trigger labelled PULL HERE. I lingered for a moment in my chair- laptop with offending email open next to the pile of nefarious junk mail listening to myself breathe. Was that a wheeze? Arrhythmia?

Hold the phone. At that very moment I sat up straight, planted my feet and stood up. "Who the HELL are they TALKING TO?"

The fact is that I have heard "you are as old as you feel" and "Fifty is the new Twelve" or what have you- but in reality- when you tell someone you are fifty- or fourty nine- the inevitable response is- if you are lucky "I didn't think you were THAT Old." Which they mean as a compliment- which it is- when you are SAYING it instead of hearing it. The fact is I'm OK with being fifty- its the assumptions that accompany it that I take offense to.

Interestingly enough I absolutely understand where this comes from on a direct mail and internet basis- you see - I work in marketing. Unless you live "Off the grid" completely- sans birth certificate or phone- we know about you. LOTS. Age, ethnicity, address phone and email are all here for the plucking. Wedding Date-yup. Children- we know their ages. Even whether you have a dog or a cat- and if that beloved pet dies- don't be surprised if you get a sympathy card from Little Friskies backed up by an offer to adopt a stray from the North Shore Animal Shelter and an postcard advertising savings on carpet cleaning. The gentleman I work for says "life is all marketing" the truth is these days we market not to people but to lives.

OK so I'm in marketing and karma has just delivered a truckload of Depends- what to do? Same thing they did in the 60's man- fight the system. If I am to be analyzed by my purchases I'm buying dominatrix boots and coyote pheromone deer repellant. If I am asked on a website to give my year of birth I will say 1892 to one and 2002 to the other- let them figure out if I am senile or precocious. I'll buy birth control pills and register on fertility websites and volunteer to be an egg donor. In stores when asked for my zip code I will have memorized the postal codes for rain forests and frozen tundra. I'll have more personality changes than Madonna and more wardrobe choices than Lady Gaga.

But that will only make me giggle with glee- it won't fix the problem. Assumptions are made daily- by marketers who don't have any idea who I am or who I plan do be when and if I grow up. Perhaps its a bit optimistic for me to imagine that anything as broad and impersonal as the brush used by the world of marketing to paint a 50- something woman from Union City NJ would come up with something more like the portrait of Dorian Gray and less like Whistler's Mother. And I know its expensive to market, after all its my job but I think that marketing should take a slightly broader view. But that will probably not be the case for awhile. I have read and about algorithms that spit out 8000 personality points and create accurate portraits of who a target customer is. But- I am more than the sum of my points- and a warning to marketers- I fully intend to remain a moving target- catch me if you can.

A New Proposed Holiday: Everyone says "I Love You" Day

Nenu ninnu premistunnanu means "I love you" in Telugu- a dialect spoken by the Andhra or Telugus in the North of India. It must sound lovely when spoken but in the reading all I can picture is thumbs stuck in ears, fingers waggling while these words are spoken. Certainly a genuine I love you, spoken for the first time carries with it the element of risk- so starting out looking foolish when uttering those words on their maiden voyage to the loved one's ears eliminates that oh-so perilous mid-point when the reception, and the hope of reciprocation are still in question. You start out looking so silly that every thing that occurs after that, if not the desired response, will at least be slightly more dignified.

In choosing to say I love you in another language you also eliminate the monotony of the "I love you/I love you, too" conversation. Imagine saying "I love you" to the slightly longer-standing object of affection when after a few weeks the novelty of the aforementioned exchange begins to lack that certain spontaneity- you have a full range of new and novel responses- you can reply T'estim molt and then expand the conversation to explain the origin of that phrase and if truly inspired, weave a tale of a sultry Catalonian romance long ago when you learned that phrase BUT never truly understood it until you met the current recipient of your affections - on second thought the idea of a midnight tryst on some Andorran mountainside with a guy named Bixintxo (which means "Conquerer" in Basque as everyone knows...) might NOT have the intended effect of generating a feeling of "my one and only". Maybe respond with I mog di narrisch gern as the thought of Bavarian nights may conjure thoughts of schnitzel, beer steins and Liederhosen but would result in more images of heartburn than hearts and flowers in the mind (and chest cavity)of the recipient.

As I researched this I thought about the idea that there are a million ways actually to express love- the fact that I was able to find so many ways to express a positive esteem- it would be harder to find this many translations for "How much is this?" or "Where is your restroom" or especially "I am going to go to war with your country because we don't agree with the way you run it" or " We are going to send troops into your poverty-stricken country because with all this unhappiness there must be a weapon of mass destruction in here somewhere" My guess is that would take a couple of hours of research at least- and I am doubtful there would be a direct translation in Tagalog or Urdu. Hopefully on some remote Fijian Island the concept of mass destruction on an imaginable scale would be a lack of coconuts in the market for the day- sad but there would be coconuts the next day- or two days hence. Bad but, they'd get through. Perhaps coping by sitting under one of those lazy unproductive coconut trees whispering Mahal kita to some special cutie in a sarong. If that's "sa-wrong" I don't wanna be right. (OK I will wait for the groaning to cease)

I was looking at events that occurred on Valentine's Day-

Penicillin, a popular treatment for venereal diseases such as syphilis, was introduced to the world on February 14, 1929. Let the love-fest begin.

The Computing Tabulating Recording Corporation (CTR) of Binghamton, New York, changed its name to International Business Machines (IBM)on February 14, 1924.

1924 was a busy Valentine's Day year, also in 1924, U.S. President Calvin Coolidge delivered the first presidential political speech over the radio prompting millions of kids to first utter the question "Isn't there anything ELSE on?"

And there was, 16 years later: in 1940, MBS, The Broadcasting System, presented the premiere broadcast of the radio play, "The Adventures of Superman."

I got the idea that there could be a new meaning to February 14- I know this is crazy as we cannot get the world to agree on a currency much less have one, international holiday but ...wouldn't it be cool if February 14th became Everyone says I Love You Day (ESILY). No exceptions- as a matter of fact- instead of handing out medals for valor and bravery in battle we gave medals to people who on ESILY found someone NO ONE would say I love you to and despite revulsion or public condemnation said I Love you to the school lunch lady- or Osama Bin Laden. Imagine that between 12:00 pm and 12:15 pm everyone said this to the person it would be most difficult for them to say it to- soldier to soldier, Huutu to Tutsi, estranged father to son. And imagine what would happen at 12:16 that same day. Just imagine. The moment after those words are spoken the space between those two individuals would change. You cannot help but see the person- the vulnerable precious living being that bravely uttered those words in your presence. Eyes would be opened- and hearts. When you see one person that way you too are changed and suddenly you see not one individual but two- the person to whom you spoke, and yourself, accepted as a perfect human for that moment in their eyes. And you'd want to keep that feeling- to try as best you could, to keep that feeling- to be that person. And it would not be possible at 12:16 that day to say something hurtful in anger, to raise a hand in violence, to close a heart in anger once it had been opened by love.

So here's a list- a lack of information shouldn't stop you and certainly not a lack of the appropriate phrase in Denmark or the Sioux Nation. Forget the chocolates and the overpriced long-stems- Let's just say "I love you" and see what happens.





Amharic: Afekrishalehou
Arabic : Ana Behibak (to a male) Ana Behibek (to a female)
Bavarian : I mog di narrisch gern
Bengali : Ami tomake bhalobashi
Cantonese : Ngo oi ney
Catalan : T'estim (mallorcan) or T'estime (valencian) or T'estimo (catalonian)
finally: T'estim molt (I love you a lot)
Chinese : Wo ie ni (Mandarin)
Croatian : Volim te (most common), or Ja te volim (less common)
Czech : miluji te
Danish : Jeg elsker dig
Dutch : Ik hou van jou
Persian(Farsi): Tora dust midaram
Flemish : Ik zie oe geerne
Finnish : Mina" rakastan sinua
French : Je t'aime
Gaelic : Ta gra agam ort
German : Ich liebe Dich
Greek : S' ayapo
Gujarati: Tane Prem Karoo Choo
Hebrew : aNEE oHEIVET oTKHA (female to male) aNEE oHEIV otAKH (male to female)
Ani ohev at (man to woman) Ani ohevet atah (woman to man)
Hindi: Mein Tumse Pyar Karta Hoon (man to woman)
Mein Tumse Pyar Karti Hoon (woman to man)
Hopi : Nu' umi unangwa'ta
Hungarian : Szeretlek te'ged
Icelandic : ?g elska ßig
Indonesian : Saya cinta padamu or Saya Cinta Kamu or Aku tjinta padamu
or Saja kasih saudari
Italian : Ti amo
Irish : taim i' ngra leat
Japanese : Kimi o ai shiteru Sukiyo
Kannada: Naanu ninnanu preethisuthene or Naanu ninnanu mohisuthene
Korean : Tangsinul sarang ha yo
Latin : Te amo or Vos amo
Mohawk : Konoronhkwa
Navajo : Ayor anosh'ni
Ndebele : Niyakutanda
Norwegian : Jeg elsker deg (Bokmaal)
Pakistani : Mujhe tumse muhabbat hai
Pilipino : Mahal Kita or Iniibig Kita
Polish : Ja Cie Kocham or Kocham Cie (Pronounced Yacha kocham)
Portuguese : Eu te amo
Punjabi : Main tainu pyar karna (male to female)
Mai taunu pyar kardi aan (female to male)
Russian : Ya lyublyu tebya or Ya vas lyublyu
Scot Gaelic : Tha gra\dh agam ort
Sioux : Techihhila
Spanish : Te amo
Swahili : Nakupenda
Swedish : Jag a"lskar dig
Tagalog : Mahal kita
Taiwanese : Gwa ai lee
Tamil: Naan Unnai Kadhalikiren
Telugu: Ninnu premistunnanu
Neenu ninnu pra'mistu'nnanu
Nenu ninnu premistunnanu
Thai : Phom Rak Khun or Ch'an Rak Khun
Turkish : Seni seviyorum!
Urdu : Mujhe tumse muhabbat hai
Vietnamese : Anh ye^u em (man to woman) or Em ye^u anh (woman to man)
Welsh : 'Rwy'n dy garu di. or Yr wyf i yn dy garu di (chwi)
Yiddish : Ikh hob dikh lib
Zuni : Tom ho' ichema

Hearing Voices or How we killed J.D. Salinger

I love to read- as a child I devoured books well outside my age range defying cranky school librarians who would refuse me "The Secret Garden" at 7 years of age or "Gone with The Wind" in the third grade. I loved the different worlds books provided. I also read very quickly- for most light reading about 100 pages per hour- for the heavier classics- maybe 70 pages an hour and about 10 pages in 15 minutes for technical reading- I have very little patience for books that teach or rather instruct- I would much rather destroy a DVD player than read the manual and after destroying the DVD player would just sit down and read a book, feeling no lack. My lovely cardigan wearing sole-mate has photos of himself wearing glasses and a bathrobe staring intently into a novel at 14- "That was a Saturday night in my house back then" he says- having watched him tear through the John Carter of Mars series I bought him for his birthday I could see the child in the man- rapt and off fighting for the honor of the bright red princess of Mars.

The youngers are another story. VLH (he of the cardigan) has two sons who share time between us and their mom- who lives around the corner. Little Guy is 10 going on 11 and has an intellect that craves information the same way his entire being craves chocolate. The same way that a small Hershey's kiss can paint his face cheek to cheek as he consumes it, Little Guy devours books of facts with a similar soul smearing gusto- Mayans and Egyptians and Michael Jackson share space with every president, most presidential wives and a large number of presidential pets. Do you know which President kept a raccoon as a pet? I do. Little Guy is absolutely filled to the brim with information and it will spill out and land on anyone in close proximity- whether Little Guy and the party in question have been properly introduced or not. The only requirement for connection is whether Little Guy can reach up and grab their elbow and let the sharing begin - because in his voracious consumption he is a zealot- a convert to the church of information he proselytises at every opportunity and cannot comprehend that you are not as interested in the things that absolutely fascinate him. At 10 and a half he loves Gene Kelly and hates Richard Nixon ("Why?" you may ask him and he will reply "remember a little thing called Watergate?" of course this is the beginning of a conversation not the end.) He corrects tour guides at National Historical Sites. When travelling even a short distance he requires at least 3 books and until lately- a little orange bear named Rupert- though Rupert seems to prefer the couch at home more often these days and that makes me sad a little. So Little Guy also is a reader- but only of factual books- his father once offered to read "The Princess Bride" to him as a bedtime story- Little Guy looked at his dad and said "No offense Dad, what else ya got?" waving a hand in front of him to diminish the sting of his rejection of a book he knew his dad loves.

Then there is Elder Son. Elder is just a week or so shy of 16. Bright. Talented. And he makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. It seems very perilous to talk about Elder Guy here- at 15 I have had the pleasure of watching him start to carve his own path- choosing friends from those he grew up with and those he attends prep school with, railing against societal requirements and school uniforms and I watched, sitting in amazement as he pulled the school handbook from his enormous backpack to see whether green hair was in violation of the dress code. I explained that even though COLOR wasn't specifically mentioned that GREEN hair was actually the definition of "Extreme Hair Styles" prohibited in the handbook. I'd hate to embarrass him in any way- in adolescence mortification is a nearly fatal disease.

Elder and I have a standing Wednesday night rendezvous- he has a class in the city near my office and we head home together each Wednesday. I tell my office mates with not a little pride that this is our "date" and am inordinately pleased he chooses to spend this 90 minutes a week hanging with me. I also give him a snack when he shows up but I am pretty sure that's not why he comes.

A couple of weeks ago Elder and I were riding home on the bus and discussing his grades- while he had near perfect grades in Latin and Spanish, his English marks were only at about the 3/4 level. "Why?" The answer- the books were chosen for the entire class and reviewed in the same format over and over. Elder was bored. Trust a High School English class to suck the joy out of Mark Twain and Zora Neale Hurston (TY Mimi) and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Elder loves music and video, draws and writes, has access to video games and the internet- and unlike VLH, Little Guy and me, books don't naturally draw him- and there is so much else that does. But then there's that English grade.

I stood up on my soapbox right there on the #123 bus driving along the Marginal- "Books like that," I said- "have a voice- you can hear the characters in the books talking to you- can feel the location grow up around you- the smells and the sounds!" I was on a roll. I saw the light of attention fade-out in Elder's eyes- "Fahrenheit 451 was good" he said. I said "Well is there a literary voice you can remember hearing as you read the book?" "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." he said. "I gotta get it back from Dad and finish it". Part of me was proud that he had chosen such a unique literary voice. The other part worried about a Kerouakian need on his part at some point to try hitting the road to Vegas one day well stocked with a vial of the essence of the pineal gland of the iguana and a bottle of Patron. "We have to read "Catcher in the Rye" this Spring." he said interrupting my little revery of the thought of peeling Elder off a ballroom ceiling while he ranted about bats and reptile-headed political journalists. "Catcher in the Rye!" I gasped, more than a little relieved. "Fantastic book" Perfect timing for a man struggling to identify life's boundaries in order to vault over them sporting green hair.

I am a big Salinger fan. In the 8th grade someone compared an essay I had written to Salinger and I was complimented, if not completely unaware who this was. Within a couple of weeks I had read not only "Catcher in the Rye" but "Franny and Zooey", For a long time any of my friends understood my burning curiosity to know where the ducks from Central Park go in winter. Anyone who did not wasn't a friend for long. Not a personality conflict so much as a difference in nature. I prefer to spend my time with people who ask "Why?" and "Why not?"

We spoke until our stop on the bus- about Salinger, teen rebellion and why a writing talent hid after just a few books and never came out to play again.

The next day Salinger was dead at 91.

I texted Elder. "We killed JD Salinger" He texted back " He was old wasn't he". Old will get you every time.

I felt like the conversation we'd had- like many had with someone younger- maybe just didn't resonate. With so much information coming into his life- the daily life of a teenager- school, girls, guitar, license- one conversation just wasn't that important. I took no offense.

A week later we were sitting at the table- he getting ready to do homework and me tidying, which is an obsession with me these days- I make no excuses for it- or I make many excuses- but that's a topic for another essay. I saw a familiar bookcover peeking through his fingers. "Catcher in the Rye?" I asked. "Yeh"- he said, head down in the book. "I thought you didn't need it til Spring?" I said. You see, Elder is a notorious last-minute school supply guy who is well known for desperately needing a folder, notebook, report cover or clip the night before its school-mandated appearance. I do believe he eats 4x6 index cards in the school lunchroom on a daily basis as that would be the only explanation for the rate at which he consumes them. "I thought I'd get a head start" he said "Sounded like it might be ok"

Might be. (Yippee!)

It ain't over til the Yat Lady Sings

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid63683791001?bclid=63627618001&bctid=65118368001

Their Eyes on Punxsutawney

UPDATE: On Gobbler's Knob February 2nd, 2010, Punxsutawney Phil, Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of all Prognosticators proclaimed, "If you want to know what's next, you must read my text. As the sky shines bright above me, my shadow I see beside me. So six more weeks of winter it will be."

"Groundhog Day is a lot like a rock concert but the people are better behaved and there's a groundhog involved," Tom Chapin, editor of the Punxsutawney Spirit newspaper.

I read that PETA- People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, have complained about the ritualized misuse of Phil- dragging him from his den every February 2nd to a mad media frenzy (bad enough to be woken months before his natural wake-up time-worse to have the paparazzi hanging around for a quick shot for the papers- maybe they'll protect Lindsay Lohan next) PETA's suggestion was that Phil be replaced with a robotic groundhog. I shudder to think. While I admit and am grateful that the vigilance of groups like PETA have made me aware that foie gras and veal are cruel- they sure can take all the fun out of a pair of new leather stilettos (OK most of the fun). The very idea of an electronic replacement for the Groundhog just leaves the door wide open for ruining so many other holidays- next thing you know they'll get their hands on Valentine's Day and heaven only knows what they'll substitute batteries for in the interest of protecting one species or another. (Oh c'mon, do the math...)

From a Wildlife damage control website:

"Groundhogs, also known as woodchucks, have a great reputation among gardeners. Even the hit movie "The Caddy Shack" illustrated their reputation as being impossible to control. Woodchucks can literally mow a garden." If they can also plant flowers and weed I'm getting one.

From a Groundhog control website:

"...your garden will have no future if you pay no heed to this garden pest's sign language. Your garden will be trapped in a perpetual Groundhog Day of destruction, raided at will by the marauding rodents. " Sign language? I smell a screenplay here, don't you?

PETA might consider that annoying ONE groundhog once a year may be the very BEST way to sell the public on leaving the rest of these destructive little guys alone based on the goodwill generated. I'm sure Phil would volunteer- if someone bothered to explain it to him in groundhogese- after they get him a cup of coffee.

Other Random ramblings on Marmota Monax

The groundhog (Marmota monax) is also known as a woodchuck or whistle-pig- a marketing opportunity missed there- the Gobblers Knobians could have gotten corporations to sponsor the festivities in exchange for Phil whistling their jingle during the event.

During Prohibition Phil threatened to impose 60 weeks of winter if he wasn’t permitted a drink. Way to negotiate rodent!

In 2009 Phil's appearance was shown live (at DAWN) on the Jumbotron in Times Square. Like one more giant rat on 42nd Street would cause a fuss.

You can get a text message about Phil's prediction by texting his forecast for the first time (to sign up, text "groundhog" to 247365) He also has a Facebook Fan page and an online Souvenir Shop...

Since Phil’s first trek to Gobbler’s Knob in 1887, he has seen his shadow 98 times, no shadow 15 times, and no record 10 times. He saw his shadow last year. This year marks Phil's 124th prediction.

There has only been one Punxsutawney Phil. Punxsutawney Phil gets his longevity from drinking “groundhog punch,” a secret recipe. Phil takes one sip every summer at the Groundhog Picnic and it magically gives him seven more years of life. My guess is that the "no record" days and the excessive consumption of "groundhog punch" are somehow connected.


To the Groundhog (from a California pre-school website)


Will you
Won't you
See your shadow?

Will it
Won't it
Really matter?

Do you
Don't you
Grin to see

People
Take you
Seriously?

Please don't take this seriously- just raise a glass of groundhog punch with me and toast to Spring- whenever it gets here.

A Certain Age

I am approaching a portentous anniversary of my years on the planet. It has me inviting people to a party I have not yet planned- still months away- calling in all markers, the hand holdings, late night phone calls,and interruptions of holiday dinners for an emergency gravy consultation ("Yes you can freeze that"- "No you shouldn't forgive him just because HE thinks you should") . If I MUST turn 50- I need all the support can muster.

Lately the phrase "woman of a certain age" has been rattling around in my mind. As a voracious reader I have long been aware of the phrase and picture well-coiffed and marvelously groomed ladies having tea- or cocktails- and speaking wisely to each other about things I am not sure which things- perhaps the running of their families, or their lives, or the planet. Whatever the subject they have a look, to my mind, which says that they have it licked- nothing to see here, got it all under control. To me- the "certain" part of the phrase means- they were sure. At some pre-ordained moment they had been struck with a sense of "Aha!"and everything popped into focus.

I'm waiting. "Certain" hasn't quite reached me yet.

I did a bit of research and found that the French believe "une femme d'une certaine age" is a forty-ish woman who is able to initiate boys and young men into the beauties of sexual encounters. Those clever French can build sex into anything including potatoes- or aging women.

I have not been a fan of the younger man as a rule- for a very long time I eschewed the younger man, choosing male companions older than me. My first love had been younger and quite honestly- I no longer wanted the teacher role. Unfortunately in my younger days I learned the veracity of something a friend in college swore was true- she said "There are no men- just little boys in suits". For a long time, in relationships I steered when I wished nothing more than to let someone else do the driving. I also learned along the way that just because someone has a license doesn't mean they should drive. So I took life as it came along- and gathered information. I do not know if I taught anyone about the beauty of sex- I have learned that the man who can't kiss well won't be much in the romance department- and the fellow too good at romance will likely not last beyond the death of that first bunch of too-quickly proferred roses, and that the man who can make me laugh will also be pretty good at holding me when I cry. I've also learned that looks don't count for much but attraction counts for everything. If you want to love someone- liking who they are is a pretty essential place to start. Ignore the cardigan- concentrate on the laugh.

Like the man who is lost but making good time I spent a great deal of the last 20 ears muddling through if not embracing my uncertainty. The path took me to church and ashram, temple and wooded grove communing with all my questions. I remember once lying in a yoga class, lights dimmed and incense filling the air with its chalky serenity. I had my legs stretched over my head and my toes grazing the floor behind me and I was crying into my own lap. I had made a step back instead of forward in my emotional development and was filled with questions and remorse. The teacher quietly came beside me- he was a friend- a guy named Greg who outside the ashram installed air conditioners, knelt by my side, concerned. "I'm so confused" I whispered- instantly his face lit up- "That's WONDERFUL" he said breathily "you're learning".

I know now that these were wise words but in that quiet, dark, om-filled room the only truth I experienced at that moment was that my goal in life was to haul off and clock the sensei. Fortunately for him, in that position, feet touching the ground behind my head, it was challenging to simply breathe- moving an arm would certainly have cut off my airway. The conversation did lead me to some truths about myself. The first is that when enlightenment shows up I won't acknowledge it until I'm damned good and ready and second I HATE being told what to do.

I also learned that if I believe something is an absolute truth in my life the universe will sit up and say- "Ya think so girly?" and show me just how wrong I can be.

Couple of years ago I went on my last first date- I guess. I found someone I could live with- who could also live with me. This speaks to someone tolerant with a good sense of humor. Someone magnanimous enough to be ok with my displaying our lives on the internet in my exhibitionistic need to write publicly. I love to write but never seem to get around to it- its been almost a year since I wrote here. Anyway, that wonderful person just walked into the room as I write and said he was happy to see me writing- that it had been too long. My last first date is five years younger than me- and still has that cardigan and a laugh that I would pay money to hear if it didn't come so easily upon hearing even my dopiest joke. But even this tolerant soul cannot tell me what to do. He tried once, when I had a gall bladder attack and was writhing in pain, to tell me I should go home. I dug in and refused, then threw up on his shoes. He learned not to tell me what to do- and I did eventually tell him he was right- 18 months later. My teacher would be so proud- still learning- but the curve can be unusually long between information and spoken revelation.

In an article in the NY Times the wonderful William Safire spoke about the "middle- aged spread" of the "certain age"- that what once was 40 was 50, and then 80. I have met very "certain" people of three years of age and amazingly wonderful people in their 90's who look to me with questions- their wisdom being in the knowledge that certainty is a fool's game. The world is always changing and us with it- the moment a judgement is made or an opinion etched in stone with a harrumph and a stamping of the foot there is almost a guarantee that that very footfall will rock your world. You can refuse to change your stance- you can deny change in your mind but the way of the world is change and nothing is certain- except laughter and the occasional cardigan, and that certainty changes with time. Sometimes the best you can do is shrug give in- and let the world show you all that you don't know.

Found: A Simple soulution

Yes I spelled that correctly.

I have read many cliches aboout happiness- about it being a destination. Or a choice. Or that you have to work at it. However. The tomato guy pictured above (though plastic) is happy whenever the lights are on or the sun shines (solar powered) and shows it not by jigging a dance or shouting but by swaying its little bobble head gently from side to side.

I saw it in toy store in Chinatown on the way to dinner with VLH and friends and picked it up- asked the price and thebn walked with it for a few minutes and set it back on the shelf. H picked it up and placed it on the checkout counter- maybe *I* can't buy happiness but when it is given to me, I can say "Thank you."

Found : 3/19/2009- 2nd Annual Peep-Shout-Out

New....Chocolate Mousse flavored Peeps...

Read on for more PEEP info than you will ever need (from the Justborn website).

Just Born produces enough PEEPS in one year
to circle the Earth twice.

PEEPS has been the #1 non-chocolate Easter candy in the U.S. for more than
a decade.

Yellow is America’s best selling color of PEEPS chicks and bunnies. (Of course- that is their natural color...)

Everyone can now enjoy Sugar-Free PEEPS® that are sweetened with
“Splenda®”. (this is just wrong- do they coat it with splenda too? What makes it CRUNCH without sugar?)

Peeps have 0 fat grams, are 28 calories each and are gluten free, and
nut free. (for anyone who cares)

People like to do curious things with PEEPS ….eat them fresh or aged to
perfection, microwave them, freeze them, roast them, put them on pizza...
(picturing a white pizza here with melted yellow and laender peeps, their little brown eyes staring up from the oily surface).

But the BEST PEEP fact of all- Peeps are Kosher- BUT- not Kosher for Passover.
'case you were wondering. I know I was.

Found: 3/18/09

This little glitter dragonfly sticker was caught in a dusty corner of the 53rd Street subway station. I had to admire its ability to attract my attention in such a dark and uncreative space.

Found: March 17, 2009

St. Patrick's Day in New York- quite possibly the second worst-dressed holiday here in the "city at the center of the world". The green line stretches for miles along Fifth Avenue and I couldn't help but think about all the kilts the line looked up as it wound itself uptown.

Found: 3/16/09

Thinking today about the psalm that tells you to "number your days". When I look at this the whole day rushes back to me- at least for now. And I wonder if somewhere a little braid slowly comes undone.

Found: 3/14/09

Little sneakers in the photo- you can't tell now but they are shorter than my hand, and have quite a bit of ketchup on them. Makes me think somewhere french fries got a serious soaking too.

The Stairs

Spring isn't exactly here, but it's close. You catch a glimpse of it on an almost-bud on a tree, a few struggling snowdrops beginning to bloom under the tree in the front yard, in the scarf you lost (or I did) because it wasn't tied tightly to your bag...

I was walking down Astor Place, here in Jersey City - the major difference between NYC's Astor place and this starts with the fact that if your pants were ripped it wasn't because you bought them that way.

So I was walking and I was noticing (because my eyes weren't squinched tight against the cold- another glimpse of spring) ...stairs. The shapes. The character each had- the subtle color and strong shape, basically unnoticed, even when the escalator isn't working.

Strangely enough and totally unconnected I had just read something about stairs. Written by a middle-aged man.

"The stairs were all worn so that you had to put your feet where everybody else put theirs when they went up. Every step had two spots, both along the side, where the wood was about an inch lower than it was in the middle and at the end of the steps. Sometimes to be different I'd walk right up the center of the steps where nobody ever did."

John Kennedy Toole wrote that when he was 15. At 30 he killed himself after writing "A Confederacy of Dunces" and left Ignatius Reilly as his legacy.

Maybe reading that made me look at the character of steps. Think about where others had walked and the path they wore there. That there is the world of the past written in footsteps, cracks, watermarks and ivy on the stairs.


v

The language or the kiss?

"The first kiss is magic. The second is intimate. The third is routine," Raymond Chandler


If you are lucky enough to know someone deeply, necessitating that they are no longer new, then how do you remember the romance again?....Not the pursuit of something new, but simply properly labelling the sweetness that is already there. Romance breathes life into the small spaces between the big things. It's more about the way you look at things than the way someone looks at you. If you have a well-worn lover, hold them close and breathe them in. Wink at them over the din of daily chaos. Compliment them in front of other people. Call them first when you have news. Twist your fingers in the back of their hair at stoplights.


Do it, I tell you, because some people would lay it all down for the very thing you sometimes take for granted. Like shivering, sliding into a cold bed and finding some warm purchase for cold toes, love meets us where we are.

Craft it Forward

I picked this up on my friend Goat's Blog http://www.panthea-watchoutforpotholes.blogspot.com/ I am a crazy crafter (when inspired) and a pretty good baker so here goes...

{The Rules}
1. Be one of the first THREE bloggers to leave a comment on this post, which then entitles you to a handmade item from me - something crafty or yummy, who knows?!

2. Winners must post this challenge on your blog, meaning that you will Pay It Forward, creating a handmade gift -anything!- for the first THREE bloggers who leave a comment on YOUR post about this giveaway!

3.The gift that you send to your 3 Friends can be from any price range and you have 365 days to make/ship your item. This means you should be willing to maintain your blog at least until you receive your gift and have shipped your gifts. And, remember: It’s the Spirit and the Thought That Count!

4. When you receive your gift, please feel free to blog about it, sharing appropriate Linky Love! If you are not one of the Top Three Commenters on this post, you can still play along. Go ahead and start your own Pay It Forward chain, and encourage your blogging friends to do the same!SO, REMEMBER...Pay it forward!

The Trouble with Chocolate

I have a bone to pick with M&M/Mars. Two weeks ago I was seeking something...nice for VLH for Valentine's Day. I have a tendency to get crazy in the gift department and with the economy going the way it is I thought to stay..reasonable, for me.
Surely I could have baked something- a cake or pie- and I will make a card, as I love homemade Valentines and making them is actually more fun than shopping for them. But aside from the card- what? I saw the answer in of all places- Facebook. I clicked through a banner ad for M&M's.

M&M's will personalize a gift from you with photos. Smiling babes and smooching couples graced the front of the little candies. As I found out recently, H keeps a jar of these candies on his desk at work- I am certain for emergencies only- like Tuesdays. What a great, little, personal gift. The Mars company states on their site "tips" for personalizing your M&M's

MY M&M'S® Chocolate Candies deliver fun and a smile! So when designing your personalized MY M&M'S® experience, it is important to have fun. However, it must be tasteful and fun. And yes, we do have some rules that will help us deliver a product that we can all be proud of.

Do
Personalize
Use nice words
Be cheerful Have FUN
Be CREATIVE
Be romantic Use your own words
Share your beliefs
Be EXPRESSIVE

Don't
Please don't use objectionable words and phrases. No obscenities or inappropriate images. We don't want to leave a bad taste in anyone's mouth.

I had a nice picture. An ARTSY, romantic picture (seen above) and along with several ...words for the other 3 kinds of M&M's like...YOV, I made my choices and sent my order off to be processed. Friday night I got a call from the Mars Corporation.

"Miss Nerenberg? This is the M&M corporation. We are calling about your order. Let me tell you first that this call may be monitored for quality in service"

I knew something was up... no one ever records simple things like- "Did you mean "You" Instead of "YOV"?" (No, but this has been a problem before, thanks for asking...understandable..."

The modulated voice continued " We are not going to be able to print your order" she said pleasantly.

""Why?" I asked "Is there a production problem?"

"A-Hem" said the voice " Miss Nerenberg...the Mars Corporation is a FAMILY company."

It took me a minute.

"Ohhh. Is it because of the photo?" "Yes...she said...you know..." I was stunned "Lady" I sputtered" ...how do you think families get started in the first place?"

"Well," she replied huffily "- I'm not sure what you mean but...it's not something we can.." "HANG on a sec" I interrupted- "Would it help if I told you I swam in that outfit?" (I certainly had seen skimpier attire at the beach.) "Well...I don't know...she said.. I..um..." then she caught her breath "Well..It's not something you'd serve to children." She breathed a sigh of relief triumphantly feeling she had just protected American youth. "OK-I said, let's assume I am dating someone over 21 and ALSO assume that I am am also over that age myself as my credit card would surely indicate.."

"Miss Nerenberg"- she said rather coldly. "We can't print these for you- I'm sorry." "Well What am I supposed to DO?" I asked more to myself than to her. "Well do you have any photos with clothes on?" she asked cheerily. "Sure" I said- "but where's the fun in that?" I thanked her and got off the line.

I was crestfallen. I thought, as the instructions stated, that I was being creative and romantic. I certainly believe in beauty..and nice underwear. And, I believe DEEPLY that the only way to improve breasts in the eyes and hearts of males is to make them candy coated and cover them in chocolate. That and the "melts in your mouth" idea is a real winner...

Oh well. As Shakespeare said, probably having had similar problems getting theater owners to accept the steamy dialog in Romeo and Juliet (For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. ), to quote a Midsummer Night's Dream "The course of true love never did run smooth." I guess I'll just have to get some chocolate syrup and improvise-

Nothing says romance like Fox's U-Bet.

:P X

Six Little Words

Two people I love celebrated 49 years of marriage last weekend. For the people who love the celebrants, this is a bitch, specifically in the gift department. I like going by the anniversary chart which tells you what gift for which year- year one is paper, two cotton or wood, etc. By 49 even the list makers were at a loss- the gift suggestion- "something luxurious". Thanks (posi-frickin-tively USELESS).

We found a gift - a really lovely bottle of champagne which, in the manner of all Jewish parents was deemed "too nice to drink". Eventually I imagine it will be "too dusty to open" or "too sour for salad dressing". But smiles wreathed the celebratory dinner table and the gift performed its duty as a three-dimensional benchmark on the dining room credenza as a tribute to the miraculous triumph of love, and patience in living 49 years with the same person and the same foibles for ALMOST half a century.

It's almost Valentine's Day- one of my favorite holidays, along with Halloween. I am not sure why I latched onto these two. It's not the candy- I like candy alright but (and I almost lost a friend to this admission) I'm not much for chocolate- an occasional piece of dark does me fine. You see, most of my best memories of each holiday are pre- 20 years of age- though there have definitely been some winners post-20. I like black and orange but I LOVE the color red. Lots of people do- F.W. Woolworth based his whole retail decor on the observation that when he began his retail career as a humble street peddler, folks bought more when he displayed his wares on a red cloth. And even though I went to art school and have studied fashion and various aesthetic movements and pride myself on my relatively great sense of style- I must admit- and it pains me to do so- my heart beats just a teensy bit faster at the thought of receiving one of those HUGE heart-shaped boxes of chocolates with layer upon layer of satin ruffles and red velvet flocking with the words "I Love You" in gold letters on the front. I cannot explain this- I just told you- I probably wouldn't eat more than 1 or 2 chocolates (I only like the nuts covered in dark- this probably says reams about my inner mental workings but we will leave that for another day) and I have a teensy apartment and abhor clutter so I wouldn't keep the box- so ...why?

I don't know about anyone else but I think I personally formulated a large number of my most deeply held beliefs before I was 6. That getting dirty is much more fun than preserving your outfit every time. That saying I love you is worth 100 rejections the first time (and every time) someone says- "I love you back". That insults are the purest form of affection. And so on. So- somewhere in the nether reaches of my six year old brain it is written Chocolates on Valentine's Day mean I Love You and the gaudier and more calorie-laden the box- the deeper the love and esteem. At six that might have come out as "You REALLY LIKE me a lot... you must be a total dork" probably followed by a shoulder punch and a hail of thrown chocolate pieces (I will NOT eat the creams, caramels or cherries but aerodynamically speaking they fly like rocks with the distinctly un-rock-like advantage of smooshing when connecting with the target)

Obviously I have mixed feelings about Valentine's Day in particular and love in general. Let me say here categorically that I will choose love over chocolate covered cherries every time. The nuts- in love and chocolate I pretty much have to ask myself- "Why Choose?" and in most cases, in love and chocolate- I choose nuts. Let me also note that my life has been sweeter, and more fun, for having done so.

K sent me a note the other day. He reads USA Today on a daily basis. It's a flaw that always leaves me shaking my head in wonder as it truly is the Fisher-Price brand of newspapers. My guess is- he gets it for free, it's a quick read with coffee in the morning AND is only improved by spilling coffee on it as that rag has to be at least twice as absorbent as the NY Times. Be that as it may- he sent me excerpts from an article on a book called "Six Word Memoirs on Love and Heartbreak" by Smith Magazine. Here are some of the quotes are:


• I think it was the cassoulet. —Amy Ephron

• My life's accomplishments? Sanity, and you. —Elizabeth Gilbert

• They never seemed crazy at first. —Eric Heiman

• Wonder-filled, and never a dull torment. —Diane Ackerman

• He still needs me at sixty-four. —Armistead Maupin

It got me to thinking and I came up with a couple of my own.

• Creates a heart or breaks it.

• Is an afternoon or a lifetime.

• Takes everything, gives back more.

• Never happens the same way twice.

• Not illegal or immoral but fattening

And finally- the answers 49 years in the making, from Addie and Marcel- when I asked them what the secret was to living together for 49 years

She said: "One day at a time."

He said: "Ignore her"

OK it's seven words- but these guys have earned it.

Happy Valentine's Day.

In Stitches

I had an operation. Strange to write that but then, the entire process has a sense of other-person-ness. Nothing major, exactly. A friend explained that MINOR surgery is what happens to other people- MAJOR surgery is when it happens to you. Frankly I think major should have left a more impressive dent.

I had my gall bladder removed. It seems somewhere along the line I collected 4 stones in it (had I a choice I might've opted to carry them in a change purse but no one asked), they had lodged themselves in a bile duct and caused more than a few minor discomforts. It took some time to diagnose and for awhile it was thought I had an ulcer, acid-reflux- the darling of the over-the counter set (five year olds learn to spell Prilosec and Nexium right after McDonald's which is good because my feeling is that one eventually leads you to require the other- you do the math) and I had myself convinced, as I have before, that I was swallowing some pressing emotional issue, I have spent the past 9 months or so poking my veins for blood tests and my psyche- for tears. I ate well and I talked- to my therapist, to VLH-poor thing I told him everything I could think of that might be bothering me- as it didn't amount to a hill of beans all it did was exacerbate an overwhelming sense of foolishness and then, the day after I spilled my emotionally puny guts of every dopey thing that I thought I might be holding back a sonogram revealed the four stones. Confession may be good for the soul but it's crap when trying to gather the tattered shreds of your feminine mystique- I was about as fatale as a bowl of rice krispies and considerably soggier.

I wasn't in the mood to "wait and see" when the next attack happened. Work demands that I travel and the idea of a gall bladder attack in mid flight was too awful to contemplate. My doctor (imagine Boris Badinov with an irrepressible need to flirt- that's my doc) said that the pain from one of these attacks was comparable to childbirth. I had to agree, but only if the kid was wearing a suit of ground glass. So on Wednesday, I called the surgeon and made an appointment to meet him on Friday and an appointment on the following Monday to have the gall bladder out. Gallstones may grow IN this girl but no moss- I was a rolling gallstone.

I know I should have done research on the surgeon but- in my head there were only 2 things I wanted- he couldn't smell funny and he needed to resemble Marcus Welby. (Google it- if you are too young to know who Marcus Welby was then- you may indeed be too young to be reading this- Nic, ask your mom. ) I am certain there is some set of criteria I should have followed but- it was my gall bladder and my rules. He had no smell whatsoever and had the requisite pink cheeks, glasses and white hair so- so I took the plunge.

Aside from an eyelid surgery I have never had anything removed or altered internally without a couple of glasses of wine and candlelight so I approached the event with little or no preconceived notions or expectations. I had viewed a couple of websites about the surgery but as the description of the procedure turns into a B horror film when it's YOUR belly button being entered I closed the window so fast the pop-ups didn't even have time to come up and cookies could find no purchase on my browser. I kept busy all weekend spending time with the visiting Maryland cousins and distracted myself with a wild weekend of shoe shopping- shoe BROWSING actually as I didn't buy anything for myself- obviously though I was in denial I must have been more than a bit preoccupied to leave Nordstrom's without one single cute pair of something in a shoe box.

Denial served me all the way through the see-you later kiss I gave VLH when I left the hospital waiting room (I gave this my full attention- some kisses are more important than others) and went into an altered state. The only way I was getting into the hospital gown and robe and sickly flesh colored socks was to pretend I was dressing someone else. Here is a note for hospitals- sick people do not need to feel worse by being dressed in a burkah. I looked at the clothing they handed me and thought- this could make a laundry basket look dowdy. Drab would have been a step-up fashion statement and the poofy hat... yeesh. How about something a bit more like- well how about an adult version of the knit caps they put on newborns? It could be a sort of Seattle surgery look- grunge meets O.R. . Sadly no one asked me and Mr. Blackwell was nowhere in sight. As the nurses and doctors were similarly dressed-(at least scrubs have a waist tie and a back!) I was ok to an extent, when in Rome, you know. A word to the nurses wearing the flowered scrubs- it's not a fashion statement when you wear them- instead of looking like a medical professional you look like a Laura Ashley living room suite.

The surgeon stopped by and asked me how I was - I'm a little scared I said- "Don't be" he said and tapped me twice in the way I tap a chicken breast to test for doneness- Oh, well, that was solved (sheesh). The anesthesiologist stopped by- his name was Dr. Wu. I flashed on my friend Sharon telling me about the culture of drugs immortalized in the lyrics of Fagin and Becker (Steely Dan) and smiled. He surely would not leave me conscious for the proceedings- I would worry about waking up when it became necessary- and not one moment sooner.

I remember the operating room was cold. And much more room-like...where was the gallery (too many medical shows...)? I remember a heated blanket on my legs and missing my red wool socks. I remember the anesthesiologist peeling one arm off my chest and laying it to one side and the needle prick. I remember the nurse peeling back the second arm from my body for a blood pressure cuff and then the table fell away...

"This is the hard part" she said moving me from the operating table to the gurney- a table designed to make you feel like meat on a slab. And then helping me to a lazy-boy recliner chair in a room with curtained partitions. Pain radiated from my center- it felt like kittens trying to claw their way out of my mid-section but thanks to the pain meds while I did have pain I was zonked-out enough to believe it was happening to someone else. And then they brought VLH in. I think I may have worn the face he had on in the presence of a sick loved one but I had never seen a face like that aimed at me. It was a combination of relief, love and fear. Happy I was alive, and myself, and scared that there wasn't anything he could do for me. Had I the words (or a tongue) at that moment I would have told him he did everything I needed just by walking into the room.

And then I was home. The floaty sensation of the after-effects of anesthesia and the addition of Vicodin made the next 12 hours a blur. There were two things that stuck out- I was NOT prepared to be unable to sit up by myself. No one told me. I felt like something out of Kafka lying on my back limbs flailing unable to rise and not being a good sport about it either. The second thing was ... a bit about this particular laparoscopic surgery- the upside is- teeny little cuts. Old school gall bladder surgery left you with a scar 12-14" long. Laparascopy leaves a little scratch about 6" above your navel and two holes to the right of the belly button that look like you were poked with knitting needles. There is also a cut inside the belly button- I haven't looked- have you ever TRIED looking in your belly button? Not possible. Well- when they make the small incisions they go in with a camera and light to find your gallbladder- I imagine it is like human spelunking. In order to get some space to work they puff your belly up with air, to get a better look. I guess they get as much air as they can out before they close you up (imagine the belly button as the opening in a balloon making that pttttttttttttttthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhppppppppp noise as air escapes- I did and found out laughing hurt too). Late at night when I woke that first night I could hear myself ...fizzing. In addition to the pain of things being cut and resewn internally you get little pains- bubbly pains. While the surgery pains seemed bearable the pricking pains were...disturbing. Not really pain just- uncomfortable. Somewhere that first night as I drifted in and out a thought came to me, an image really of dozens of tiny little old ladies sitting inside my belly putting me back together. It's funny how clearly I could see them- hairnets, large lensed glasses magnifying watery blue or brown eyes and flowered house dresses, droopy support hose and carpet slippers sitting in chairs with skeins of pink yarn in baskets by their sides determinedly knitting my insides back together. I would feel the tiny bubbly pains and pictured one of the ladies dropping a stitch or having a slip of the needles- perhaps knitting when she should have purled.

I spent about 2 days in bed- I didn't realize I could do that but it was actually pretty easy. I had lots of help, J and Z babysat and though VLH had to carry on with the business of belt vending he checked in frequently, more often than not finding me half asleep. Day and night sort of blurred and sometimes in waiting for the right time to take my meds I would lie in bed feeling my pain and the little ping and poke and it helped through the discomfort to think of the ladies pulling me back together one stitch at a time.

Each day I felt a bit better, by day three I was out of bed for several hours at a stretch, by day four I could sleep on my left side and by day five my left and even found myself able to head over to the doctor with Z that day. The thing about the process was that just living and doing really small things seemed like such a triumph. The first time I stood up by myself I thought I could easily imagine how a gymnast feels when she sticks a landing- 4.0. Things like eating, or drinking were intensely wonderful and even my first post surgery hug from VLH (imagine a big teddy bear trying to hug a soap bubble- he was that tentative) felt incredible. Lying next to each other at night I was especially grateful for skin- his and my own.

As ever I rushed back into life and work. Even then the little knitters held me in check- whenever I overexerted myself I would feel a poke, right in the navel that said "Hey- still workin' here" I pictured now just one lone knitter stitching cleanup by the light of a bare bulb in my stomach.

I am now about 11 days past the surgery- the band-aids came off and then the steri-strips (tapes that replace stitches in this kind of surgery) and my biggest dilemma became the inability to get the adhesive off my belly. "Try acetone" suggested Syd. "You want me to pour NAIL POLISH REMOVER on an open cut???" I said. I forget Syd did her post grad work at Lucretia Borgia University.

Friendly advice aside, as I said it all feels like something I watched someone else do. Aside from not being able to eat very much (not the worst thing) as a full tummy doesn't feel so great I have most of my energy back. Unlike other times in my life when I start to fade- I let the dishes or the writing or the drawer reorganizing wait and take a little lie-down. You often hear the saying- comfortable in your own skin...for me it's even better, thanks to the care of many specialists, I am grateful in mine.

There is no spoon

Spoon boy: Do not try and bend the spoon. That's impossible. Instead... only try to realize the truth.
Neo: What truth?
Spoon boy: There is no spoon.
Neo: There is no spoon?
Spoon boy: Then you'll see, that it is not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself.

Ah, The Matrix. One of those terrific movies with a lovely shivery plot twist that leaves us simultaneously fooled and delighted. That delight had definitely waned by the 350,000th Keanu Reeves "Whoa" in Matrix 3 but still I paid to get in to see them- still feeling foolish, but not quite as delighted.

I mention this because I am getting ready to do something...kind of big for me and the way I deal with that is to distract myself-HARD. I can get wrapped up in the littlest thing. Like Proust's madeleine, I can be transported into some deep memory with just a tiny nudge from the corporal world. In this case- a spoon.

I looked into my silverware drawer tonight. My silverware drawer is the utensil representation of the apocalypse- the silverware sorter-thing sits atop a mind boggling array of other kitchen utensils- garlic press and cherry/olive pitter, one small heart shaped cookie cutter, various spatulas and wooden spoons, measuring spoons and knives. You may ask youself...Knives? Loose in a drawer? Fear not. It is ever a joke among the near and dear- pretty much anyone who has ever cooked by my side in my kitchen that you can't break skin with any of my knives. Were I in a morbid state wishing to off myself with any knife in the drawer it would be a two person job. Me to hold the blade to my wrist and a second extremely determined person willing to lean on it- for a really long time. VLH got me a lovely set of knives for Hanukah, in their very own block, knowing there isn't an inch of space in that drawer for so much as a paring knife. There is, however, one small space in that drawer, the space where soup spoons should be.

The soup spoon space holds just two spoons- one long handled iced tea spoon my ex-roommate Camille left in lieu of three months rent and a big silver serving spoon someone left one Thanksgiving- I just don't know who-or I'd give it back. I know full well somewhere in the world there is an old-school felt-lined silverware box with a slot waiting for it. I pause for a second's guilt, then move on- this was not the piece of minutiae that would distract me tonight. Staring into the pathetic little spoonless void - I thought of China.

My sister and I loved spoons- specifically soup spoons, when we were about 4 years old. Not for eating- soup spoons were too big to fit in our mouths and held just enough liquid that if we did try using one we were guaranteed a baptism with every spoonful. Cindee and I liked soup spoons for digging.

I guess most kids had shovels- little plastic ones, probably purchased with a bucket for the beach. We didn't. I doubt at four years old that we felt the lack- but even given the choice I am certain we would have picked a nice hefty spoon with an ornate curliqued handle over some flimsy store-bought digging implement. We had serious plans. We had seen it on television- I am pretty sure inspired by Rocky and Bullwinkle or Mr. Magoo or perhaps Peabody and his boy Sherman- we wanted to dig to China.

We would have to beg my grandmother for spoons. It wasn't that she would deny us anything. When it came to my sister and I "no" just wasn't in her vocabulary. She loved us that much. As our primary caregiver she had to choose between ten minutes to herself of peace and quiet and never seeing her silverware again. You see, while we were big on begging, As twins we had the added advantage of two against one- tiny eyes welling up with tears, each of us with two handfuls of her housedress hem we could beg for all we were worth. The problem was we NEVER brought the spoons back. Alas, she was putty in our hands. Inevitably she chose a few precious moments of silence and the joy she felt seeing us run laughing out the door and down the stairs to the 10 x 10 cement box that was our front yard. Later on she'd send my grandfather out, usually after dark, flashlight in hand muttering to himself in Yiddish, to locate the missing flatware. Unfortumately he was only successful about half the time- but he inevitably bore the brunt of my grandmother's fussing when the silver remained missing. I can't remember her ever yelling at us- her point of view wasn't that we had lost the spoons so much as he did't find them.

I remember those afternoons so clearly-the feeling of kneeling on the inevitably hard packed earth (my grandmother could say "no" to us if it rained and the ground was damp- she believed with all her heart that if girl children sat on wet, cold ground it rendered them sterile- we didn't argue with this as her delivery of this news was as grave as the six-o'clock news and while we weren't quite sure what sterile was it sounded like something that would require a bath. We were against that on general principal. I remember the dry dusty smell of the soil as we broke it and the slight moistness underneath and the occasional half an earthworm that lay beneath the crusty top layer. Pebbles and hard bits of earth would cut into our knees and when switching to the more comfortable seated position we'd grind the dust into the seats of our shorts and allowed errant bits of earth to find their way under the elastic leg of our flowered cotton panties. We would Stanley to my Livingstone and we would sit and dig and talk as if there were no one else in the world. My sister was my travelling companion- her conviction just as strong as mine in our ability to get to China before our grandmother called us for supper. I don't remember what we talked about- it was a long time ago. I like to think we imagined what it was like on the other side of the world. With me ever the talker and my sister as my most avid listener- I am sure I spent the time telling her with absolute surety that we would have no trouble talking to the people we met in China- after all, we talked to the waiters at the Canton Chop Suey restaurant and they always brought us extra fortune cookies. I had a list of questions- Did duck sauce actually come from ducks? Were Chinese eyes slanted because they squinted at the TV as my grandmother suggested? Could I get one of those hats? The questions never really got answered but they wound their way into the air as dusk settled and we felt the weight of borrowed time knowing any moment my grandmother would call us in and the record for "5 more minute" reprieves was three before she'd threaten to wake my dad from his post-work pre-dinner nap to come and get us.

We would trudge up the stairs dragging our filthy Keds and toting more soil than we ever dug out of the yard in our ankle socks. More often than not my grandmother would undress us in the front alcove shaking the dirt from our clothes out the door and brushing the dirt that wasn't firmly adhered off our squirming naked bodies before herding us off for a bath a deux. We would only be persuaded to actually enter the tub with copious amounts of Mr. Bubble sprinkled in it creating mountains of foam- half of which would fly out of the tub when we two filthy explorers jumped in simultaneously to prevent one or the other of us from defecting. More than once I know my grandfather had to chase one soapy naked escapee from the tub while my grandmother kept a glaring eye on the twin that didn't quite make it out the door.

And after the bath we'd lie awake in bed- whispering- slipped between my grandmother's impossibly soft faded cotton sheets under her fluffy feather quilts. Planning new expeditions, finding answers to the impossible questions and promises of new adventures just past the next morning's early light. We'd curl around each other and fall asleep with our breath warm in each other's ear, nestled like silver in a drawer. The world was a simple place where I could be happy. I had a spoon.