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.

Family Tradition

"Why do you drink?
(Hank) why do you roll smoke?
Why must you live out the songs that you wrote?
Over and over
Everybody made my prediction
So if i get stoned
I'm just carryin'
On an old family tradition"

I spent last week tearing around Florida in a red Dodge Avenger rent-a-car- filling my tank for under $20 and mostly obeying Florida's generous 70 mile per hour speed limit on the highway as I hopped between Bal Harbour, Naples and - last stop Orlando. The driving has gotten easier and a real pleasure since I figured out I could concentrate on the road and sing along with the local country music stations. Oh what fun it is to ride when you can easily find another country station when the first one fades out in 100 miles.

About halfway up I-75 for a mini reunion and some Saag Paneer in Ocala I heard Hank Williams Jr- singing about his Family Tradition- his dad died in the back of a limo after a B-12 shot mixed with morphine- amazing that Sr. was able to make Hey Good Looking and Jambalaya an integral part of the fabric of this country's musical tapestry and still die at 29. So the family tradition for the Williams would be a true cautionary tale- or as Jr. sang... perhaps not.

So home I came to the frozen north- rewarded for gloating to friends in the north that the weather in Florida was a nippy 78 all week with a 28 degree slap in the face and an ice storm that left planes stranded at the gates and tugs slipping on he runways trying to move them so we could park our jet and deplane...which took a bit of time. But no matter, I was HOME.

And it was two days til Hanukah and five til Christmas. This year, having gotten settled a bit into job, relationship and some semblance of ease in the left lane I found a whole new area of STUFF that needed getting used to. I now know you do not show up at a watch industry function without wearing a watch- I LITERALLY got slapped on the wrist for that one, I have learned that "pick any car" at the rental lot doesn't always get me a convertible or that if I pack a bathing suit for a trip it does not automatically mean I will get to go swimming. There was a whole new batch of things to adjust to- that the stuffing a Thanksgiving was pork- or pork... not my cornbread and mushroom mixture. Adjusting to the fact that I wouldn't have a turkey carcass in my fridge til the week between Christmas and New Year's when I realize I am actually NEVER going to make soup out of it.

Small potatoes here (white and sweet potatoes- another adjustment) but the harder stuff- like the little guy saying to the waitress who innocently mistook me for his mom calmly explaining- "That's my dad but that's NOT my mom, that's my dad's FRIEND" But fair is fair- I did the same thing to my step-mom to be at an amusement park snack bar- I was quite a bit more theatrical at 6- I stood up on a table and yelled "That woman is NOT my mother". Ah Karma, you evil, patient wench. Getting used to the rapier witted cousin who responded to my attempts at sweetness with even MORE sarcasm but in the face of several lightning-quick barbs aimed in his direction shouted "I LIKE this girl!" and let me know "the last one was 'too vanilla'." I guess I have always seen myself as more of a mocha.

All around me I see new sets of family traditions as I watch ex-husbands deal with the new guy and ex-wives dealing with the old guy. I see the kids- whether ten years old or almost thirty trying to deal with twice as many parents as the original allotted amount. Being civilized says we should all be...NICE to each other but I can understand when a son isn't so enamoured of his mom's new husband- she married him- why does HE have to be nice to him- or see him walking around in his underwear? Bad enough to think that your parent is having sex- worse to imagine they are enjoying it, with not your mom or dad and nightmarish to think you might HEAR it. And the family photo walls- yeesh- as a newcomer I GET that when a photo has ...dad and the kids- it has their mom in it too- but how do I quell the feeling I just want to take a cuticle scissors and cut around her face? I am not PROUD of these feelings and begrudge no one their history- I'd miss the kids if they weren't here and am grateful to their mom for all the heavy-lifting that it took to get them out of diapers and into high school but sadly, here I am merely human and it is so HARD to stick to the belief that I am the only woman he ever loved when the proof is in the pre-pubescents, adolescents and adults...

I got to thinking about my own family- not so much there- a sister I rarely see, my adoptive parents decades gone and my biological parents.. my "birth mom". I admit to giving her her very little thought- my sister and I were adopted at 3 days old- I know so little about her and never really dwelled on even the little I knew, she was a womb I rented to make the nine month drive into the world. Sounds cold but my parenting history had its own challenges and after forty some years I seem to have made peace with much of it and finally last weekend thought of her. I wondered if she ever wondered. I can't imagine a woman who wouldn't give a thought to having twins and however she did it, walking away. I wanted to tell her, if she did ever wonder- it all came out ok. My sister and I are whole, loving people. Nice to each other and caring to the people in our lives. I wanted to tell her there were gifts she gave us without knowing. That we are both independent women who developed good family values without the benefit of ever having a family outside of each other for very long. That we both learned that family are the people who stick by you without a common bloodline. That our past and present is something we made all on our own and there is a certain pride in knowing and owning all of it. I wanted to say thanks to her, wherever she is, for giving me, and Cindee, a shot at this life. I guess the family tradition I like best is that we, that I, am forever grateful for every person who stopped in along my path in this life and in loving me, became my family. So much more opportunity to love and be close to some very special traditions... even canned cranberry sauce.

Another Old Lang Syne

Happy birthday bud. :p X

:Ping:

Diagram of what fashion (in this case the corset) does to a woman's spine...

I was sitting in my boss's office on a conference call when the caller asked- "Can you 'ping' her?" My boss was puzzled but she explained "Does your company intranet have instant messaging?" She hoped we could IM someone in another office, interrupt her for a moment with a quick question.

I had never heard ping used that way. I had learned about pinging from a system admin at my last job. Back then it wasn't an instant message situation- As an offsite consultant the admin could, and I don't know the technical jargon for it- he could simply walk in the back door my little computer citadel and take over- see my screen and system as I did and move things around. I could tell Greg was in there because my cursor was moving without any help from me. It always creeped me out. I felt like a digital handpuppet, my pixels were not my own. But Greg could usually suss out the problem and fix it without leaning over me. I must admit to a sense of relief when he was gone but more than once I moved my mouse- wriggling it a bit to make sure that he was gone and I was once again the master of my monitor.

After a month of running with my new company's 30 day long promotional extravaganza I got the ping. Foolishness manifested itself because instead of running with scissor I was running with- or should I say IN stilettos. Truly a fan of shoes making the outfit complete I ran in nothing shorter than 4" heels for the last four weeks and...found myself sitting up in absolute agony unable to walk , with an excruciating pain in my hip.

I called a cab and headed to the chiropractor's office. I have to say, the chiropractor has more toys than a spoiled kid at Christmas. Nice guy but the touchy feely geek factor came heavily into play- Questions about everything from changes in eating habits, relationships, work, somehow had some bearing on my pain in the tush. I answered honestly- I was happier than I have been in my life- worries were at a minimum- was I busy-you bet- Stressed? I live for it. Drinking a lot of coffee- I didn't understand the question.

The good doctor smiled- we're both from Brooklyn he said (yes- I even told him where I was born- if this had some bearing I wasn't seeing it) Nothing stops us (OK I was with him on that) Then he pulled out a plastic spinal cord and hips. This is your spine (I knew my spine was out of wack but was pretty sure MY spine wasn't so far gone that it had made it across the room) He turned the model so the model spine had its back to me and placed his hand on the model's left hip and said this bone here- he gripped the bone tighter and twisted in towards the tailbone with a "CCCCCCRRRRKKKK" sound I felt in my own sacroiliac- and not in a good way. "Your pelvic bone is impinging on your sacral nerves- that's where the pain is coming from". Ah, and right there in the center of that fifteen cent word was the answer. I had been"pinged".

We talked about treatment. Chiropractors are big on listening to your pain- not masking ailments with shots or ripping into a body with a knife- which is why I was there. But here the diagnosis was worse. He asked me to be patient. To lie still on an ice pack and swallow anti-inflammatory drugs like Advil and REST. I believe in listening to your body- YOUR body that is- mine is full of stuff and nonsense. I had never encountered a pain that wouldn't cringe and slink away in the face of that determination- ever a fan of the fifteen hour day, the extremely unsensible shoes and long walks- I decided I would certainly ice and advil and even don the back belt ($29.99 at CVS and I wore it AT least an hour) I would do all of this- at my desk. My biggest concession was a pair of 2" heeled Rocket Dog boots I wore in place of pumps. Please be aware that the back pain made putting shoes and socks on a new adventure in pain. I was getting up 30 minutes early so I could get in sufficient yelling time while putting them on.

By mid-week I was feeling better. I'd been icing and advilling my heart out and the belt was right where I thought it would do the most good- in a desk drawer at work. I went running around Macy's looking for my friend Keiko (what was I thinking when I said let's meet there- there are more doors in Macy's than at the Home Depot) I felt so good I forwent a 2nd trip to the chiropractor and went straight home to clean house and catch up on laundry lugging. I iced my back that night and the next morning the ping had returned but it was muffled- like a kidnap victim locked in the trunk of a Chevy. So I kept going- a full day meeting in a board room and a nice long walk after and it seemed to me the victim was beginning to make its way out- the ping was getting louder- I muffled it with ice and more advil- and heard the chuckling of pain delayed but not denied. So I decided to try something different- a road trip to Philly.

VLH had kindly agreed to travel with me- I was supposed to rent a car but as I limped along 47th Street I called and said..."I forgot to order the car, can we take yours?" He agreed but sounded dubious- and he was RIGHT. He called me the next morning to arrange a meeting time- I was trying to put my boots on when he called- "Are you ...OK?" he asked. "Fine.."I whispered " JUST fine.. seeyousoon bye." He walked in and saw my face and said the smartest thing any man has ever said "You look pretty today". Bless him- he must have a Quasimoto fetish- I was hunched over and moving like a geisha with bound feet.

The trip to Philly was fun- days like that where business can be combined with good soul music on the XM, heated car seats and a Philly Cheesesteak from Geno's and a glimpse at a rare watch- one of only 25 in the world, its tourbillion flickering under the watch face. We deemed it a good day though I limped and gasped through most of it and got dropped straight off at the chiropractor's office with a mandate from VLH- who lifted me so kindly from the car seat- "Listen to him this time would you- get BETTER." I smiled and limped into the doctor's office.

The doctor said- "So how are you doing?" he said. "I admitted- "Not so good" "Listen," he said- we're both from Queens" he said "Brooklyn" I whispered. "Worse" he said. "I can do all this and only 4 out of 8 things I do is going to work- but NONE of it is going to work if you don't REST". "I like you, you're a nice lady" he said, "and it's great that you want to come here, but maybe you could get better and just bring cookies instead." He smiled.

Sit still. So I did- all day yesterday I made a deal. Lie still. 15 minutes up and 2 hours down was my bargain. I read two paperbacks and watched two movies, made toast and ordered Chinese food and for the next 14 hours I listened- and the ping was clear. The more I listened the more I heard- the gentleness you give is what is needed here- the compassion and understanding too. Being honest, asking for help and being grateful for little things like ice and Z bring me milk for coffee. :Ping: something else is in control. :Ping: let someone else help you :Ping: there is no control here- shiddown and shaddup.

This morning I am sitting here typing with an ice pack at my spine. I need a haircut and I REALLY want to head into Brooklyn for my pre-Halloween fix. I will get the hair dealt with and if I hear a :Ping: I will head home. Because this Halloween, I intend to wear a new costume- I'm going to dress up and act like a grown up.

:P X

It's a small world after all....

Yesterday I went to the NY Food and Wine Festival at the Piers- a gift from my friends at Share Our Strength whose stated goal is No Kid Hungry- but their methodology is incredible- they stage HUGE culinary events (Taste of the Nation, Tasteful Pursuits, etc) and encourage EXTREME gluttony whereby you not only want to donate money to help starving children in the US- (no joke- visit their website) but you want to give them YOUR food as after one of these gustatorial bacchanals- you never want to eat again- the starving kids can have your butternut squash soup with truffle oil and pig-head pate, thank you very much.

So there was lots and lots of food and three times more wine, beer and spirits. So much wine, beer and spirits that upon entry you are given a full-sized cabernet glass on a lanyard to wear around your neck- the absolute textbook physical representation of a cork-dork. I felt ridiculous-the glass bouncing in front of me as I walked until my companion- slightly sensitive and hungover complained that lacking sufficient cleavage her glass was bouncing on a too-many drinks the night before tummy and this was NOT a good feeling. We slung the glass backwards so it hung between her shoulder blades... I deemed it ghetto-style though it may be that the big wineglass would be replaced by..Thunderbird- on a lanyard...I love that idea- think how much wine is wasted when the owner becomes to intoxicated to hang on to the bottle. In New Orleans they have beer can cozies on lanyards- written on the cozy is the question- how ya gonna clap? My feeling is hands-free drinking is also good for holding back hair when...well you get the idea.

Anyway- a great deal of fun was had by all- and a ridiculous amount of food- I felt the teensiest bit virtuous by dint of the fact that 50% of my post event tummy ache had resulted in a donation to Share Our Strength- still- I wished there had been some little kid I could have given my little bratwurst with home-made pickle on a tiny potato bun to.

The answer is (after a night spent with Prince Pepto) not NO food- Yom Kippur proved to me that the answer is (after a night spent with Prince Pepto) not NO food- Yom Kippur proved to me that while fasting is OK for ME, those around me suffer- (by being witness to me being horrendously grouchy and caffeine deprived) So eating becomes a humanitarian gesture you see? The answer is not slow food- I dont do slow- but SMALL food.

Then this morning I got an e-mail from Neff. I had cleared my system with copious amounts of coffee and a yogurt from the event- the swag was for the most part, food- go figure. And saw an e-mail about the dessert bar Chikalicious. I groaned- CAKE? Marie Antoinettes last revenge on the peasants- I know inside she was thinking- Let the bastards get sick on buttercream- see if I care.

But the cupcakes were lovely. Visually, that is- gastronomically I am on hiatus for the day- But the author of the post- Ed Levine- made some wonderful observations about cupcakes that I will share with you here:


The cake has to be moist, light, and tasty in its own right, a difficult combination to pull off

The frosting has to be smooth, also light, not too sweet, and deeply flavored

A cupcake doesn't have to be huge. Cupcakes have become like bagels in this town, and like bagels, bigger is most assuredly not better. Size matters in cupcakes, but not in the way that you think

Listen up. This last quality is really important. A great cupcake has to have the proper ratio of icing to cake. Other people may have different ideas, but I think there should be a 1 to 3 ratio of icing to filling.

So true, Ed, so very true. So I will take my gluttony as it is actually the most readily enjoyed- in small, cupcake-sized doses.

(My quote and apostrohe key is busted...) Enjoy the day XO :P

How to Relax

OK. This is NOT an instructional post. I am actually looking for advice. After 9 months of running- that is, since the new job kicked in, I have taken the next ten days off. Without a plan.
I needed the time. Truth is- I have never taken time off without a place to go, in my life. Summer camp was my idea of a vacation- and though I have taken a day or a weekend to relax and catch up- on chores, or sleep- never a ten day span like this. I am headed out at the end of the week for a few days with VLH (keep looking bud- no hints here) there is nothing else slotted in.

I planned it that way.

So, Thursday night I came home and promptly lit Shabbat candles thinking it was Friday. I guess I was still in fast forward as I did not realize til Saturday what I had done. I gotta lower the caffeine intake.


Day one of unscripted vacation.


I wake up at 7:57 am.

I spend the morning picking raspberries in the yard

Do not read "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" before heading to the garden- I was (as usual) jacked up on 3 extra large iced coffees and spent the supposed to be idyllic time preoccupied with the idea that a garden snake will slither up my leg.

I make a linzer torte and due to a lack of experience with this particular item wind up making a gallon of raspberry goosh to fill an 8" shell. Jam anyone?

Day 2

I wake up at 7:28- relaxed? You betcha.

I buy a bunch of do-it yourself materials and a couple of new plants and try macrame-ing two new hanging plant hangers. The cats think this is cool and groovy and two hours later I find myself irretrievably tangled in jute and hysterical felines and have to cut myself loose with a cuticle scissor.

Cats do not like cheese. They only think they do-

Day 3

I wake up at 10:04. This is accomplished by watching DVDs until 3 am.

Fix a shelf in my bedroom armoire and wind up with three extra screws. Any remarks regarding loose screws will be considered a threat and I have LOADS of free time to plan my retaliation.

The day stretches in front of me... Heaven help us all.... it may be my imagination but I think the cats are avoiding me.

Day 4

Wake at 8:18 and decide to go with it- breakfast on the porch coffee and learn that between 9 and 10:30 am the breeze is fresh and you can hear cicadas singing in the yard.

Take a walk with my little buddy- see Wall*E for the second time and its still damned good. Better when the bud says Wall-e's job is building castles out of garbage. Not a bad interpretation- incredible in fact. Problem is- they show a preview of the chihuahua movie from hell which results in non-stop iterations of "Ay, Chihuahua" from the little guy on the train. People move away from us on the PATH train. The litany was ceased by the assiduous application of rainbow ices from the glorious Torico's ice cream parlor and a promise of fresh corn on the cob if he never ever utters that Mexican dog song... for the next 3 hours- what he does at home is his mom's concern.

We barbecue shrimp and hot dogs and as it grows dark we catch fireflies in a jar and let them go. We do not explain why some fireflies are connected together- well, we do sort of- we tell him they are carpooling.

This time-off stuff doesn't stink so much.

Day 5

Wake at ...hmmm didn't look at the time. Progress I think. I get a text message that an afternoon at the pool is scheduled- several hours later remind myself that not applying sunscreen because I want some color will result in a case of not THAT color. Also, that unless I want a bosom that resembles an alligator handbag, a little Coppertone is essential. And it is a really summery smell. I also am happily reminded that after pool and sun and some barbecued crabs a little recreational carpooling is very OK indeed. Ask any firefly.

Summer, Kent Falls

They say that these are not the best of times
But they're the only times I've ever known
And I believe there is a time for meditation
In cathedrals of our own

"Summer, Highland Falls" by Billy Joel

"How long has it been since you have been back?"- he asked. We were walking away from the falls.. And I thought- 15 years? Twenty? A lifetime ago. Before I was married or thought about it in any specific sense and before a job that paid the bills before it fed my soul or even my bank account for more than just a few minutes. "Long time" I said- moving through the grass towards the car and out of the rain. I veered a bit to the right of the path to photograph jonquils and irises growing ath the base of the falls- "Just two trout!" he yelled- there was a sign saying so on the bridge- "Two per CREEL" I thought and remembered that we didn't have a creel between us.




"I'm not up for the climbing today" he said- looking up the falls from the icy pool where we stood gazing at the winding path strung with twisted aluminum ropes and sturdy poles looking like silver strung Christmas tinsel in and among the trees and rocks. "Maybe just to there" I said pointing to the first platform "I want you to see that pool up there" We climbed- in city flip flops never meant for hardscrabble rock and dirt walking and uneven slate steps. We stood looking down the falls panting a little in the humid air. Walking onto the platform the rushing water below blew its clean green breath into our faces. I smiled- like I'd been kissed gently by a stranger- or a friend I had not seen, never imagined to see again- not with such auspicious introduction to be made. "Doesn't that smell amazing" I said- but received no answer- his face leaned forward into the mossy air, eyes closed- he was receiving the fall's kiss as well. I watched his mouth curl gently at the corner and had my answer.










"A little further- just to there" I asked- the plea was in my eyes and probably in my voice as well though I like to think I was being an adult about respecting the wishes of others. The no I waited for never came. The sand and gravel slid under my toes and I shook it off, clenching my toes so that the sandal didn't accompany the pebbles down the hill. He was standing at the next platform looking down on the falls "There" he said "can you imagine sitting there? It looks deep...". "It was" I murmured remembering climbing in Keds and cut offs into that cold little hollow- the water to my neck, thinking to myself that twenty years of rushing water had probably carved at least another inch or two into the smooth limestone.







"Just a bit more" now a statement- something stronger than consideration pulled me up and we walked past a ranger scolding a man who had climbed into the falls "...you can get a ticket for that you know" said the ranger gravely to the man dripping in front of him. " How can you look at this and not want to climb into it?" my companion asked me. "You need to come on Tuesdays" I replied " The park opens at 8 and before that it's open to anyone who wants to climb" and thought again about the bruises on my feet from walking barefoot on the rocks of the fall such a long time ago.

"These shoes aren't easy to walk with up here" he said shaking out a pebble from his flip flop. "If you think this is hard- try it with two canes" in front of us on the trail a woman stood poised leaning on her cane talking to a caregiver who held out a second should she need it. "I think she's on her way down" he said- his voice mirroring the wonder I felt at this sight before us. And thought to myself that whether going up or down- it was worth the climb, for the view.

And as we stand upon the ledges of our lives
With our respective similarities
It's either sadness or euphoria





For you. You know who you are.