Day 72: Oh, My Aching Back

Actually, it's my butt that hurts. I took a walk this morning with my friend A. It's always great to catch up with her. She gets me. I think she's really smart, and she doesn't even need to do Ken-Ken to prove it. She used the word "organic" before anyone else did. I didn't know you could use that word in relation to anything except produce. And "interstitially"? I totally had to look that one up.

So, we're strolling along, thermal mugs of coffee in hand (very thoughtful of her, I think), with her horse of a dog who goes absolutely wild when she sees me -- I think I might have been a dog whisperer in a former life. We're chatting, laughing, having a grand old time, and then, interstitially, I bump into the curb (I'm walking in the road because My Friend Flicka pretty much takes up the whole sidewalk). No big deal. I look a little uncoordinated, flailing and bouncing, but I manage to maintain both an upright position and some semblance of dignity. All is well.

Not so fast, old lady. Next stop is the gym, and the first thing I attempt are lunges. Oh my god, what the hell have I done to my left butt cheek and upper hamstring (it's actually probably my mid-hamstring, but my butt is hanging a little low these days)! Holy cow, it hurts! What's going on? I've been fine, no aches and pains, just the usual grinding of bone on bone in my hips and shoulders. My achilles seems to be healing. Nothing new.

And then it dawns on me: I had that seemingly slight stumble. There's nothing else to pin it on. This is the point I've gotten to in my physical un-development. Every climb out of bed, every jaunt with a friend, every shake of my booty is a potential landmine!

I don't like this at all. No running today. Instead I drown my sorrows with a tasty slice of red velvet cake that I bought in the city yesterday. I wish I had a mug of organic coffee to go with it.

Day 73: A Woman After My Own Heart

I’m a big fan of “Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me!”, NPR’s weekly news quiz program. Today’s show was a compilation of popular clips from the past. I hadn’t heard this one yet and had a good laugh. Seems Paula Poundstone likes snack food cakes also!

Day 74: Faith of our Fathers

For one of her classes this fall, A has to bring in pre-1970 family photos, which turns out to be both a blessing and a curse. It's great to look through old photos and laugh, reflect, sometimes cry. Memory Lane is one of my favorite trips. But our photos are totally disorganized; they're scattered all over the house, stuffed in paper bags and boxes and strewn in drawers. Few of them are in albums. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

My digital photos are no better. They’re not organized in named and dated computer files, which, as I understand it, is the point. They’re just loose in one big file. I have duplicates and even triplicates of many of them since I usually fail to erase a memory card once I’ve downloaded it and then I can’t remember whether I’ve downloaded it or not, so I do it again…

J and I went on a college trip this past spring to central New York, which is where I went to college and where my mother's Palatine ancestors settled in the 1700s. Her hometown, Little Falls, is quite near my alma mater, but I'd never been there. My trip with J was the perfect opportunity to visit my mom's childhood haunts.

We quickly found the home that my mom’s parents built for their brood of seven, with my great-grandparents’ house right behind. My mom’s home was empty and for sale, so we peeked in the windows and tiptoed around the yard. We gazed at the staircase that she walked down in her beautiful ivory silk wedding gown, the fireplace in front of which the formal family photos were taken. The house is now a bit run-down, but no matter. I was very, very glad to be there.

J and I found the cemetery where my grandparents and great-grandparents are buried. Their gravestones are pushed up against a weedy chain link fence which separates the cemetery from the cracked driveway of the vinyl-clad house next door. I’m sure it was a beautiful and peaceful location when my great-grandparents chose it -- probably early in the last century -- but not so anymore. We picked a few little wildflowers and placed them on top of the four stones. I wandered around a bit longer and then turned back to take one last look at the graves. There was J, carefully putting back the flowers which had been blown to the ground. Neither he nor I ever knew any of those people, but their stories are often told in our family and I’ve always felt a close connection. To see that my 17-year-old son also feels that tug left me in tears.

We then drove to St. Johnsville in search of the now-defunct Little Falls Felt Shoe Company, the business my great-grandfather started. Unable to find the factory, we were eventually escorted to the location by a swaggering young cop who repeatedly warned us that we’d be committing a felony if we stepped foot on the land. He then sped off, siren blaring, to investigate some other villain in that sleepy little burg. Not daring to peek in those windows, we looked at the factory from the safety of our car and then drove on to our final destination.

A few miles out of town, heading east on Route 167, we crested a hill and there, laid out before us, was a breathtaking view of the Mohawk Valley, patchwork green farm land, silos, barns, cows. And the crowning glory on a distant hill, glowing in the sun, was a beautiful white church.

The original Snells Bush Church, built by my ancestors, was burned during the Revolutionary War. The current church, number three, was built in 1850, saved from the bulldozer in 1938 and placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2004. No longer an active church, it’s now used solely for weddings and other special occasions and was therefore locked. We’ll go in another time.

Instead, J and I wandered through the churchyard cemetery, lovingly tended by the distant relatives who still work the surrounding farms. The names on the gravestones -- Snell, Zimmerman, Timmerman, Markell, Loucks, Simpson -- were those of Revolutionary War soldiers, farmers, school teachers and of my aunt and uncle. It was a perfect spring afternoon, made even more so by the experience of walking around the churchyard with my son, looking at the graves of our forefathers, and thanking them for their journeys, the ones that ultimately brought us there.

I've sometimes wondered where my ashes will be buried. I don't think I want to be scattered somewhere. I'd like a final resting place. That day in May I may have found it, if they'll have me. In the hopefully very long meantime, there are many more memories to be made and photos to be taken. Let’s just hope I can get them organized.

Day 75: Prioritizing

A goes back to school on Sunday and I want to spend these last few days with her. She's been home, more or less, since mid-May (when she left for college I figured she'd never again be home for more than a few days at a time). Sometimes dreams do come true.

This year I'm going to make a much bigger effort to get into the city and meet her for dinner, or even just a cup of coffee. How hard can it be? My life isn't all that scintillating. Seeing her will simply require a little effort and a little planning. I guess it's time I tackle those skills.

Day 76: Tongue-Tied

There was a fair amount in the news (okay, The New York Post) last week about a blogger dubbed the “Skank Crank”, an anonymous woman who was spewing vitriol on her site “Skanks of New York”. I guess she had a lot to get off her chest. I have a lot to get off my brain.

I was cleaning out some files the other day and came across a parent’s statement I wrote about A when she was applying to some program or other. One particular line stood out: “She has always tried to make sense of her world through the arts.” And then today I was replying to an e-mail from my nephew about my blog (I have a male reader!) and I wrote, “The whole idea is for me to get some of the stuff that’s floating around in there out, to try to make some sense of what I’m thinking and feeling.” And that’s true, but it’s not the whole story.

I’m not an articulate speaker. I trip over my words, I often can’t come up with the word I want, and my brain races ahead so that I completely lose my train of thought. I wish I could blame it on my aging ass-brain, but the truth is that it’s nothing new. I’ve been a mumbling fool for as long as I can remember. My older brothers and sisters (well, two in particular – you know who you are, A and D) used to tease that they were smarter than me and always would be; when I tried to point out that I’d be as smart as them when I got to be their age, they’d flat out deny it. No way. I’d always be stupid. I think I started to believe them, because I was at a total loss for words. Rarely am I at a loss for words – it’s just that the ones I come up with don’t begin to express what I’m really thinking. Had I been able to defend myself in writing, I might have been able to persuade them of my superior intelligence.

I remember well my process, my lack of process actually, for writing papers in college. I always pulled all-nighters. I was the queen of procrastination. At the time I thought I was just too busy having fun, but I wonder now whether it also had something to do with the fact that I never knew what I really thought about the topic: I had no thesis, no topic sentence, no outline, no arguments. It was hard to be organized, to go about writing a paper in a logical way, when I was completely clueless!

When I did finally sit down to write, accompanied by Diet Coke, William Strunk and E.B.White, I’d think I was brain dead. Hours later, as the sun was rising, I’d turn off my IBM Selectric, gather together my sheets of onion skin paper and, bleary eyed and dumbfounded, read my conclusions. So that’s what I think! Exhausted as I was, it was always a moment of great discovery and pride. It sounds inane, but that’s really how it happened.

Years later, I came across a quotation attributed to Flannery O’Connor, but which I’ve since seen credited in slightly different form to William Faulkner as well: “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” Exactly! I couldn’t have said it better myself.

The Skank Crank could learn a thing or two from these great Southern writers. And she needs to hold her tongue.

Day 77: The Itsy Bitsy Spider

H told me today that over the course of a lifetime the average person eats eight spiders while asleep. I think by now you've gotten a pretty clear picture of what the inside of my brain looks like. Imagine adding that tasty tidbit.

Does it mean that I've already eaten four spiders?

There are a lot of things that I really love to eat, but spiders aren't one of them.

Day 78: Let Them Eat Cake

I'm going to bake L a birthday cake today, even though his 15th birthday was almost three weeks ago. All the other kids were away on his actual birthday and only D and me singing "Happy Birthday" slightly off-key would have been too depressing. So today's the day.

I always ask the birthday child what kind of cake he or she wants, but only once did the answer vary from the emphatic “angel food cake with chocolate frosting”. That was when A requested a lemon meringue pie; I'm guessing the rest of her siblings mutinied, especially once they tasted the crust. Making a good pie crust is something to add to my bucket list.

When my mom died my brothers and sisters and I went into her home and took turns choosing one possession at a time. I remember thinking how sad that moment was -- that we were divvying up her life and carting it off in pieces. The only large item I was interested in was the love seat, technically a Victorian chair and a half, which originally belonged to my great-grandmother. I spent my childhood curled up in it, horsehair poking my legs through the worn teal-colored velvet, reading from the pile of library books stacked by its side. Now reupholstered in a bold velvet stripe, the love seat is the main stage for our birthday celebrations: the gifts are stacked on it, the birthday child sits for a photo and then attacks the presents with gusto. J's favorite is always a box of Captain Crunch. L would love nothing more than a box of Pop’ems. Children after my own heart.

Two of the smaller items I took from my mom’s house are the tube pan she used to make angel food cake (yup, that's the birthday cake I always had, and D, too – a match made in cake heaven) and the dented and dinged metal dome that protected whatever cake remained after the initial attack. Luckily they’re not breakable like the green vase. Perhaps someday my grandchildren will blow out their birthday candles on an angel food cake that their mom or dad has baked in that pan. Maybe they’ll open their gifts on the love seat. I really, really hope I’m around to be a part of those celebrations. I adore angel food cake.

But back to the present. Somehow the tradition got started that no one is allowed to have a bite of cake until the birthday person has taken the first one; you can imagine the kinds of long, drawn-out pauses and false starts that the birthday person enjoys. Also, once everyone has had a slice or two, the rest of the cake belongs to the honoree, and only he or she can dole it out. How did I allow such a greedy and selfish tradition to start? Who started it? Was it me, who was born in the Chinese Year of the Pig? Anyway, H was hugely bummed that she left for camp just a day after her birthday celebration this year and therefore didn't have control of the remains of the cake. I ate it.

I experimented with a new cake at Christmas this year. It was a devil’s food layer cake with peppermint frosting that was on the cover of the December issue of Bon Appetit. Do not waste your entire day concocting that foul dessert. The frosting tastes just like Crest. Even fondant would taste better.

This all gets me thinking about my 50th birthday cake. I’m not yet sure how I want to celebrate that day, or where, but I do know what kind of cake I’m going to have. And who’s going to get the first and last bites.

Day 79: Mi Casa Es Su Casa

I went to the A&P today to pick up a few things since our cupboards were bare. I was also feeling somewhat guilty because J bought a package of Double Stuff Oreos yesterday and most of them were gone when he checked this afternoon. Quite the mystery. I never buy Double Stuff Oreos because they’re way too delicious and they have 70 calories a piece. Multiply that by the twenty or so that I can easily consume in one sitting – willpower is not a concept I’m familiar with -- and therein lies the problem (and the solution to the mystery).

As I was walking through the store’s parking lot a car slowed down next to me, and I saw that the driver was C, a lovely older man – he’s about 80 now -- who I met in March of 2007 when we both went to Nicaragua with Bridges to Community, a nonprofit community development organization. We traveled with fifteen other people, including my son L, who at 12 was the youngest member of the group. C was the oldest by at least ten years.

We went to Nicaragua for a week to build two cinderblock homes in a small, impoverished community near Masaya; they were the 276th and 277th of what are now over 325 homes Bridges has built there since 2000, when two earthquakes struck. The work is backbreaking and the living situation is challenging.

You start by digging six very large holes in the rock hard earth (March is the dry season) for the support beams. You then make the first of many batches of concrete the old-fashioned way – no cement trucks aqui. Wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of sand and gravel are mixed with 80 pound bags of cement and tens of buckets of water. When the concrete is just right, you shovel it into a bucket, heave it up onto your shoulder and carry it to where it’s needed. The cinderblock, enough for a house roughly 16’x20’, is carried bucket brigade style from the pickup truck to the building site. All this in the sweltering sun.

At the end of the long workday you return to the school where you’re staying, take a bucket shower, eat a simple but delicious meal of rice and beans, use the outhouse and collapse, bone-tired, onto your mosquito-netted cot. The next morning you’re awakened by the roosters at 5:30 or so, you get dressed and don your construction boots (after first shaking out any slumbering scorpions), and the day begins all over again. It’s exhilarating.

Despite the fact that there were many easier tasks at the worksite that C could have undertaken, he tackled the most grueling ones and worked just as hard, if not harder, than anyone there. At a time when many of his contemporaries were probably on the golf course in Florida (and rightfully so -- they’d earned their retirement) or in poor health, C was making volcanoes of concrete and hauling block in Las Conchitas, Nicaragua. He was changing the world for two families. And he looked like he was having the time of his life.

C was an inspiration to all of us. I’ve been on two more Bridges trips since I went with him; we could have used his help, and would have enjoyed his company, each time. He has shown me that you can remain strong and involved and committed despite advancing age. That you can mix it up with the best of them. That compassion knows no limits. How great would it be if I helped build the 1000th house when I’m a septuagenarian?!

Back at the A&P, C and I, both in a hurry, simply exchanged hellos and how are yous. I look forward to catching up with him the next time I bump into him (it’s always at the A&P -- I guess he likes Double Stuffs, too). I hope he’s taking a well-deserved rest, but I doubt it.

Day 80: Half Empty

Today we went to my friend D’s house to celebrate her birthday. As you may recall, she’s the one who insisted I join Facebook, which, by the way, I still don’t get. I figure our five year age difference (in her favor) must explain her embrace and my fear of technology. But really, it's much simpler than that. D’s just a half full kind of girl.

D cares more about the sentiment than the gift, which is a good thing since I went to the party empty-handed save for the card I left by her front door. The message? “Some say the glass is half empty, others say the glass is half full. I say who gives a rat’s ass as long as the bottle’s nearby!” Well, it’s true that we’ve shared many a glass of wine and shot of tequila, but that’s beside the point; it seemed a particularly appropriate card for D because she’s such a positive, can-do kind of person. I deepy admire her outlook on life.

Earlier this week I was reading a newspaper article about a woman facing a career crisis. She reflected, “I find myself trying things I thought I would never try…. Even if I’m feeling a little bit stressed or worried, I act like I’m having a good time. The attitude is contagious.”

I repeated those words to my son L today while we were talking about a challenging situation he’ll soon face. Since he can’t expect the other person involved to change, I suggested he try to change his attitude. He’ll have to make the best of it, and in doing so I can’t help but believe that the situation will improve. He really seemed to get what I was saying. But will he be able to act like he's having a good time?

I attend a meditation/spirituality class once a month, and during one class we were asked to choose a slip of paper from among many and read the quotation found on the back. Mine was by A.A. Milne, philosopher, psychologist and creator of Winnie the Pooh. “There is something you must always remember: You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” It’s taped right above my computer so I can see it everyday.

I read these things. I repeat these things. I, too, get them conceptually. So why do I find it so difficult to act like I'm having a good time? Why do I focus on the obstacles rather than the rewards in any given situation? Why do I think I’m a bear of very little brain? Why am I so much more like Eeyore than Tigger? Where's my bounce?!

Writing this blog is an attempt to find the bottle and fill my cup.

Day 81: There's No Place Like Home

Our vacation in Maine was great, filled with lots of lobster and lots of laughs. It ended last night with all four kids singing karaoke – a clear sign that it was time to go home. Although we were sad to pack up and leave this morning, I was really excited about two things: seeing the dogs (does anyone make you feel more loved than a dog who hasn’t seen you in a week?) and sleeping in my own bed.

As my mom grew older and traveled less and less, she claimed it was because she just wanted to sleep in her own bed at night. I thought she was being ridiculous until I noticed that I, too, no longer sleep well in any bed, no matter how soft and comfy, except my own. I sleep marginally better if I bring my own pillow, but not enough to keep me in la-la land all night long.

My pillow is a strangely shaped contraption specifically designed for side sleepers. I don’t want to sleep on my side, I want to sleep on my stomach with my face buried in a fluffy, normal looking pillow and one knee hitched up to my waist, but somewhere along the timeline my back let it be known that that was no longer an acceptable position.

I’m also the proud owner of an airplane neck pillow. It’s pretty much the human equivalent of those embarrassing cones that dogs wear to keep them from licking their wounds. My ego is slightly wounded when I wear my human cone – I do feel like an old lady -- but the thing is, it’s really comfortable and it keeps my head upright so I don’t drool on my neighbor’s shoulder and my neck isn’t frozen sideways for the next 48 hours. Its ugliness also has a hidden benefit. Not too long ago I was happily snoozing away in the passenger seat while D was driving. He got pulled over for speeding but, oddly, he didn’t end up getting a ticket. I’m pretty sure the cop looked in the window, saw me with my human cone around my neck, and figured D was having a bad enough day as it was.

Maybe another reason I don’t like sleeping in any bed but my own is a fear of bedbugs and lice. We haven’t made the acquaintance of any bedbugs yet, but I’ve had to deal with lice five times. FIVE times! That’s more than my fair share. I’m a little paranoid. Also, the mattress salesman who sold me H’s new mattress a few months ago told me that the reason a mattress gets heavier as it gets older is that it’s basically a repository for all your dead skin. Oh my God, sell me the dead skin-proof mattress cover now! As H says (yup, she’s still saying it), “That’s disgusting!”

Ah, home sweet home. Only 8 more loads of laundry and then I can climb into bed. My bed.

Day 82: You Don't Know What You've Got Til it's Gone

These perfect, sky blue Maine days do have one horrifying downside: me in a bathing suit. As I was packing for the trip (and believe me, figuring out which bathing suit is the best of the bad took hours), the thought that it might rain, thus sparing me the humiliation of donning a skimpy piece of boob-belly defining lycra, put a big smile on my face.

I had a great body when I was younger, but I certainly didn’t appreciate it at the time. My belly was roly-poly, my hips too wide. My legs were too muscular and scarred from my childhood adventures. I wished I was taller, like my sisters. Looking back, I would kill for that body. I’d kill for the body I had at 30. I’d kill for the body I had at 40. It only makes sense that when I’m 60 I’ll kill for what I’ve got now. So why can’t I appreciate it now? Why do I have to wait ten years?

Why am I so hard on this body that has treated me so well? Why do I concentrate on all its imperfections instead of celebrating its strengths? When I was a child I could run as fast as my much older siblings. When I was a teenager I did gymnastics and cartwheeled and back handspringed and aerialed myself into the county sectional championships. As an adult I gave birth to four healthy children. I should be grateful. My body has never let me down.

Now I buy jeans with flap pockets because they make my flat butt look rounder; I’ve tried Spanx, but despite what the package says they do give me a cauliflower-dimpled muffin top. Don’t get me started on my bra roll. Yet despite these highly visible flaws, I’m strong, I can run 13.2 miles, and I can still do a cartwheel and a back dive. When I did a fitness evaluation a few years ago I was told that my body had the biological age of a 33-year-old and I could lose another 6 years if I’d just drink more water. D’s got himself a trophy wife! What’s my problem?

And besides, what makes me think anyone on the beach is looking at me and my imperfections? Everyone’s too busy pulling up and tugging down, saronging (what a multi-billion dollar industry that must be), sucking in and pushing out, arranging just so. And if they do happen to glance my way, I hope what they’ll notice is my beautiful dark gray, strapless bathing suit (thank you, J. Crew), the sarong that looks really pretty with it, my nice tan (not good, I know), and the enthusiastic game of Bananagrams that I’m playing with my family. Who cares that I don’t look like Gisele Bundchen in a bathing suit? I bet she has a few insecurities of her own.

Day 83: Life Is Good

We played miniature golf this morning and I scored a hole-in-one. We broke out Bananagrams again this afternoon and my 13-year-old spelled D-I-C-K. We went tubing this evening and...and nothing -- I went tubing! Need I say more? Life is never dull.

Day 84: Mush for Brains Part II

So, I’ve just had another massage and again I feel like a squeezed tube of toothpaste, or one of those little elastic-jointed wooden people push toys: you know, the ones where you press on the bottom of the toy and the person’s legs and arms and head give way. There’s probably a name for that toy but I don’t have a clue what it is. It would be good to know for Bananagrams, especially if it only has two letters.

I’ve been losing things lately, including a beautiful watch and a beautiful necklace that D gave me. It makes me feel so stupid. He suggested that perhaps I’ve just misplaced them, but I know they’re gone for good. The necklace especially: I left it in the pocket of my shorts and the washing machine ate it. I’m pretty sure it’s now floating around in our septic fields; I’m also pretty sure I don’t want it back.

I’ve been trying to do things to keep my brain sharp. Kenken makes me feel smart, even if it does take me a minute or two to figure out on a 7-square board that the only possible combination that equals 6 using subtraction is 7 and 1. Sudoku is great when I can remember where I’ve put the book. And I’ve bought some vitamins and minerals which might help if I could just remember to take them. Putting them by the kitchen sink doesn’t seem to do the trick.

The activity that does seem to keep me mentally sharp is running. I love what it does for my muscles and I love what it does for my weight, but mostly I love what it does for my mental game. Unfortunately, I haven’t run much since April, when I completed a half-marathon. All the training left me with a tender Achilles and I’ve been trying to give the warrior a rest.

I ran yesterday for the first time in a while and I felt okay – out of shape and winded, but okay. Achilles said a brief hello and then let me go on my merry way. I heard that Paula Radcliffe ran and won the NYC Half-Marathon on Sunday, the first race she’s run since she won the NYC Marathon last November. She had bunion surgery this spring. So we’ve both been on the DL list, Paula and I, but she’s back, and so must I be.

I’m not going to run today because it just seems wrong to do that after a massage. Achilles has won this battle. But tomorrow morning Nike and I will just do it, we will. In the meantime, tonight is Bingo night at Migis Lodge. That oughta keep me sharp.

Day 85: Save Money. Live Better.

Enough family time, let’s go to Wal-Mart! In my defense, I’m going to buy Bananagrams, a game my sister A just introduced me to (she played it with sister J, who apparently is queen of Bananagrams since she’s memorized all the two letter words). I want to play it with my kids – quality time –and beat them handily.

I’ve only been to Wal-Mart once or twice. My initiation took place while on vacation in Rhode Island; I went to buy a beach umbrella. D was getting ready to file a missing persons report when I finally struggled into the house hours later, weighed down by bag after bag of must-have items, including Mary Kate & Ashley clothing I knew H would go gaga over. Wal-Mart also came in handy later that summer when the dog got sprayed by a skunk at 11:00 p.m. Did you know that hydrogen peroxide gets out the stench better than tomato juice?

It’s so absurd to be able to buy cilantro, jumper cables, and cultured pearls all in the same place, isn’t it? I wander around, slack-jawed, and happen upon the Institutional Aisle. That’s just too good to pass up. Have to check it out. Have you ever seen a four-pound can of StarKist Chunk Light Tuna? What about a six-pound can of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli? Surreal. And also kind of stomach turning.

Donuts do not turn my stomach. I love donuts almost as much as I love cake. We notice that the parking lot at Wal-Mart smells like donuts – turns out that there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts (a.k.a. Drunky Do-Do) right inside the entrance. Just the other day I read that a doctor in Florida was fired from the county health department because he put a sign outside reading “America Dies on Dunkin’”. Apparently the county commissioner owns a donut shop and didn’t take kindly to the message.

The Donut Pub, on the corner of 7th Avenue and 14th Street in Manhattan, makes the world’s best donuts. But in a pinch, Dunkin’ Donuts will do. The local donut chain in Rhode Island printed Bible verse on the side of the bags, which I thought was a little weird but not weird enough to stop me from buying them. Even weirder? On the drive to Maine the other day we passed a church with a sign out front that read “Come worship with us! Love and AC here!” Powerful combination. Now just add some donuts and you’ve got yourself a faithful flock.

Jim Gaffigan is a comedian my kids watch on Comedy Central. He does a really funny bit about how embarrassing it is to eat fast food: “That’s why they invented the drive-thru. Look, no one has to see you, just drive around back, we’ll hand it out the window!”

It was relatively early in the morning when I headed home from the Jersey shore last week. I asked N where I could stop for coffee. She suggested Dunkin’ Donuts and then asked whether I’d also get a donut while I was there. I’m guessing that was a rhetorical question. There were at least twenty cars waiting in the drive-thru line. Maybe it is embarrassing to be seen in the shop, but how can you possibly choose a donut without checking them all out first, debating which looks the tastiest, which has the most frosting…

I finally made my choice and walked out the door, dreaming of the mouth-watering glazed stick in my bag. HONNNNKKKKK! Please, tell me, who thought it was a good idea to put the exit right in the middle of the drive-thru line? America Dies on Dunkin’ indeed.

Anyway, Wal-Mart didn’t have Bananagrams but Amazon did and promised to deliver it later this afternoon. The first word I’m going to spell is ET, as in “I have et my last donut” (for a while anyway). I don’t want to be fat on my 50th birthday. I also want to live to see it.

Day 86: Mush for Brains

I was going to write about donuts today (if you ask me, donuts are like manna from heaven). However, I’ve just had a massage, and both my body and my brain are as limp as a wet noodle. I almost wrote biscuit -- I tend to mix my metaphors. Once, when talking about handsome movie stars, I chimed in with, “And what about Paul Newman? He’s no spilt milk!” I believe I intended to compare Cool Hand Luke to small potatoes.

Anyway, my massaged brain is feeling delightfully quiet and calm. The only time I ever really have a massage is when I’m on vacation, and I’m already pretty relaxed then, as relaxed as, well, as relaxed as can be. Why don’t I have massages at home, when my brain is in overdrive: ideas and thoughts speeding around in there like the racetrack at the Indy 500, jockeying for position as it were.

Mental note: have more massages. They leave me feeling as happy as a clam with a bone.

Day 87: The Ties That Bind

Although I’ve mentioned my children at various times in these posts, I haven’t painted a very cohesive portrait of our family -- probably a reflection of the fact that we’ve yet to be in the same state this summer. The kids have been coming and going, doing their own things. Frequently we’ve only had one child at home, and sometimes not even that. I’ve spent a few nights alone in the house with no one but the dogs to keep me company (D complains that they wake him up every morning around 6:00 to be fed, but they always let me sleep late). The house has been very clean and very quiet. I miss the noise; I miss the children who make the noise.

My children are now 19, 17, 15 and 13: four children in six years. I know it’s not as intense as “Jon and Kate Plus 8”, but there were lots of crazy, overwhelming times. For me, the late twentieth/early twenty-first century is pretty much a black hole. Had Y2K actually come to fruition, I wouldn’t have noticed. During those years my favorite song – or at least the one I found most cathartic -- was “Fly Away” by Lenny Kravitz. I always felt better after screaming, “I want to get away, I want to fly away…” Seriously, it was my theme song.

Life is easier now. My children all manage to bathe and feed themselves (although their table manners are atrocious); they do their homework with little help from me; they no longer push one another down the basement stairs in a laundry basket; no one needs me to bake cupcakes for a party at school. That’s a shame, because I make really delicious cupcakes.

In just a few minutes I’m heading up to Maine with two of my kids to meet the rest of our family. My husband drove up yesterday to pick up H, the youngest, who’s been at camp there for the last four weeks. I wonder if she still thinks everything is disgusting. He met J, who’s been at a pre-college program in the mid-west since early July, at the Portland airport. I wonder if rising senior J is counting the days until he goes to college for good. Has “Fly Away” become his theme song?

I vividly remember my first day of kindergarten, forty-five years ago. I didn’t go to nursery school. I never had a babysitter. I’d really never been away from my mom. Miss Gardner was my teacher. I hated her, but not until the second day. I was dumbstruck by a girl named Faith who had a thick fringe of black bangs that hit her eyebrows; for some reason I thought she was a character from “The Addams Family”. We sang “B-I-N-G-O” and snacked on graham crackers and milk. But the best part of all was when we were led outside at the end of class and I saw my mom waiting for me, wearing her yellow-flowered wrap-around skirt. I was so relieved to see her. I thought she was beautiful.

Time to go.

My family is waiting.

I’m so relieved.

I think they’re beautiful.

Day 88: She's Making a List and Checking it Twice

I have all kinds of issues with my to-do lists. For one thing, I have way too many of them, little scraps here, post-it notes there, long-term ones on my desk, short-term ones in the cup holder of my car. I spend so much time consolidating and reorganizing my lists that there's no time left to actually get anything done. That's what a vacation is for.

I don't bring my lists with me on vacation, not that. I get that a vacation is meant to be relaxing. But how can I possibly relax knowing that the poster I've been meaning to get framed since October of '06 is still leaning against the wall of my office? Nope, to the frame shop it goes, pronto! And I absolutely must get to the carwash today (I marvel at people who can keep their cars clean -- I truly aspire to that). No matter that tomorrow I'll be driving to Maine, the car overflowing with teenagers, which means candy wrappers (wait, no, those would be mine) and water bottles and flotsam and jetsam. Forget all the pine sap that's going to coat the hood like sticky maple syrup that dries on your countertop. It has to be clean prior to the trip because it's been on my list for months! And the toothbrush whose owner left it behind after a sleepover several weeks ago? My God! His teeth must be rotten by now. It's imperative that I deliver it to his front porch ASAP, even though he left for vacation a few days ago.

I've spent some time pondering my pre-vacation state of mind. Am I worried I won't be returning, so everything must be left shipshape for my survivors? Oh no, I'm coming back all right, I just don't want to come back to a lengthy to-do list. I'm not going to have a good time if I'm fretting about all the stuff left undone at home. I want to maintain my vacation high after the party's over. Never mind that I whip myself into such a frenzy in the days leading up to the trip that I should be checking myself into a funny farm instead of a lodge on beautiful Sebago Lake.

"The Elves and the Shoemaker" was one of my favorite childhood tales. Remember? The shoemaker had those fabulous, secretive personal assistants that snuck in and did all his work for him every night? Dreams really do come true! The Brothers Grimm are credited with that story, but believe me, they ghost-wrote it for a mom with time management issues. My fairy tale, on the other hand, has taken a modern, nightmarish twist: the elves come, but they simply leave me new lists. How else to explain the errands and projects that magically appear each morning. The friggin' elves.

One of my worst nightmares recently played out before my eyes. As I buzzed myself into the ATM at the bank, a woman already inside looked up, shaking her head sadly. She held up the empty, slightly wrinkled envelope in her hand so I could see the alarming truth: it was an orphaned to-do list. Our eyes locked. "Oh no," I gasped, "that's awful!" We shook our heads in unison. Some poor woman is out there, wandering listlessly. By now she's probably on vacation, at least I hope so.

Day 89: Friday Night Lights

I have nothing to say tonight. I'm tired. I'm really in the mood to climb into bed and watch tv, porn tv like "What Not to Wear" and "Bridezillas" and "The Housewives of New Jersey". Nothing like a few bitchy screaming women to lull me me into a nice, restful sleep. I fell asleep reading in bed last night and woke up hours later totally discombobulated (excellent word). The lamp was on and I thought it was the sun but I couldn't figure out how the room could be so bright since the curtains were closed. This is what happens when D is away and no one tucks me in. I don't think I've ever told him how much I appreciate the fact that he takes off my glasses and pulls the reading pillow out from behind my neck and turns off my bedside lamp when he comes up to bed and I'm completely passed out. I don't say thank you nearly as often as I should...

Day 90: Mirror, Mirror On the Wall

I think it's really freaky that Brooke Shields is trying to grow longer, fuller, darker lashes (and have you seen her dance?). Looks like eyelashes are her thing. The only time I find my eyelashes of any interest is when one has fallen on my cheek and I get to make a wish on it. Instead of wishing to look like Christy Turlington, I should probably wish that my eyebrows never again need tweezing. I don't give too much thought to how I look anymore -- I've been known to wear my pjs into the elementary school -- but even if my body is no longer shapely and groomed, my eyebrows damn well better be.

I know I've been really stressed out, too much to do, when I look in the mirror and find lots of little black stubby things growing between my lids and my brows. I recently bought a small lighted magnifying mirror which adheres to my bigger bathroom mirror; my eyebrows are looking much the better for it. I wonder if the suction cups would stick in the shower, because in order to shave my armpits I actually have to put on my reading glasses. They get all fogged up and then I can't see anything anyway.

Another thing about my eyebrows: I'm pretty sure a few of my eyebrow hairs have migrated to my chin. I used to have one whisker, now I have two. Each time I pluck my eyebrows I check for whiskers. They won't be there, they won't be there, they won't have been there for two months and then BAM! They're like an inch long. Is that right, or is it that I just needed to put on my reading glasses to see them? How long have I actually been walking around looking like the bearded lady at the circus? Did anyone notice?! Why didn't one of my so-called friends tell me?

Years ago, in Seventeen or Glamour or Mademoiselle, I don't remember which, an etiquette expert advised that you subtly pick at your own front teeth when your dining partner has spinach stuck between hers. The power of suggestion at its best. As a young woman I suppose I sort of bought in to that way of thinking, but now, with only ninety days left until the big 5-0, I say, "Uh uh, no way sister." You immediately tell her it's there, and while you're at it you suggest she buy a more supportive bra. Isn't that what friends are for? Isn't that what Modern Maturity would advise?

Day 91: Balloonaphobia

Have you ever thought about what your ultimate "Fear Factor" challenge would be? I waffle between lying down in a vat of snakes (actually, having just one eensie weensie, non-venomous snake in the same haystack as me would pretty much do the trick) and being trapped in a submerged car. My friend MB gave me a Life Hammer -- a tool that breaks glass and cuts jammed seat belts -- and I've stowed it right next to the driver's seat just in case. There's even a fluorescent patch on the mount so that you can see it in dark or murky water. How convenient! All this is dependent, of course, upon me keeping my wits about me as that cold, murky water rushes into the car. I might as well just hit myself over the head with the Life Hammer and get it over with...

MB, by the way, is a germaphobe. She's the one who taught me that the first stall in a public bathroom is the cleanest because it's used the least. Not for long.

My friend K's son sent me instructions for escaping from a car in water. I thought that was very kind until I noticed that he'd decorated the envelope with a drawing of a little red car (suspiciously like mine) screaming through the air, nose ready to plunge into the icy blue water below. I wish I could remember what his fear factor is so that I could torture him.

And that brings me to the heart of the matter. All joking aside, what if I lose my memories? I love to tell stories; I enjoy sifting through my brain; I adore those "AHA!" moments when a glimmer of recollection starts to push through that foggy swamp. Maybe it's a smell, maybe it's one of those "Do You Remember" e-mails (as in the recent one from my brother D about metal ice cube trays and green stamps), maybe it's a snippet of conversation, whatever it is awakens a long dormant image that I grasp at greedily and exclaim, "I remember!" followed by something stupid like, "I thought I'd forgotten that forever!" I've been thrown a Life Hammer.

Memories are like helium balloons constantly bucking and straining to break away: if you're quick enough, you can catch hold of the strings and reel them back in. Age and illness are powerful magnets, however, and oftentimes the balloons soar away, gone forever.

I know I'm only going to be 50 and that age is relative -- I'm growing more comfortable with that concept every day. I don't really mind getting older. I just don't want to do it untethered from my memories. I don't want to get stuck in that sinking car.

Day 92: Tattoo Me

I do believe that the Rolling Stones are the greatest rock and roll band in the world --the whole wide world, the very greatest (I think that's like saying something is very unique). I've grown up with them (you might say they're archaic). One of my very earliest memories is of my mother's horror-stricken face when I belted out "Satisfaction": apparently she felt it was wildly inappropriate for a five-year-old to express such sentiments.

I've seen the Stones in concert three times: once when I was pregnant with A (surely explains her uncanny ability as a tiny girl to strut around like Mick Jagger) and twice with my sisters when the band toured in 2005. Mick could still spaz out like nobody's business. Rumor has it that they'll be touring again before the end of this year. Mick just turned 66. Knighthood must agree with him.

Anyway, now that I'm older and can express myself freely, I'm thinking of getting a tattoo. When A was in ninth grade and mumbling about various kinds of body piercings (I can't look at anyone with a pierced eyebrow without convulsing like Mick), I sort of told her that we'd each get a tattoo when she graduated from high school. I don't know why I did that -- maybe to change the subject? While neither one of us has been permanently inked yet, we've been talking about it. And I did get a henna tattoo last week just for the fun of it. It's given me a great deal of satisfaction! Unfortunately, despite the fact that I rub olive oil into it prior to each shower, it's fading away much faster than advertised. So now I'm wondering whether I should go for the real McCoy. Should I give it One More Try? What would Mick do?

Would he Paint It Black? Would he let it Not Fade Away? Would he say Look What You've Done? Stupid Girl! I'm Worried About You and so are the Neighbours. You're a Crazy Mama! Let It Bleed! Is it Just My Imagination or are you one of those Honky Tonk Women? You used to be so Respectable!

Will a tattoo be my Biggest Mistake? I definitely have Mixed Emotions about it. I just don't know what to think. Sort of like when I went shopping for new kitchen flooring. I couldn't take my eyes off one particular tile sample: did I love it or did I hate it? I was mesmerized! When it was delivered to our home and I laid some out on the existing floor, it looked exactly like head cheese. I'm not a fan of luncheon meat. All the tile went back, but not without a substantial re-stocking fee. Will my tattoo remind me of head cheese? Will there be a re-stocking fee?

What to do, what to do? Well, no need to decide right now. Time Is On My Side even if gravity isn't. The second half of my life awaits.

Day 93: You've Got a Friend, Joyce Kilmer

While driving down the New Jersey Turnpike earlier this afternoon, I got thinking about the poor slobs for whom the service areas are named. Vince Lombardi: famed football coach who uttered oft-quoted lines about winning and losing and how to play the game. Thomas Edison: inventor of lightbulbs. (Do you know that I really am one of those people who call an electrician to come change the lightbulbs? Many of our fixtures are European and we simply speak different languages.)

And then we have Joyce Kilmer. Joyce Kilmer? Who's she and what heinous act earned her immortality at milepost 78.7? Turns out she's a he, an early 20th century poet; according to Wikipedia, critics "disparage his work as being too simple, overly sentimental, and suggested that his style was far too traditional, even archaic." I hope Mr. Kilmer had a friend like my friend N to turn to for comfort.

I've come to the Jersey shore to visit my archaic friend N (she turned 50 in May). I'm sitting on her deck waiting for her to get home, swatting at mosquitos and stealing wireless from her neighbor. I'm thinking that this will be the first time in probably 10, possibly 15 years that we've had any significant one-on-one time. Our friendship began when we were both single and could stay up all night long chatting and laughing. Time is now a limited resource and when we get together it's often in a large group -- kill two birds with one stone and all that.

I think about one of Vince Lombardi's remarks: "The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have." For now I have a few hours to reconnect with N, who has just arrived and lovingly presented me with boxes of Yodels and Ding Dongs (we're both overly sentimental). The time will come when our children are grown and gone and we can recreate scenes from our youth. Tonight we'll keep it simple, just like Joyce Kilmer.

Day 94: Sweet Child O' Mine

I went into the city last night to see A in her professional stage debut (of sorts). She's wanted to be an actress for as long as any of us can remember and is now in hot pursuit of her BFA in Drama. She likes to joke that she made her Broadway debut in "Hair" on her 19th birthday this past June: all the people sitting in her row in the audience were invited up onto the stage for the curtain call. Wearing her birthday crown, she sang and danced and waved into the spotlights. I'm pretty sure I know what she wished for when she blew out her birthday candles later that evening.

A has been working this summer -- aka interning for no money -- for a woman who is directing a workshop production for a summer play festival. A is her right hand man and the stage manager. She'd rather be in the spotlights than work them, but it's been a valuable experience for her and, interestingly, for me. It's not just that she's growing up. It's that she seems so professional.

This morning we wandered around the West Village and ended up in a store that sells clothing more my style than hers. She wears cute, funky, NYC drama student kinds of clothes, a look I couldn't pull off even on Halloween (although recently I did buy a smokin' silver lame Candies jacket that would have gone perfectly with my circa 1975 Huckapoo shirts and water buffalo platform sandals). But today -- was she feeling it, too? -- she tried on a pair of sophisticated, high-waisted grey slacks with a belted cardigan; she didn't look like any child of mine that I've ever been introduced to. She blew me away. As she said herself, all she needed was a pair of chopsticks in her bun and a Blackberry in her hand and she'd look like every other young career woman hurrying down Park Avenue. I bought her the pants not only because she looked fabulous in them -- all her body parts are still where they're supposed to be -- but as a way of acknowledging this new beginning.

[Okay, no joke, A just walked in the door and is pressuring me to go watch "Amazing Wedding Cakes" on tv with her. Love cake, love that show. But could someone please explain what fondant is?]

Back to my working girl. Can I just tell you how exciting it is to watch her grow up? How thrilling it is to see her pursuing her dream, to hear the passion and excitement in her voice when she tells me about something that she's learning in her studio class or that she's found a photographer to take her headshots or that she'll take me to the Oscars someday so that I can buy an Oscar-worthy dress? Seriously, I've already got the jacket to go with it.

I'll admit it, I don't relish the idea of growing old: who does? I'm fighting the whole physical aging thing with everything I've got; I had enough of wearing white orthopedic shoes when I was a Friendly's waitress in high school. But if growing older means getting to watch my children grow into their dreams, bring it on. It's so incredibly exciting. It's my great privilege.

In the meantime, "Amazing Wedding Cakes" and A are calling.

Day 95: My Mission, Should I Choose to Accept It

It's a perfect summer day. I should be sitting outside by the pool, reading and relaxing and soaking it all in, right? The kids are away, I've had a busy week, a few peaceful moments would do me good. Mission impossible.

The problem started percolating last night, when I decided that I absolutely had to clean out the medicine cabinet. I stopped halfway through to write the blog, though, and then it was late and I fell into bed. The bathroom floor is still littered with fluffed out q-tips and stinky self-tanner and samples of magic wrinkle creams.

When I wake up this morning the wheels are turning a mile a minute, just like son L's erstwhile gerbil, Dude, on his little gerbil treadmill. I check my e-mail and see that there's a question from a friend about my treadmill! Right, I've got to run... Hold that thought. I go to the basement to check out the treadmill and while I'm there I make a mental note to clean the rug because one of the dogs has peed on it and oh yeah, I need to give them their heartworm pills! Back upstairs to respond to the e-mail, yet I spy my empty coffee mug sitting in the coffee maker. That's right, the coffee maker needed water, but when I opened the fridge to get out the pitcher it reminded me of the subject D suggested for my blog a few days ago: would you please buy some eggs? I haven't been too organized these past few days, what with writing this blog and going on Facebook and all. Maybe that's why I'm so crazy today. Anyway, I'd gone in search of paper to write down a few blog ideas (and to make a grocery list) and had abandoned the mug. As if I'm really in need of caffeine.

So now I open the fridge for the second time in search of water and I remember that it's Saturday and that I really want to go to the farmers market, which reminds me that I need to check my garden for ripe veggies. Can veggies be ripe or only fruit? Food for thought. And thinking about the garden reminds me that D and I need to schedule a time (that's just so sad) to sit in the pretty chairs down there and drink wine. Hasn't happened in the two years we've owned them. And then I recall that D actually asked me to come sit with him by the pool, which I think is a very sweet invitation, so I head out there, but after two or three minutes I jump up because I JUST CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! My mind may be swimming but my body can't. None of that for me. There's too much to do!

I head back to my office and notice daughter A's soon-to-be overdue tuition bill, so I grab the checkbook and look for a pen and holy shit, I must have 195 pens in my desk drawer, where did they all come from, I really only like the free ones that I get at the orthodontist's office, so I start cleaning out the drawer and I come across stationery, which reminds me that I need to send off a care package to daughter H at camp. I go into my closet to grab the little bag of goodies I've gathered for her (it's a drag that she's not allowed to get food, what kind of godforsaken place have we sent her to?) and I start to fret about the fact that I have to pack soon for vacation and nothing really fits because I haven't been running and I haven't organized my closet yet for summer, so I spend 10 minutes putting summer shirts and scarves here, winter sweaters and pants there, but for god's sake it's almost the middle of August, why bother? And oh yeah, I need to try on the clothes that arrived from J. Crew the other day. I like ordering online but I hate, hate, hate trying the stuff on. In fact, I hate it so much that I decide that's one task I can actually skip right now. Phew!

I put away the clean laundry and come across my very favorite t-shirt in the whole wide world, the one that says Everyone Loves a Ding Dong (a Ding Dong is like a Ring Ding). Daughter A says that the shirt is rude and embarrassing, but I say what's rude about a Ding Dong? They're delicious! My second favorite t-shirt is one that my cousin had on a few years back: Does Anal Retentive Have a Hyphen?

This is my state of mind today and most other days as well. Being good at multitasking is nothing to be proud of. Being anal retentive (no hyphen) is a curse. Being that crazed without any coffee is frightening. As I head towards 50 and beyond, I need to learn how to relax or else I think I may self-destruct. I'm going to start by sitting by the pool.

Day 96: Possesion is Ninth-Tenths of What Law?

The tiny green bud vase that has lived on my kitchen windowsill for the last five years has gone AWOL. I'm guessing that A broke it while she was cleaning, but I haven't asked her yet. I'm not really sure I want to know.

In my childhood home, the vase sat on a shelf next to the kitchen sink. In the spring it was always home to a few sprigs of grape hyacinth or lily of the valley. It was the perfect size to show off those delicate stems. It still performs that duty.

You'd think I'd have learned by now not to get too attached to objects. A devastating house fire in 1996 left us homeless and virtually possessionless and solved my problem once and for all of what to do with the seriously ugly Christmas sweater S gave me. Sorry if you're reading this, S, but honestly, what were you thinking? Did that sequined and bejeweled gingerbread man really scream out my name from across the store?

After the initial shock of the fire wore off, I found it liberating to be devoid of stuff. Yes, I was sad about losing certain sentimental items and photos, but there was nothing to dust, nothing to manage, nothing to take care of except my four little children. When we moved back into our home a year later, it was a simple process of loading a few boxes into the back of a small truck. It was years before we had what could be deemed a proper junk drawer in our kitchen.

Of course, we've accumulated loads of stuff since. Our toy closet and our coat closet and our bookshelves are all overflowing, and D's closet bears a striking resemblance to the men's department at Barneys. But I look at most of these possessions with a dispassionate eye. I have little problem throwing things out. In fact, I've often thought that the best gift anyone could give me would be a dumpster. Are you listening, S?

I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be the kind of old lady who lives surrounded by a lifetime's worth of tupperware and newspapers. Every spring I'll tackle a big spring clean. And I'll always think of that sweet little vase, the one that summons up so many lovely memories.

I really hope it's not broken.

Day 97: I Am Not Amused

Yesterday I took my son L and three of his friends to Six Flags Great Adventure in New Jersey to celebrate his 15th birthday. Although I think of myself as the kind of girl that just loves amusement parks, the truth is that I hadn't been to Great Adventure since the summer of 1977, when I was 17 and about to start freshman year in college. In the intervening years I've been to Disney World twice, but each time I was pregnant and limited to kiddie rides. And while the local fireman's carnival is the highlight of the social calendar in our town, I just chat with the other parents rather than actually go on any of the rides; besides, they tend towards ones like Scrambler, which throws you from side to side. At age 17, you think that's sick, but at age 49 it makes you sick. And the last time I went on a ferris wheel was the last time for sure. That point where you crest the top and your car is rocking and you can hardly see the ant people below? Scary as hell.

So, my plan for yesterday was to read, do Sudoku (good for my ass-brain), return phone calls, eat cotton candy, fudge, french fries and a funnel cake for good measure, and ride a roller coaster. I adore roller coasters. No matter that those other rides aren't my cup of tea -- roller coasters are the bomb.

I told L that I wanted to go on a plain old roller coaster -- no loop-di-loops or hanging upside down for this purist -- and he suggested Nitro. I trusted my son. With our handy flash pass we were able to bypass the long line and head right up the stairs and into a car with nary a glance around. It wasn't until we were securely locked in and climbing what turned out to be 23 STORIES (23 STORIES!) that I realized that roller coasters aren't what they used to be. Panic set in as I recalled one of the first lessons of physics: what goes up must come down. When we finally reached the top of the hill, I squeezed my eyes shut and then... well, the earth simply dropped away. I have never been so scared in my life. My fear was compounded when I realized that I was going to die in New Jersey.

It was a long ride (80 mph top speed, I'm told; over 1 mile long, I'm told; the planet's most explosive roller coaster, I'm told). You probably get the picture, but just in case, take a gander at the accompanying photo, snapped at the height of my shame and misery. I look like my grandmother when she was quite elderly and had lost all of her teeth. Blackmail fodder.

In shock, I stumbled off Nitro and wandered dazedly into a gift shop where I happened upon what? Why, a Nitro shot glass of course! A Nitro shot glass! Where's Jose Cuervo when you really, really need him?

That Nitro shot glass now sits on the bookshelf in my office alongside photos of my kids, cards and drawings they've made me, and mementos from my own childhood. A souvenir of my son's 15th birthday? Perhaps. Or perhaps it's a reminder of 17-year-old me, the girl who loved roller coasters, and the day I learned that I don't have to try to be like her anymore. It's okay to grow up and leave some things behind. Life is a great adventure and shouldn't be limited by who I used to be.

Day 98: Hitting the Wall

Early this morning I did what I swore I never would: I joined Facebook. A few years ago I created a username and password so that I could spy on my kids, but I was only able to see their profile pictures and view their friends -- not nearly enough for this Peeping Mom!

I'm desperate to see their Facebook pages! Sometimes when one of them is online I'll stop for a chat and try to casually glance at the computer screen. I believe that's POS (parent over shoulder) in IM speak. They're totally on to me. If I had independently-moving eyeballs like lizards, perhaps they wouldn't know where I was looking. The only things I have in common with lizards, however, are my reptilian feet.

Anyway, I now have a Facebook page because my friend D, social networker extraordinaire, convinced me over a couple of glasses of wine last night that if I ever wanted anyone to read my blog I was going to have to put a link to it on Facebook. So I've gone and done it.

But how do I do it? What's a wall? Can everyone see my wall or just me? What's on my mind? Well, how much time do you have?! Is there an Amy Vanderbilt Book of Facebook Etiquette I can read? And worst of all, I have to post a photo of myself up there? I have to expose my thoughts and my aging flesh to the whole world?! How awful! How excruciating! But wait a minute... OMG! Isn't that just what I'm doing in this blog?

I've gone and done it. Now I'm going to have to get my children, who I'm told are called digital natives because they've grown up with all this technology, to teach this immigrant mom how to manage the new time sucker in her life. As if Marble Lines and "Say Yes to the Dress" weren't enough...

I only ever knew my parents as Mom and Dad; I'm sure that Ellen and Jack were much more interesting. Among other things, this blog is my attempt to make sure that my digital natives know who their immigrant mom is. Even if Son J says, "I didn't really NEED to see all that!" Facebook and blogs make "on a need to know basis" a thing of the past.

P.S. Kids, I promise I won't friend any of your friends as long as you don't join the "Oh No, My Parents Just Joined Facebook" network.

Day 99: Tickling the Funny Bone

I can't wait to see the movie "Julie and Julia". I read the book a year or two ago. Don't ask me to recount any of the details (afterall, I'm sitting on my brain), but I do remember that I loved it. I'm currently reading Julia Child's My Life in France. I love the way she expresses herself, her joie de vivre. I refuse to see the movie until I finish the book though, so I'm going to have to get cracking. Vite, vite!

I used to watch "The French Chef" on tv with my mom. She was kind of a quiet woman -- my dad did most of the laughing for the two of them -- but man, when she she laughed she LAUGHED. And Julia Child tickled her funny bone (by the way, Funny Bones are scrumpdillyicious snack food cakes, sort of like Ring Dings but with peanut butter inside -- bon appetit!). I cherished those moments sitting with her in front of the big console tv, tears running down her face while Julia, talking in her whoopsie daisy voice and breathing hard, was making a croquette. I laughed along, too, but mostly I was fascinated by my quaking mother.

I also remember my mom laughing while watching The Beatles perform on "Ed Sullivan". I believe it was bobblehead Ringo on the drums that really did her in. And there was the time at the family reunion when my mom and my aunt got laughing uncontrollably over some family tale: it either had to do with my mom getting caught with a boy in the backseat of his car or with their family's euphemisms for pee and poop. The two Simpson girls laughed so hard they probably wettled or gungled in their pants!

You know the "I Love to Laugh" scene in "Mary Poppins"? Uncle Albert's laughter causes him to float up to the ceiling, where he's soon joined by zero gravity Bert and the children. That was the most magical, fantastical thing my five-year-old self had ever seen, even better than Bert and Mary and the children jumping through the chalk drawing on the sidewalk, and I dreamed of doing the same.

Anyway, I hope I grow older like Julia Child, slightly out of breath and amused by life, and like my mom, laughing so hard that I float right up to the ceiling. That would be practically perfect.

Day 100: The First Big Question Worth Pondering

Here goes. Tackling new things isn't easy for me. Just one of the many things I guess I need to put on my "To Do" list for turning 50. 50! Me! I have four kids, all now teenagers, my husband turned 50 several years ago, things are sagging (I'm pretty sure my pot belly is actually breast tissue, which would make my sagging ass brain tissue), and I need to start wearing bifocals since I can no longer see anything with contacts. The boring and depressing list is endless.

And yet I honestly don't feel 50. I still get zits. I still blast music in the car and dance while I'm driving. I'm still insecure. I still crave snack food cakes (I was proudly inducted into the Swiss Roll Hall of Fame in my late teens and, when put to the test a few years back, was able to identify Suzy-Qs, Ring Dings, Ho Hos and Devil Dogs while blindfolded). As David Byrne so eloquently put it, "Well, how did I get here?"

My goal is to spend the 100 days leading up to my 50th birthday pondering this question and others of lesser import. Like, what day am I actually supposed to begin?! How typical is it that I can't figure out whether the 100th day is the day before my birthday or the day of? So I'm just jumping in, hoping, if not for total clarity, then at least for improved vision...