Day 42: You Snooze You Lose?

I suppose this day was bound to come, but now that it has I'm completely undone. I've lost the notebook that I keep all my blog ideas in. Truthfully, there weren't that many left. Still and all, it's as though I've lost my security blanket. My brain is completely blank. I've got nada. I'm hoping that I've simply misplaced it and that it'll turn up in the freezer or in the battery box or in the bread drawer. Speaking of which, Thomas's no longer seems to be making Honey Wheat English Muffins. They were J's favorites and I haven't been able to find them for weeks. I can't tell you how many times I've been to the grocery store recently searching for them. I just can't let it go.

I heard an interesting tidbit on the radio today about kids and sleep and how even small amounts of it can affect their smarts. For instance, A students average fifteen more minutes of sleep per night than B students, and B students average fifteen more minutes per night than C students. Similarly, a study found that sixth grade students who had half an hour less sleep than usual three nights in a row and then took an intelligence test tested at a fourth grade level.

A good night's sleep is just what the doctor ordered. I rarely get one, which explains a lot. Perhaps if I go to bed now I'll be able to find my notebook in the morning.

Day 43: Dress Code Violation

I went to a Sweet 16 party Saturday night as a somewhat last minute addition to the guest list. Had I received an invitation in the mail (are you reading this, SPV?), perhaps I would've had some clue as to what I was in for. As it was, all I knew was that the birthday girl requested that guests dress in black. I can do black. When SPV e-mailed me the directions, I saw that the name of the restaurant was TPC Jasna Polana. In hindsight, I realize that I simply assumed it was a restaurant.

I guess I've never been to a Sweet 16. What do I know? A friend threw me a surprise 16th birthday party (I hate surprises) attended by seven or eight other girls. I think we probably drank Tab and ate Ring Dings. I recall that a few boys crashed later that evening. Among my gifts was a Playgirl magazine, which ended up, forgotten, under my bed. That is, until the day my dad and older brother J were getting ready to install some bookshelves in my room and pulled my bed away from the wall. I didn't know what I'd done, but the roar coming from my bedroom was a pretty clear indication that I was in a whole lot of trouble. I'm not sure my dad believed me when I told him I didn't even remember that the magazine was there. My brother just sat snickering in the corner like Muttley from "Wacky Races".

Anyway, I was pretty sure that Jasna Polana must be some sort of Polynesian restaurant. I figured the place would be decorated with strings of colored lights and that the kids would perform karaoke and do the Limbo and drink virgin pina coladas. I was really looking forward to sipping a mai tai out of a potbellied ceramic buddha. I put on a nice black blouse, bought especially for the occasion, my favorite dark jeans (which I think hide my spreading flesh but don't) and my new black boots. I thought I looked pretty good. I didn't think I'd be an embarrassment.

I started wondering if I might be mistaken when I left the Princeton business district and my GPS said I was still several miles away from the tiki bar. I decided it must be one of those roadside joints. Oh, this is going to be so much fun! Two miles later, as I drove down a quiet, stately residential street and pulled up to the gates of the exclusive golf club, I started to sweat. As I got out of my car and spied all the adorable 16-year-old girls in their little black strapless dresses and rhinestone encrusted sandals, I knew I was doomed. Where were their grass skirts? "Drat, drat, and double drat!" I flung my shawl around my shoulders and attempted my best sashay through the cobblestoned courtyard and past the lit fountains, up the wide front steps and into the marbled foyer. But when I saw SPV, mother of the birthday girl, in formal attire, well, I let her have it.

I have an ongoing argument with my daughter A about whether it's better to be under or overdressed. I maintain that being overdressed is preferable, but she insists it's the reverse. If all young women feel that way, then perhaps the younger crowd thought I looked okay that night. All I know is that from now on I'll take nothing for granted. I'll dress to the nines whether the invitation says "creative black tie" or "casual chic". No one, least of all me, knows what those directives mean anyway.

Dress to kill, I say.

Day 44: A Gut Feeling

L and H didn't have school today so we went into the city and wandered around. We had a really yummy lunch at Shake Shack in Madison Square Park. I had a Second City Bird Dog, which I'm not going to attempt to describe but which was outstanding, and we all loved the frozen custard. But I digress. On the drive in we listened to a podcast of a "Radiolab" show about parasites. Do not read any further if you don't want to be totally grossed out!

We heard the story of Jasper, a man living in California who has suffered from acute allergies and asthma since early childhood. On a trip home to England about five years ago, he learned of a BBC report about hookworms and their potential benefit to humans. It seems that 50% fewer people in third world countries -- where, among other things, much of the populace doesn't have indoor plumbing or even latrines -- suffer from allergies than those in developed countries. Scientists believe that hookworms and humans can develop a symbiotic relationship: a person supplies the food for the hookworms living in his gut, and in exchange, the hookworms prevent that person's immune system from attacking itself. MS, Crohn's Disease, and other autoimmune disorders are less prevalent in people infected with hookworms.

Jasper immediately launched a search for hookworms but discovered that they couldn't be had through any legitimate means; after all, they can also pose a significant health risk. Desperate, and having exhausted all other options, he traveled through Africa for two weeks, visiting 30 or 40 villages and sloshing barefoot through just as many open sewers in an attempt to attract the parasite. Apparently he was successful, and he has been allergy and asthma free ever since (he's lucky that's all he caught). Jasper now owns his very own business selling his very own hookworms. Yup, you know where he gets them.

Disgusting and gross, I know, but also thought-provoking. I don't think I could voluntarily infect myself with a parasite, but who knows what I might be able to do in different circumstances. I have an autoimmune disorder that affects my shoulders and my legs in a very mild way. But what if I were seriously impaired and in a lot of pain and had reached a dead end with more traditional medicine? Could I do it? I don't know, but I'm glad Jasper has hookworms for sale now (he sanitizes them and treats them with antibiotics first) so that I don't ever have to slosh through open sewers.

This was all on my mind later in the afternoon when I was in Barnes & Noble and used what proved to be one of the dirtiest bathrooms I've seen in a long time. I've used latrines in Nicaragua, and I've used porta potties at Jazz Fest in New Orleans (where people have been drinking all day long in the blazing sun and stand twenty people deep in line), but I swear there was more growing in the bookseller's stall than in those two places combined.

The last time I was at Jazz Fest I didn't take a good look at the guy standing in front of me in the porta potty line until it was his turn; by then I was well past the point of being able to start all over again in a new line. He was a huge, hairy, hulking Hells Angels-type dude, and he spent at least five minutes behind the closed door. I couldn't believe I was going in there after him. My mom had a true horror of public bathrooms and I could hear her voice telling me not to do it, no, don't do it! But I had no choice. I walked up to the door of the porta potty the way I imagine a person approaches a guillotine. I took a deep breath, entered the porta potty and discovered, when I finally had to gulp for air, that Hells Angels Dude took so much time in there not because of hookworm but because he'd been getting stoned! It was like the world's greatest air freshener!

Jasper and Hells Angels Dude: my heroes.

Day 45: Driving Under the Influence

Those who must not be named believe they know what I'm going to write about today. I have news for you, ladies -- I'm not that predictable! I'm going to write about it tomorrow.

This afternoon I found myself, once again, on the New Jersey Turnpike, a truly awful road. It's each man for himself, hence the near fatal crash caused by the guy in the car to my right who decided he wanted my exact spot and swerved over at high speed. At least I discovered a previously unknown rest stop named after Grover Cleveland, the 22nd and 24th President of the United States. I also learned that Grover was his middle name (his first was Stephen).

Here's a question: when was the last time you actually looked at a map to determine the best route from point A to point B? Between GPS and Mapquest, maps are practically obsolete. I don't think my kids even know how to unfold one. Heading north on the turnpike, I passed several alerts about congestion on the George Washington Bridge. In total denial, I decided the first alert must be old news. The second one left me feeling a tad uneasy. The third one worked like a charm and forced me off onto the shoulder to determine an alternate route home. Had I ever bothered to actually read the instruction booklet for my car's navigation system I might have been successful in finding a detour, but the stress of the moment proved too much and I found myself screaming obscenities at Vivian (the name we've given to the system's female voice) and pounding on the keypad.

If I'd had a map in the car, this story would have a different ending. As it was, a trip that should have taken two hours took three hours and fifteen minutes instead. I was fuming. In addition to decent pjs, I'm going to buy myself a road atlas for my birthday.

I've also started fooling around with cruise control, which strikes me as something that really old people do. I've used it several times recently in an effort to keep my speed down. I knew I was in trouble, though, when I attempted to decelerate by pushing down on the cruise control lever, effectively lowering my speed one mile at a time. I'm barreling down on the cars stopped ahead, frantically toggling the lever again and again, when I remember that there's something called a brake under my right foot. Wow. Cruise control is not my friend.

Since when did I decide that a car knows more about driving and navigating than me? Since when did I cede my brain to a piece of steel? Serious reality check.

Despite this, I'm still better off than the woman who sued Winnebago, claiming its cruise control instructions were unclear. Apparently she set the cruise control for 70 mph and went to the back to make herself a sandwich, only to crash a few seconds later. Can you believe the stupidity? Even worse, she won the case! The veracity of this story is the subject of heated debate, but still, it serves a purpose.

When we let machines of mass destruction take over for our brains, even if they're aging brains, driver beware.

Day 46: A Leetle Geeft Pour Vous

I've had a very full morning and now I have to leave for Princeton to attend the Sweet 16 Party for the daughter of a college friend. I haven't seen this girl since she was a toddler and I'm really looking forward to basking in all her teenage beauty and energy. Maybe some of it will rub off on me. I'm also excited about spending the night with her parents and several other college buddies and laughing, laughing, laughing. There will be no time for blogging. So here's a little something for your listening and viewing pleasure. I heard this skit performed on NPR last week and I laughed my decidely unspicy human head off. If you don't think it's funny, well, there's no accounting for taste (mine).

And now, I give you "Spicy Pony Head" by Kaspar Hauser.

Day 47: Talismen

A few weeks ago I wrote about Susie, my husband's cousin who died. Well, when she was ill she created a trust for the benefit of her young daughters and she asked me to act as trustee. It's been a big responsibility and, given what's happened with the stock market in the last year, a nerve-racking one. I finally managed to get her house sold and today was the closing. A nice young couple with a baby bought it. I hope they'll be very happy in their new home. I wish them long lives, certainly long enough to watch their children grow up and marry, have families of their own.

Afterwards I went into a small store in town, the one that sells the rude "50 Sucks" lollipops, and I noticed a bowl of metal acorns by the cash register. The sign next to it said, "An old folk belief holds that carrying an acorn insures a long life." For $1.60 you better believe I scooped one up. You can't be too careful.

Of course, if I'd really been using my ass-brain I would've realized that I could get one for free outside. It's that time of year, after all, when the oaks are shedding their fruit. I suggest you all go outside right now and gather up a few: put one in your purse, one in your pocket, one in your car, one in your underwear drawer, maybe even one under your pillow.

I'm ashamed to admit that when my kids were little the tooth fairy often bypassed our house. One of them would put a tooth under his or her pillow with great glee, but the wretched fairy would forget to come. It got to the point where poor little H had three or four teeth under her pillow at one time; she never gave up. When the tooth fairy finally deigned to visit, she left H a cunning little note on tooth-shaped paper explaining why she'd been so delayed. Being the youngest, H has gotten used to such things and is a more resilient child as a result. She's tenacious. At least this is what the tooth fairy tells herself.

There was a hickory tree in the front yard of my childhood home, and my dad always kept a few nuts from that tree on his dresser. There were lots of other little bits and pieces on his dresser as well -- I found it a fascinating place. But the nuts are the only objects I clearly remember. Actually, that's not true. Now that I think about it, he also had these foul little licorice candies, they couldn't have been any bigger than a lithium button battery, that came wrapped in black paper with red polka dots. I knew I hated them, yet I'd go for them time and time again, hoping they would have become magically delicious (H and I are a lot alike).

The fall after my dad died, I visited his gravestone, and what did I find on it but two or three hickory nuts. A shout out from Dad? I like to think so.

Maybe I'll keep my little silver acorn on my dresser as well.

Day 48: It's Not So Good to Hear Your Voice

My brain is exhausted tonight. I'm exhausted tonight. D returned earlier this evening from a five-day business trip and I haven't even asked him how it went. Truth be told, all I want to do right now is climb into bed and watch "Project Runway". This is the first season I've watched it and I'm kind of hooked. Although honestly, if Heidi Klum said "auf Wiedersehen" to me in that obnoxious, creepy little voice, I think I'd slap her when she leaned in for the kiss. I'm sure most men would disagree with me.

I despise my voice. I've been using a little handheld voice recorder in the car lately since that's where I do most of my best thinking. What that says about me is better left alone. I wonder if talking into it while driving is just as bad as talking on a cell phone. Probably, although at least no one's talking back. And it's certainly better than trying to drive and write at the same time. Not a good idea, especially on the New Jersey Turnpike.

Anyway, when I replay my notes to self, I almost die of embarrassment. If I could have a voice transplant I would.

The only voice I hate more is that of the woman who does the underwriter's announcements on WNYC. Turns out there's a whole bevy of us who cringe when we hear her speak. Even Heidi Klum would be better.

Day 49: The Golden Girls

Yesterday I went to visit an elderly woman who recently underwent knee surgery and is recovering in a nursing home/rehabilitation center. Although she's now in a private room and her situation has improved, she was miserable when she first arrived because she was in a room with several other patients and there was no privacy to speak of. A social worker by training, she's annoyed that she allowed herself to get into that situation in the first place.

She's at the nursing home that my grandmother lived in for the last year or two of her life. I always hated visiting her there. It smelled musty and sickly; elderly people were parked in wheelchairs in various stages of sleep and old age, talking to themselves, drool hanging from their lips. I'm not trying to be cruel. That's just how I saw it as a 22-year-old.

Not much has changed about the place in the intervening years except that it's much, much bigger. I even met a nurse who has worked there for thirty years and thinks she might remember my grandma (Elsie Violet is a hard name to forget). Yesterday afternoon was lovely and some patients were sitting outside in the sun, but most of them were inside, in wheelchairs, looking a little dazed. The colors were as I remembered: sagey greens, dusty mauves. Hospital colors. Sick colors. Old colors.

People seem to retire and then move away to new communities. I don't want to move away from my friends. I don't want to start over again. And I really don't want to go to an assisted living facility. That's just not me. I'll fight tooth and nail to stay strong and mentally sound, able to care for myself. I don't want to be a burden on anyone. Like mother, like daughter.

If I should end up widowed (a terrible thing to say, I know, but it must be considered), perhaps I'll live with my other widowed old lady friends in a house on a piece of land with an outbuilding or two for visiting children and grandchildren. We'll each have our own room to escape to. Some days we'll go on outings. Others we'll stay in and play "Oh Hell" or poker (if I can ever remember what a royal flush is) or Bananagrams. Maybe we'll learn mah-jongg. We'll go to the movies. We'll discuss books. We'll watch each other's backs, make sure no one has fallen and can't get up. We'll nurse one another and we'll console one another. Everyday we'll gather around 5:00 for wine and cheese and then we'll cook a simple dinner together. Or we'll dine out. We'll keep each other young at heart.

Maybe this would work with husbands, too. I don't know. What I do know is that I want to have a plan, I want to be proactive. And I want to grow old with the people I love, not in isolation with strangers who allow me no privacy, who don't know my stories, who might not even be able to talk to me. I mentioned this to my elderly friend yesterday and she wanted to know how to sign up.

Maybe the hippies living in communes were on to something.

Day 50: Fifty to 50

Wow, I'm halfway through! Who woulda thunk it? I started writing this blog with little more than a vague notion of what form it might take and a title (and truth be told, I came up with the title first). As with so many things in my life, it was an impulsive move. Unfortunately, acting on my impulses is akin to striking a match; I burn brightly with enthusiasm and energy for a few brief moments before quickly extinguishing. I'm not known for my stick-with-it-ness. And yet... and yet, I've posted something personally meaningful everyday for the last fifty days, just like I said I would. I'm proud of myself, and that's not a feeling I'm all that accustomed to.

This problem of mine -- the big 5-0 -- has turned into an opportunity: a probletunity, according to Urban Dictionary. What a beautiful, affirming word that is. It goes hand in hand with seeing the glass as half full. Who said you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

Day 51: Man's Best Friend

Dogster. As I understand it, it's like Facebook for dogs. Social networking for canines. You create a profile for your pet in order to meet people with dogs that your dog might like to play with. I'm pretty naive about these things. Maybe it's a ruse and it's really just a dating sight for people who like dogs (is that what you call a red herring?). But I don't think so. I read about it in Bottom Line Personal, a legitimate publication. My 84-year-old father-in-law gives me a subscription to it every Christmas, for crying out loud, and he's a pretty reputable guy. The layout sucks, but if you dig enough you can usually find a few interesting tidbits buried in its pages. Like what to do about stinky wet clothes that you've left in the washing machine too long. Hmmm... Don't you just wash them again?

So, I'd do just about anything, even sign Carmen up for Dogster, if it meant that she'd be okay. She had surgery today to remove a large growth that appeared on her left front leg a few weeks ago. She also developed another lump near her haunches a few days ago, but the vet thinks it may just be a reaction to a rabies shot.

We love our dogs passionately. Carmen and Olivia. Carmen arrived first, a four-month-old mutt rescued from a shelter in Tennessee. She had ringworm and a possible heart murmur but D fell in love with her the moment he saw her. He says her soulful eyes (thus her middle name of Aretha) pulled him right in. She's an energetic, super smart, beautiful girl, and she's only seven.

Olivia is a bit more of a pop star than Carmen, so her middle name is Beyonce. She arrived on New Year's Day 2008 when she was two years old. Her previous owner, no longer able to afford her, gave her up for adoption down in Atlanta. She spent months in a pound there and was scheduled for euthanasia when a rescue organization saved her just in the nick of time. She eventually ended up in a foster home in Philadelphia, which is when we learned about her. She came for a visit, jumped out of the truck and straight into my arms and heart. I was smitten.

Adopting these two dogs is one of the very best things that has happened to our family. When someone is feeling down, or angry, or there's tension in the house, cuddling with a dog makes it all seem better. They are such loves. They are our fifth and sixth children.

I have to leave now to pick up Carmen from the vet's office. I pray he has good news for me. Look for her profile on Dogster.

Day 52: The Rules of Engagement

I’m rife with insecurity. It manifests itself as laziness, as self-righteousness, as hyper-criticalness, as impatience, as rigidity. The list is endless. It's true that I can be a lot of fun, but I can also be a real bitch.

I’m sure I could keep a shrink busy for a long, long time, but I haven't gone that route. Probably because I’m aware of my issues and therefore I don't need anyone telling me what I already know. Arrogance. Others insist I'd benefit from it, and they’re probably right. I’m just scared that it would confirm all the bad things I already believe about myself. Fear.

Going to church is a form of therapy for me, because it always gives me something to think about, to ponder, to work on. I went today for the first time since June. Summer vacation and all. I guess I don't want to reflect upon my weaknesses and my failures during the warm months. They're readily apparent when I don a bathing suit. I don’t need any further affirmation.

I'm interested in seeing where the theme at church this fall -- The Ties That Bind --takes us. Obviously it's about community, about loving one's neighbor. So says Miss Smarty Pants. Today's sermon was about fear and how it keeps us from living fully.

Perhaps the root of many of my issues is fear: fear of not being smart enough, fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of people not liking me, fear of being vulnerable, fear not only of not being good enough but of not being perfect. I have my theories about where my fear comes from, but in the end it's my fear and mine alone and I have to learn how to manage it, how to tame it, if I want to live the life that God intends for me, that I want. That makes huge sense to me.

I need to stay engaged in my life, not let my fear keep me locked up in the house and away from community. If I put myself out there, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me at times, something good usually comes of it. I learn something. As I heard Sarah Jessica Parker say once on the radio, “We have to say yes to the hard stuff. When your first inclination is to say no to something because it’s too hard, that’s the thing you have to do.” Or something like that. Hers is not necessarily the life I want to emulate, but she does have great style. Love the shoes.

In today’s culture, it’s not always easy to talk about religion and its meaning in your life, but I’m going to say it. My church is a community that I'm proud to be a member of, a community that renews me and refreshes me and challenges me and encourages me. Often all I want to do on Sunday morning is stay in my ugly pajamas and hang out at home. That’s the easy thing. Going to church requires more of a commitment, an engagement, and sometimes it feels hard, but it’s good for me; it helps me live my life more fully. I need to make more of an effort to get there.

No fear.

Day 53: Zapped: A Bug's Life

I know it's hard to believe, but the town police and fire departments paid us another visit last night. What we really needed were the paramedics.

I was sound asleep at 12:30 or so when L woke me up yelling that there was a bad smell downstairs and D was worried that something was burning. The smell was contained to one corner of the first floor, but it was powerful and smelled electrical in nature. Alarm man didn't order us out of the house (the small amount of smoke apparently didn't irk him all that much), but the fire department did.

You see, having survived one serious house fire already, we weren't taking any chances. It seemed possible that something was burning inside the walls. D decided to call 911, who patched him through to our small town volunteer fire department, and then the drama quickly unfolded. Not, however, before I sped back upstairs and changed out of my nasty pajamas into jeans and a sweatshirt. I may have even brushed my teeth. I didn't go so far as to put on lipstick -- I wasn't going on a date for pete's sake -- but I was damned if our town's finest were going to catch me off guard yet again. They've got too much on me already.

A few minutes later the first policeman arrived and set up a perimeter for the two or three fire trucks that pulled up shortly thereafter. Several firefighters, in full regalia, entered the premises and quickly determined the source of the smell and the smoke. A bug, some sort of large mosquito (in our defense, it really was big), had fried to death in a halogen fixture in D's library! Incinerated. Cremated. Burned to a crisp. DOA.

The firemen assured us that this was not their first experience with burned bugs and that it wouldn't be their last. They insisted we had done the right thing by calling them (I'm telling you, it smelled like burning wires and it lingered!). They couldn't have been more gracious or understanding. I'm sure they had a few choice words for us after they left.

Seriously, could I have made this up?

I believe in supporting the town's emergency services: I remember my mom telling me that it was important to do that and to vote for the school budget. I've already written the fire department a check this year, but after our two false alarms in the last week and a half, I think I'll be writing another. I don't want them to tell us to bug off the next time we call.

RIP, poor bugger.

Day 54: Shop Until You Immediately Drop

Sometimes I have a lot to say (usually) and sometimes I come up dry. I didn't have any interesting encounters or experiences or conversations today. I didn't read anything that freaked me out or made me laugh. I keep a book of blog ideas for moments like this, but it's Friday night (as I've mentioned, my very favorite time of the week) and really, I just want to hang out and relax. Tomorrow H and I have to go birthday shopping for her friend Princess A and the thought fills me with dread. I hate shopping when I actually have to find something. For instance, most brides-to-be love searching for the perfect wedding dress with their posses of ladies in waiting in tow. Not this one. I saw a dress in a magazine that looked pretty good, I went into the store on a Saturday morning by myself, I tried it on and I bought it. Done. Scratch that off the list.

I really don't want to go shopping tomorrow morning, but since I must, I need to preserve my strength this evening. Enough of blogging. And if I'm not mistaken, I do believe that "Say Yes to the Dress" is on tv tonight. I personally may not like shopping, but I quite enjoy watching other people do it.

Day 55: Armageddon

While waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store today I scanned the tabloids. I was hoping for a few telltale photos of celebrities and their cellulite. Poor Pierce Brosnan’s wife has it pretty bad (not that I’m anyone to talk). She always gets nailed.

I was greeted not by dimply thighs, however, but by the headline screaming that the world will end on October 11, 2009 – exactly one month before my birthday. That really pisses me off! I’m getting gypped out of turning 50! I want to be 50, I do. I don’t have a problem with it. When I’m 50 I move up to the 50-54 age group in races, which means I might actually beat somebody.

Poor L is going to be seriously bummed as well. He’s counting the days until the release of “Where the Wild Things Are”, Spike Jonze’s movie adaptation of the old childhood classic by Maurice Sendak. It’s not coming out until October 16th. Maybe he can catch a sneak preview of it somewhere.

Does this mean that J doesn't have to do his college applications?

Day 56: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

Today I hosted a belated birthday lunch for my friend K (at 49, she's a mere child). There were nine of us here, and despite the chill in the air and the gray skies, we sat outside and laughed and ate and drank champagne in the middle of the day. It was slightly decadent but oh what fun!

I want to spend more time in the company of my friends. It's really not all that hard to do. It's a matter of both planning (not my strong suit, to be sure, but that's no excuse) and embracing spontaneity, of deciding that the minutiae of my life can wait a day or two.

Anyway, I'm tired and I have a champagne headache, so I'm simply going to leave you with a few parting shots.

Day 57: A Rose is a Rose...

I just read that of 3000 British school teachers polled, 49% admitted to making assumptions about students based upon their first names. I was flummoxed to see the name Jack listed as a potential troublemaker. Okay, so yes, the J I refer to is Jack. Happy? I'm not! He's not a troublemaker! In fact, in the delivery room, when we announced that his name would be Jack, the obstetrician replied, "Jack? That sounds like a boy with dirty knees!" Exactly! And J did, in fact, win "The Dirtiest Knees Award" in day camp! But that doesn't make him a troublemaker, does it? What do those teachers know that we don't?

Someone recently told me a story -- possibly an urban myth -- about a girl named La-a. Now tell me, how would you pronounce that? Tough, right? It's Ladasha. You have to admit, that's pretty creative. I've also heard that Nevaeh is a popular name now. Heaven backwards. I think that's pretty.

My sister J (no, not Jackie, although from what I've been told about her troublesome teenage years perhaps that would have been more appropriate!) informs me that my name was up in the air for several weeks after my birth. Being the youngest of five, I guess my parents had just run out of steam. If I'm not mistaken, I believe that they also had to lie to my brother D about my sex in order to get him to come home from the neighbors to meet me for the first time. Apparently another little sister is not what he had in mind.

My sister tells me the horrifying story of the name my mom had in mind for me:

"...you were Miss X for two weeks until the hospital finally called Mom and said they HAD to have a name for the birth certificate. Mom really liked Cornelia Beatrice, the rest of us didn't like it at all and told her that we would be calling you Corned Beef. Dad liked the name Leslie, but Mom didn't because one of the twins [a cousin] was already a Leslie.

So they finally came up with Nancy, which I think is a very cute name -- yes, sort of old-fashioned for these days (as is John, Jean, Doug, and Anne) -- but for me it conjures up the image of a Pippi Longstocking. I've never known a Nancy that wasn't fun to be with!"

Sometimes I'm fun to be with.

So there you go. Mneme is not my sole sobriquet. Perhaps I should be signing these posts Miss X instead.

Day 58: To Infinity and Beyond

D really wants to take me on a 50th birthday trip and is growing increasingly desperate as the date draws near and I can't seem to make a decision as to destination. Despite the fact that I'm portly and wear ugly pajamas and am half-crazed, he still seems to want to spend time with me -- go figure.

The thing I really want to do for my birthday is have a family dinner, something that's increasingly difficult to pull off as the kids get older. Originally I was set on doing this the evening of my birthday, which falls on a Wednesday, but A now has a conflict with an activity that she's required to attend at school. It's probably just as well, since homework would put a damper on the festivities. So I've settled on the Saturday night before, in the city, with my husband and my children. It will be more relaxed and more fun, just what I'm aiming for. It'll probably take me another month to decide upon a restaurant, as is my way, but whatever. Just as long as we don't end up at The Cheesecake Factory...

In terms of a trip, my birthday falls right at the height of early decision deadlines for many colleges, and J may choose to go that route. I'm uncomfortable going away then because I guarantee he'll wait until the last minute -- it's in his DNA. Antarctica was my first choice but it's just too long of a trip. I also had dreams of climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro on my 50th, but D isn't interested. Strenuous exercise isn't his cup of tea. I guess I'll have to be like Amelia Earhart and do that one solo or with a friend.

I finally decided today that I'd like to go to the Galapagos. I really want to see a blue footed booby. A's third grade teacher did a rip-roaring imitation of one that I'll never forget. And, like the melting snows of Mt. Kilimanjaro, I understand that the Galapagos are being adversely affected by climate and man; ideally we'd take this trip with our family, but we can't put it off much longer. Like D says, if we wait for the perfect time we'll never do it. There's a trip leaving right after Thanksgiving, so J's application will be in (hallelujah!). It'll also force me to do my Christmas shopping early, which is something I've always aspired to and always failed at. Typical.

The only thing that's making me hesitate is the questionable health of our dog C, but we ought to know in a day or two what her issues are. Please, keep your fingers crossed and say a little prayer for her. She's not just a dog. She's a beloved member of our family and I can't bear to think that there might be something seriously wrong with her... That's not the birthday present I was looking for.

Day 59: Gratitude

I've been truly touched by the kind words that this blog has received. I'm just writing about my life, after all, and it doesn't seem like the issues I struggle with or my daily routines are all that interesting or unusual. I guess it does seem funny at times. You have to keep your sense of humor above all else, I say.

And yet I've often wondered why so much of this stuff happens to me? I have near-misses in my car at least a few times every week. I have contentious conversations with sales people with alarming frequency (a woman from Motor Vehicles berated me once for allowing my sixteen year old daughter to go to school in California for four months without a credit card). I always have a bizarre tale to tell, like the scream-inducing incident with the pigeon that walked across my sandaled foot last weekend when D and I were brunching outside in the city. Feeling its little pigeon claws grasping my big toe was just too much. Am I a drama queen? Am I jinxed? I tend to think that it's because I'm pretty much of a moron and therefore I attract moronic incidents -- like moths to the flame.

However, in an e-mail that my friend M wrote me today, she said something that gave me pause. "You are one of those people that funny things happen to, in part because you are ready to absorb every detail of the comedy that is life." I like that. And then shortly afterwards I received another lovely e-mail about my blog, this one from my friend D, who wrote, "If this were a book, I would read old passages under the covers when I need a laugh or some reassurance that the travails of my life are shared by others." Thank you, thank you to all of you who have let me know in one way or another that you're enjoying my rants. It's nice to know that I've struck a chord.

On a completely different subject, let's hear it for US Open Champ Kim Clijsters, the first mother to win a Grand Slam title in almost thirty years. You've gotta love it.

Day 60: Ennui

Today I sat in front of my computer and dealt with all the crap on my desk. I spent forty-five minutes on the phone with the Verizon dude trying to figure out why our wireless bill is so high. I spent another forty-five minutes talking with a "home water systems expert" about the state of our H2O. Sadly, those rate as my most interesting conversations of the day.

Thankfully, I was spared the school supplies shopping trip to Staples. Now that J has his license, he's my unofficial personal assistant. I've finally got a wife. I've been wishing for one of those for years.

D doesn't want to do much of anything tonight. He did suggest going out for a bite to eat but, considering the plight of my waistline, I think it's best to pass. Another Saturday night sitting around doing nothing. I'll probably end up eating a pint of Imagine Whirled Peace. Ben & Jerry's has a new flavor called Mission to Marzipan. I can't imagine a grosser mission. I rank marzipan right up there with fondant.

I'm bored, bored, bored.

Day 61: Defining Moments

The definition of verbose is simple: Mneme. Yup, that's me. My posts are getting quite lengthy. Do I have that much more to say or is it just taking me longer to say it? Am I quagged? In the interest of time and the fact that it's Friday night --my very favorite moment of the week -- I'm going to try to keep this one short and sweet.

Turgid is a synonym for verbose. Honestly, I thought it was a synonym for stercoraceous, one of my dad's favorite words, which means "of or pertaining to dung". His other favorite word was callipygous, which means "characterized by shapely buttocks". I am no longer callipygous, nor am I pithy or terse. I'm verbose. Verbose sounds like someone who is verbally obese. Mneme.

I've always loved words. I was a major bookworm growing up. Someday I hope I have the time to be a bookworm again. I signed up on Facebook for an app (notice how casually I throw out that phrase?) called weRead, which in theory should be great because it allows me to post my favorite books and the ones I want to read, write reviews, and check out what others are reading. But do I want to read or do I want to read about reading?

I always won the spelling bees in elementary school. I won the math bees also. One of my crowning achievements was winning the "Thinker of the Day" award in 3rd grade. First and last time. My smarts deserted me towards the start of high school. The word for that is puberty.

I wrote a seven or eight page paper in college that was returned to me with not a single mark save the word BANAL written in large red letters on the last page. If the professor had simply written SOPHMORIC he would have saved me having to haul out the five pound dictionary.

Today, of course, I can easily look up definitions on dictionary.com, but I prefer the actual dictionary, the feel of the paper, the "whoops, I've gone one page too far" moment, checking out a few neighboring words. I'm tactile. Or perhaps I'm just antediluvian, hoary, positively primeval. I'm about to turn fifty after all.

A word I can never remember the meaning of is sinecure. I get it mixed up with sobriquet. A sinecure is a position that requires little work but provides a salary. I'd like to get me one of those. I already have a sobriquet: Mneme. Do you wonder why I call myself that?

Look it up in the dictionary.

Day 62: And So It Begins

I went to bed much too late last night, forgetting that I had to set the alarm for 6:10 instead of the leisurely wake-up times of the summer. I stumbled downstairs and was greeted by the smoky smell and haze of burning food (L attempting to make a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich) and the inhuman alarm system voice a few seconds later squawking, "Warning! Warning! Fire! Vacate the premises immediately!"

The alarm company employee who then telephoned informed me politely that the fire department had already been notified; I pleaded with her -- "Abort the mission!” -- but she ignored me and calmly stated that I could expect the trucks in a few minutes. Luckily, the first car on the scene of the blazing inferno was that of a fireman, clearly roused out of a deep sleep, who was able to go where the alarm woman either couldn't or wouldn’t: he called off the trucks.

The second car was that of a policeman who, to my great embarrassment, I’ve met a few times before. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m crazy. He’s also now had the privilege, on more than one occasion, of seeing me when I’m just downright ugly.

This poor fellow once investigated my claim that a rabid raccoon was giving me the evil eye. It was sitting on top of our garbage bin, defiantly ignoring my attempts to shoo it away. I picked up some gravel and tossed it in the beast's general direction (remember, I throw like a girl) but it still didn’t budge. It just kept staring at me. It turned out that although it wasn’t rabid, it had been hit by a car and was in dire shape. I believe the policeman dispatched it, if you catch my drift.

The policeman also had the great misfortune of responding to several 911 hang-ups from this residence. These were not our fault! The fax machine down in the basement used to occasionally enjoy dialing 911, and since the 911 operator got no answer when calling back, the police would be sent to investigate. The problem was eventually traced to a Verizon junction box several miles down the road, but not before an alarming middle of the night episode. J was awakened by flashlight beams sweeping through the downstairs (our front door is all glass) and he frantically woke me up and whispered that there was an intruder in the house (alarm man was perversely silent). I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. What to my wondering eyes did appear? The flashing red lights of a police cruiser.

I had to run downstairs and assure the cops that nothing was amiss; they still needed to stay for a few minutes to make sure that we were really okay, that there wasn’t an intruder behind the door pointing a gun at my head. So there I was, half-asleep, in my butt ugly pajamas (as usual, a mismatched set), braless boobs hanging mid-belly, with dragon breath, crazy hair, and my eyeglasses askew, attempting to make conversation with slightly suspicious and most definitely grossed out policemen at 3:00 a.m. Not a good night for any of the parties involved.

At least today, when I saw my friend the policeman, I had the decency to cover up with a sweater before running outside in another set of mismatched, unattractive pjs. I don't think they were worn thin in any indecent places, but you never know. I really need to buy some respectable pajamas. Not only am I pretty sure that wearing nice pajamas is a sign of maturity, I'm also thinking the police would be deeply relieved. I’m going to present myself with some for my 50th birthday.

So that was the start to the first official day of school. It was pretty cool that L tried to make himself a good breakfast, but instead of applauding his effort I yelled at him. Then the emergency personnel visit. And finally, my kids were late to the bus. The driver had to honk for them, which is what he did almost every morning last year. I told them, kiddos, things are going to be different this year. I beat this into their empty file cabinet brains for the last two weeks. Surely you can understand why I went ballistic when I heard that honk? Instead of sending them off with kisses and hugs and a “have a great school year” pep talk, my rants followed them out the door. At least my attitude matched my look.

I have much to apologize for, which I’ll try to do right now since they’re just walking in the door. But first, no joke, I can smell the meatloaf burning in the oven…

Day 63: Me and Ms. Jones

I’m fairly obsessive about my weight. It doesn’t mean that I’m always thin, because I’m definitely not. What it does mean is that I’m always thinking about it, either spending lots of time exercising and carefully planning what I put into my body or throwing all caution to the wind and eating everything (and I mean everything) I can get my hands and my mouth on. Moderation, I know not thy name.

I rarely weigh myself, because even when I’m relatively thin and in good shape I still weigh a lot. I’m not slightly built. I know by how my clothes fit and feel where I am in the weight department. I’ve been inching up to the fat clothes ever since I stopped running in April because of the Achilles problem. I had a really good time this summer eating whatever I wanted. I didn’t really feel like I was all that fat. Somehow I kidded myself into believing that things were still marginally under control. I didn’t see what was clearly expanding right under my nose.

H had a short day at school today – just orientation this morning. Afterwards we went to The Cheesecake Factory for lunch. That’s the first admission I’ve made in all of this blogging that actually embarrasses me. Even I, who love all junk food, have a hard time eating in a place with a name like that. You feel like your arteries are starting to clog just by walking through the door. Anyway, it was the first time I’ve seen a menu with the calorie count listed next to each item and it was mind-blowing. You’d be hard pressed to find anything for lunch in there with less than 1500 calories. And then, of course, you have to have cheesecake, right? Most of it actually sounds pretty gross to me. Chocolate Oreo Mudslide Cheesecake? As my mom would say, that’s just gilding the lily. I was going to go for plain, but H wanted red velvet cheesecake, so we shared a piece. I can’t even begin to guess the calorie count of that baby.

H then strolled and I waddled over to the mall to do a little back-to-school shopping for both of us. Interestingly, I reached for larger sizes than usual, so I must’ve known what was up (my weight!), but I was still wearing blinders. The moment of truth comes in the dressing room. I bend over to pull a shirt off over my head and when I stand back up I see a woman in the mirror that I don’t recognize. For a split second I think it’s the sales lady -- how rude that she didn’t knock! And why isn’t she wearing a shirt? Why doesn’t she cover that up?! And then I see, to my horror, that the woman whose belly looks like, well… honestly, words escape me. I can’t even begin to do justice to what it was that I saw in that mirror. The white puffy pizza dough (and even that doesn’t adequately describe it) oozing out over the waistband of my two sizes too small pants was so ghastly that I actually almost laughed before I started to cry. Holy shit, it’s me! I’m Baby Beluga!

So, I’m not going to go all Bridget Jones’s Diary on you and count my calories and tell you everything I’ve eaten and all that stuff. She’s done that and done it brilliantly. I wish I could tell you that I’m Renee Zellweger and that I’ve gained thirty pounds to play the movie version of Bridget, but no such luck. I just need to process the fact that I have a boulder to lose (thanks to Google I now know the weight of a British stone; I also know what Frank Sinatra died of and whether Albert Einstein had any children) and that tomorrow I need to get back on the program. Please hold me accountable.

Day 64: Stupid Is As Stupid Does

I don't often express my political opinions because I find it difficult to defend my typically visceral reactions in a thoughtful way (this is another thing for me to work on over the course of the next fifty years). And sadly, these days there seems to be no room for political debate, just ugly fighting. That said, this is one headline grabbing story that I just can't let go by.

What on earth is objectionable about the speech President Obama is going to give to our nation's school children later this morning? Is it not the speech that we're all giving to our own children -- albeit in my case much less eloquently -- in the next few days as they head back to the classroom? Do we not want them to try their hardest? Is it not encouraging for our children to hear that the President of the United States sometimes struggled as a child, that he made mistakes, that he didn't always feel like he fit in? You're going to keep your children home from school over these radical and socialist ideas?

What President Obama so articulately states in his speech is nothing new. Our children have heard it not just from us but from teachers, from coaches, from pastors, from celebrities, from advice columnists. Do we question whether they're Republicans or Democrats? Who cares? Do we accuse them of having a Socialist agenda? It's ridiculous! It's an important message, and one that clearly bears repeating.

Perhaps embarrassingly, I find that Obama's unexceptional remarks rev me up a bit, too. I'm not all that psyched to get back to the routine, but since it's here, I have to embrace it and do my best (the glass is half full, right?). So it serves to get me up off my ass-brain and attack my lengthy to-do lists with renewed vigor. Yes I can!

As Forrest Gump -- another wildly articulate man -- says, "That's all I have to say about that." But if you'd like to hear another opinion (yes, a similar one, it's true), here you go. I guess I'm opening the floodgates. I take full responsibility.

Protecting Our Kids From Obama's Subversive 'Eat Your Peas' Message -- Politics Daily

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Day 65: Random Thoughts Part II

Again, not much to say about today. J and H and I played a killer game of Parcheesi. H pulled out the win at the last minute. A few rounds of Bananagrams followed, but when J spelled a-m-i-a-b-l-e I knew I was in trouble. He's taken the SATs a lot more recently than I have.

The highlight of the day was making cheese croquettes with H. We ate them when we were in Spain this summer and they were perfecto. I promised her we'd try to make them ourselves, and since the clock is ticking on this summer thing, today was the day. We used Julia Child's recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Lots of butter, lots of cheese, lots of milk, and lots of oil = lots of cellulite. They were mighty tasty, though.

We also watched the first episode of "The French Chef" -- potatoes done four ways. Julia was a bit breathless and a bit scatterbrained. Just as much fun as I remember!

Now I think we're going to have some ice cream and watch a movie, maybe a quick jump in the hot tub. The water is probably twice as warm as the air temperature. Fall is definitely just around the corner, as is 50. I'm actually feeling better about the latter of the two. I really don't want these lazy summer days to end.

Day 66: Random Thoughts

Today was a nice leisurely day. All hell is about to break loose later this week when school starts, so I've been trying, finally, to appreciate the summer. Better late than never.

H and I went to exchange her brand new cell phone for a different model -- turns out she didn’t like it so much after all -- but she had written on the box and therefore the phone couldn't be returned. I understood her teary disappointment, yet I could also legitimately say, “Appreciate what you have; you thought it was pretty great on Wednesday.” This was not a situation worthy of more than a moment’s regret. It reminded me of an ad for Levi’s that I saw in a city bus stop earlier this summer. It was a photograph of the back of a young woman, running away from the camera, dressed only in jeans. "All I need is all I got” was the caption. Call me a prude, but she could probably use a shirt as well.

It was a beautiful afternoon and we hung out around the pool for a while. I finished reading The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane to H (never mind that I gave it to her three years ago for her tenth birthday). It’s the sweet, sweet story of a china rabbit who learns what love is, who learns never to stop hoping. We both got a little choked up at the end. I really love children’s books, and although H is getting older she still enjoys being read to. I have to make more time for it.

For the first time we allowed J and L to jump off the big rock at the deep end of the pool. It’s about four feet back from the edge, and I’ve always worried that someone won’t jump out far enough and will land on his head. But now that L is 6 feet tall and J is 6’3, this is no longer a legitimate concern. They each landed about ten feet out into the pool! I wonder if it was as much fun as they’ve been imagining it would be these past five years…

I opened a small package from Amazon that arrived in yesterday’s mail. I didn’t remember having ordered anything recently. Turned out to be a gift from a friend, a DVD of “The French Chef”, Julia Child’s first cooking show. In one of my earlier blogs I wrote about watching that show with my mom when I was a little girl. I can’t wait to dip into this DVD! What an incredibly thoughtful gift.

This evening we went to a party for a couple who have just come back to town after an absence of eight months. They’re really fun and interesting people and I look forward to getting to know them better. Making a new friend (a real friend, not a Facebook friend), is one of life’s great pleasures.

And speaking of friends, tomorrow is my friend K’s birthday. We haven’t seen one another very much this summer. One of the good things about school starting is that we’ll have our days back to ourselves. Spending time with an old friend is an even greater pleasure. Happy Birthday, K.

At the party I got chatting with a friend who has had to dramatically change his eating habits for health reasons. Among the many foods that he’s had to give up are Little Debbie Swiss Rolls. I’m not all that familiar with Little Debbie products as they weren’t sold around here growing up. Imagine my consternation when I learned that Little Debbie coats her Swiss Rolls with chocolate! Excuse me, but with all due respect, that’s a Yodel. Drake’s Swiss Rolls are uncoated and are about twice the size of a Yodel. Anyway, I didn’t argue this point with him because he’s been through enough already. I admire his determination and his willpower and his philosophical approach to his situation. He’s a much better sport than I.

And finally, speaking of growing up, today I found the most perfect Facebook group to join: You Know You’re From Mount Kisco When… My very favorite game! I’m sorry, though, I’m not trying to be rude, but most of the posts are from neophytes. Please! They remember Sam Goody! They must be all of 18. I was born here. I’ve lived here most of my fifty years. I scrolled through all 311 posts to make sure that someone hadn’t already entered my answer. It had nothing to do with Starbucks or Borders or Pizza Pizzazz. You know you’re from Mount Kisco when you remember the Frosty the Snowman that used to be outside the Manhattan Savings Bank at Christmas time. He’d talk to you as you walked past. It didn’t get any better than that.

What a great day.

Day 67: I Now Pronounce You Man and Wife

Twenty-two years ago today my husband gave me flowers for the very first time. It’s not inconsequential that we’d gotten married earlier that day as well. But he’d never, ever given me flowers before. Maybe he finally figured that, unlike the ephemeral flowers, I was going to stick around for a while. Who knows? I still don’t always (make that often) know what’s going through his mind. But I do know that he loves me, even when I’m at my most unlovable. And I count on that.

We met at work. I first noticed him in the summer of 1980, when I was working there as a summer floater and he was starting in the intern program. It was his first day. I had to go down to Personnel and while I was there I noticed the new interns sitting on a couch. I tried not to stare at any of them, but I did notice that he was pretty cute.

I graduated from college a year later and went to work there full time. Thankfully, D was still there. What if he’d left for a different job? Imagine… I wonder who I’d be married to? I wonder who my children would be? I wonder who I would be? I’m so glad he stuck around.

Anyway, we were passing acquaintances for several years. Then, in the summer of 1984, a colleague of mine convinced me to play on the company softball team with her. No matter that I couldn’t throw a ball (my dad always told me that I threw like a girl; well duh!). Somehow I became the pitcher and somehow I also managed to catch the eye of the first baseman, my future husband.

We fell in love going to baseball games. The company we worked for owned the Mets, and since I was in corporate pr I had access to great seats. I had the tickets, D had the passion and the subway skills to get us out to Flushing on the 7 train. He taught me everything I used to know about baseball but have long since forgotten. I impressed him with my ability to rattle off all the players’ statistics (reading the sports pages was part of my job). Those were heady days.

Two years later, shortly before we got engaged, D told me that he actually didn’t think he’d ever get married. It was a serious conversation and I came to the conclusion that it was time for me to move on. I knew I wanted to get married and have a family, and as much as I also knew that he was the one I wanted to do that with, it seemed that it just wasn’t going to happen. We were heading into the Christmas season, though, and I decided to wait to end things until the new year. The idea of spending the holidays without him was too depressing.

Good thing, because when we exchanged gifts, he told me that mine was too big to wrap and that I needed to close my eyes and hold out my hands. I thought he was going to get a pair of skis out of the closet, but when I opened my eyes I saw an old, yellowing, tattered box on my outstretched palm. Inside was the engagement ring that had belonged to his great-grandmother.

I haven’t worn that ring in years. It was fragile when I got it and a few years of wearing it proved to be the death knell. On our 20th anniversary D gave me a new engagement ring, and although he didn’t actually ask me to marry him all over again, I would have said yes.

Things aren’t perfect. My friend K recently gave me a t-shirt which says, “Just because I'm moody doesn't mean you're not irritating.” He doesn’t get it! I read about a woman who started a blog called “My Husband is Annoying” and I thought that perhaps that’s the blog I was really meant to write. He makes me absolutely crazy sometimes. But one thing I’ve learned over the years is that there are always two sides to every story, and if he’s making me crazy, then it’s damn well certain that I’m doing the same to him. And yet he never tells me that. He just lets me know in a myriad of ways, each and every day, that he loves me.

The note that accompanied my wedding day roses said, “Your flowers, Mrs. G.” My note to him today says, “My love, Mr. G.”

I do.

Day 68: Unplugged

Today D and I are going into the city to have some fun. Tomorrow is our anniversary. In the interest of marital harmony, it's best that I get myself off the computer, dressed and out of here. It's a beautiful day and the city and my husband beckon.

Day 69: Birthday Wishes

September 3rd. On this day in 1783, the American Revolution officially ended with the signing of the Treaty of Paris. In 1939, Britain and France declared war on Germany. In 1966, the final episode of “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet” aired. In 1967, Swedes began driving on the right. In 1989, Chris Evert defeated Monica Seles to win her last US Open singles title. In 1995, eBay was founded. And in 1955, my husband’s cousin S was born.

Unlike my family, D’s family is very small – he has just one sister and two cousins. D and S were often mistaken for siblings. They were close friends.

S was a formidable presence, a strongly opinionated, accomplished, intelligent woman. She was an excellent ice skater, tennis player and bridge player; she was a four-time Emmy Award winner and a national producer for a network news program. She married at the age of 40 and gave birth to twins when she was 42. She was the consummate producer, both in her personal and her professional life. Her skills failed her, however, when she was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer in the spring of 2005. No longer in control of her life, she still fought as hard as she could, all the while hoping for the best while planning for the worst. She died in August of 2007, just a few days shy of her 52nd birthday.

I was intimidated by S. She could be a tough nut to crack. I never knew when something I said might anger her. But with motherhood, and then illness, came a softness, a reaching out, an acceptance of love and a giving of it in return. The last Christmas she was alive, although wracked by pain, she bought me a gift because she wanted me to know how much she appreciated me. It’s a simple hairband, which I use every night to pull back my hair when I wash my face. I think of her a lot.

Life is short, we all know that, but in S’s case, it was really short. She missed out on so much. But if she was thinking that while she grew more and more ill, she never let on. She almost never complained. She just let us know how much we were appreciated and loved. And she kept moving forward.

Happy Birthday, Susie.

Day 70: Middle Ground

Weird start to the day. I’m on the board of Ubuntu Africa, a not-for-profit in South Africa that provides support services to children who are HIV-positive. The center is in Khayelitsha, a township of a million plus people outside of Cape Town that’s riddled with poverty and disease and crime. The residents are among the world’s poorest.

So, I had a 7:15 Ubuntu board conference call this morning. I went into the kitchen to make a strong cup of coffee and found garbage strewn all over the floor. Seems someone left the garbage bin open last night and the dogs had a feast – probably a better meal than most of the children in Khayelitsha could even dream of. As soon as the meeting was over I took L and H to their annual physicals, where they were found to be in excellent health. H got a booster of the chicken pox vaccine. She hates getting shots, and I feel for her, I do, but how lucky is she to have that vaccine available? We’re so fortunate that we’re able to take things like food and medicine for granted.

We then headed into town to do a few errands. A book in a store window stopped me cold: Hot Granny. Okay, that’s just too disturbing to pass by, so I went in to check it out. The flap copy says it’s a toast to any woman over the big Five-Oh. Excuse me, but once I hit the big 5-0 (much better spelling if you ask me) I’m considered a granny? That makes me hot under the collar! And, once I do get to the point where I embrace my granny-ishness, I really hope I’ll be confident enough and wise enough to have moved beyond any attempt at being hot. And by the way, isn’t trying to be hot just about the un-hottest thing a woman can do? Don’t all the self-help books and columns tell us that being comfortable in our own skin is actually the “hottest” thing of all? Are they all full of hot air? I never want to be mentioned in the same breath as Miley Cyrus or Jessica Simpson or Megan Fox (well, maybe Megan Fox), especially when I’m a granny. I want my grandchildren to lump me in with someone soft and cuddly and adorable, someone like Winnie the Pooh.

In hot pursuit of more coffee, we entered another store and displayed there, to my great consternation, were lollipops that say 50 Sucks. In all fairness, 30 Sucks and 40 Sucks were available as well, but still and all, that’s just the wrong message, especially when the book next door is telling me that I can be a hot 50-year-old granny. Isn’t there any time in between me being hot and my life sucking? I don’t know, maybe not. I used to think there’d be a time when I didn’t have zits or wrinkles, when I could be the Noxzema girl, but clearly I was mistaken. And don’t think I missed the humor here -- that the message is funny because it’s on a lollipop, a “sucker” so to speak. I still think it’s the wrong message. Why not 50 – Hot Damn instead?

On the drive home I got thinking about another titillating tome, hot off the press, which I saw in the first store: Where Will You Be in Five Years? Now that’s always an interesting question, and with this big hot, sucky birthday looming and my professed search for direction, it’s one I should be trying to answer. But doing the math left me all hot and bothered, because I realized that in five years my youngest child will be starting college and D and I will be all alone, just us and the garbage eating dogs. A serious rite of passage. One that I should be so lucky to see. But right now it doesn’t seem so hot.

Day 71: Bad Breath, B-List Babes, Babies, Beeps and Byes

The summer after second grade we rented a house in Sag Harbor for a week in August. The details of our activities are hazy, but really, how could I ever forget my grandmother being so certain that we were near the ocean because she could feel it in her big toe? And I clearly remember that the house belonged to an actress named Lovelady Powell. While her acting resume wasn’t lengthy -- “The Happy Hooker” seems to have been her claim to fame – she had a distinctive voice that lent itself to television commercials. For some time afterwards, Lovelady would interrupt such favorite shows as “Green Acres”, “The Smothers Brothers” and “Hogan’s Heroes” to warn us of the horrors of halitosis. Lavoris was the answer. I hope Colonel Klink was listening.

Framed, autographed photos of Lovelady’s acting pals lined her stairwell. It took me forever to get up those stairs (so much to look at!) and then I spent more voyeuristic hours on the toilet, next to which was an enormous book of celebrity biographies. I’d slowly turn the pages, always getting stuck on the cheesecake photo of Jayne Mansfield. Her boobs were huge! Earlier that summer she’d been decapitated (turns out that scalped would be a more accurate description). She absolutely fascinated me.

I thought of Lovelady recently when I discovered that August 6th was National Fresh Breath (Halitosis) Day. In fact, August was a month overflowing with milestones, among them Waffle Week, National Underwear Day, National Duran Duran Appreciation Day, and Mail Order Catalog Day. I’ll admit to being a fan all of those things – even Duran Duran -- but they didn’t merit much more than a passing thought. The one that gave me real pause: August was also What Will Be Your Legacy Month.

I added that tidbit to my idea file for further consideration. But now it’s September 1. Didn’t I tell you that I’m queen of the procrastinators? It’s mostly that I find that topic so hard, so broad. Is my legacy what will be written on my gravestone? How about, “Didn’t laugh as often as she could have but, when she did, man, was she loud.” I guess that’s part of it. And I guess my legacy is also my children, who are smart and interesting and thoughtful human beings. They make the world a better place. But what about me? Sometimes it does have to be just about me.

I read today that Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar are expecting their 19th child; like the previous 18, this one’s name will also start with the letter J. Michelle, how about naming this one Just Say No to Jim Bob? She’s said yes about 15 times too many. I wouldn’t want to be remembered for giving birth to 19 children (and counting).

So let’s see… I’m generous. I can be thoughtful. I try to lend a helping hand. I’m mildly amusing. I could come up with a few other virtuous adjectives, but I’m much more comfortable talking about my numerous flaws. I’m struggling here… How do others see me? What will be said during my eulogy? I hope I won’t be painted as a saint, as so often happens.

My friend N’s mom died on Saturday at the age of 88. She was a woman who lived life on her own terms, who defied her generation’s stereotype of a housewife. She was unsentimental, a realist; N says two of her favorite phrases were “Rise above it” and “Nobody likes a complainer.” She was a loving and wise mom. I planned on going to her funeral today (you should read the This I Believe essay entitled “Always Go to the Funeral”), but I was kept awake most of the night by a chirping alarm system. I finally fell asleep as the birds joined the chorus and I slept through my alarm. I’m truly sorry to have missed it.

N sent me her mom’s obit, a fairly typical summary of a well-lived life. Her family, her education, her marriage are all noted. But then it enters new territory: she worked at an advertising agency prior to “raising her family, which she did successfully despite her lifelong reluctance to advance her culinary arts, particularly when they interfered with her tennis.” Now there’s a legacy. What a fascinating woman. May she rest in peace.

http://thisibelieve.org/essay/8/