Day 11: Boo

My costume this evening won't involve the dog cone after all. Instead I'll be wearing the look of a concerned mother. I've just gotten a phone call from A, who's headed to the emergency room with possible appendicitis. I'm going back into the city right now to be with her.

Part of what I've been considering as I hurdle towards this birthday are my priorities, the things that matter to me most, but there's never been a doubt in my mind as to #1 on the list: my husband and my children. So I'm off to do my job and take care of my firstborn the very best I can.

Day 12: A Leetle Geeft Pour Vous Part II

Friday, my favorite day of the week! There really isn't any excuse for not feeling happy on a Friday, and today is no exception. I'm going into the city later to watch A in her Tisch stage debut. As freshmen, drama students are not allowed to audition for roles, so it's been a while since she's been on stage. Acting is so deeply a part of who she is and she must feel so good to be back at it. And it makes me happy to know that she's happy I'm going to be there.

Yesterday I went into the frame shop in town and happened upon an exhibit by a local artist. One of the pieces displayed was part of a series she did back in 2006 called On Becoming 50. Each day for a year she journaled on a 4x6 postcard and then printed images over the words. This particular piece showed the final postcards leading up to, as she puts it, her "jubilee" (and I love how she puts it -- great word). I didn't have time to read many of the entries, but it was a moving piece that really struck a chord with me and I hope to return when I have more time. I took special notice of her final sentence on her 50th birthday: "I have a zit." My how I can relate! I hope that doesn't have to be my final sentence. And I'm thinking about it a lot now, because the day is almost here.

I think I'm going to have to steal the word "jubilee" as the ones I've found aren't nearly as pretty. Jubilee rolls off the tongue and sounds almost onomatopoeic (okay, I had to look up the spelling of that one). Quinquagennial sounds like it ought to be in a wheelchair. Semicentennial sounds like it ought to be retired. Jubilee is just like Baby Bear's porridge and chair and bed: it's just right.

So, in honor of my upcoming jubilee and the fact that it's Friday, both of which feel just right, I give you the following fun video.

Day 13: The Five Senses (or Lack Thereof)

I went to the eye doctor today. At first the receptionist didn’t want to give me an appointment because I was just there in March, but she caved when I told her that I’m blind and can’t possibly wait another five months. Turns out the eye doctor felt I was exaggerating; my eyes haven’t gotten any worse. He gave me a sample of a new kind of multi-focal contact lens (I guess the word bifocals is no longer p.c.) that’s not even on the market yet that should -- OH MY GOD!!! David just walked in with a box of cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery! They’re the very best cupcakes in the world and at this moment he’s the very best husband in the world! And I can see them clear as a bell! -- solve my reading problems. That’s what he told me back in March when he gave me my first pair of bifocal contacts. We shall see. Aging eyes requiring five different sets of spectacles (and I'm not exaggerating) is one of the downsides of turning fifty, except when it means that you look in the mirror and give yourself a big thumbs-up on account of the fact that you can’t see your wrinkles and cellulite and whiskers.

A couple of years ago I went to the audiologist. When the receptionist asked me the nature of my problem I asked her how much time she had; then I told her that I was practically deaf. Turns out the audiologist felt I was exaggerating; she said my hearing was perfect. She gave me nothing but a disgusted look when what I really wanted was a hearing aid. I’m going deaf I tell you! Can't you hear me? I constantly scream at my children to “Come in here and talk to me because I can’t hear you!” or “Turn around and look at me when you talk so I can hear you!” or “Turn down the music so I can hear you!” or “I can’t hear a word you said!” They don’t think I’m exaggerating. Loss of hearing is one of the downsides of turning fifty, except when it means that you can pretend you didn’t hear something you don’t want to hear (not that I’ve ever done that).

There’s not a damn thing wrong with my nose except for its size. Believe me, I wish I could say that I suffer from anosmia, a loss of the sense of smell: remember, I live with three men and two dogs. A visit from Dr. Glade might help.

On the other hand, my sense of taste may indeed be growing duller. I’ve heard that happens with age -- our taste buds start to disappear, which explains why older people tend to enjoy spicier, hotter, more flavorful food. That might also explain why I can eat a pound of candy corn or a pint of Phish Food in one sitting. I simply can’t taste it until the last few bites. I thought it was an issue of willpower, but perhaps my taste buds are the real culprits.

And that leaves me with the sense of touch, the loss of which, I guess, is numbness. Although my ass-brain seems downright paralyzed from time to time, that's all I've got on that subject. The end. No exaggerating.

Day 14: Random Thoughts Part IV

Carmen Aretha went for her follow-up visit with the canine surgeon today and the pathology report shows that all the cancerous tissue was removed. Excellent, excellent news! My euphoria was slightly dampened, however, when he decided to leave in a few staples since her incision hasn't healed completely, meaning she has to continue to wear the dreaded cone. Yet it's not Carmen but rather me that I'm embarrassed for (have you ever seen the birthday card with a picture of two girls and the first one says, "Where you celebrating your birthday at?" and her friend replies, "Don't end a sentence with a preposition!" and the first one says, "Where you celebrating your birthday at bitch?!"). I had already decided that I'd be wearing her cone as my Halloween costume. I had no choice but to ask the nice doctor for an extra cone, and when he looked at me enquiringly I was forced to explain. Not one of my finer moments.

It was another rainy day and I was feeling domestic so I made Italian Wedding Soup courtesy of The Barefoot Contessa for dinner. I also made a pumpkin cake for dessert which we haven't eaten yet. Strange ingredients, as in pouring a box of yellow cake mix over the pumpkin mixture. Could be really disgusting or could be out of this world. I sort of hope it's the former so that I'm not tempted to eat the whole thing. I only have a few weeks before the big day and it would be great if I could lose a pound or two. Maybe the vet could put a couple of staples through my lips....

I almost fell at the grocery store today. The floors were wet and slippery and my foot went right out from under me, but thanks to my amazing coordination and sense of balance I was able to stay upright. I fell this summer in the airport in Barcelona, also on a wet slippery floor, and I landed hard. I'm sure the high heels had nothing to do with it. At least I looked good on the way down! I also fell in the vet's office a few weeks ago, again on a wet slippery floor. What's up? I think maybe I ought to stay home on dismal days. Or maybe I ought to go barefoot like the Contessa.

We're about to carve pumpkins. What fun! I just better be careful with the wet slippery knife.

Day 15: Color Wars

I think by now everyone's heard that poem that starts "When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat that doesn't go..." This worries me for two reasons: I already wear a fair amount of purple and I happen to think that red and purple look fun together. Does this make me prematurely old or do I simply have no taste or both? Are red and purple opposites on the color wheel or something? I seem to recall that opposites are complementary colors, which I assume means they look good together, but then again, you never know.

Actually, I think that yellow and purple are opposite one another on the color wheel, and that's a combination I've never cared for. Yellow is not my favorite color. It doesn't look good with my skin or my hair, no matter what color it happens to be. At the moment my hair is sort of a honey brown with just a hint of red -- darker than it used to be. I was tired of the fact that our very hard well water turned my highlighted blonde hair green, which really didn't look good with my skin. It made me look sallow, which I think is kind of yellowy and, well, you already know how I feel about that.

Another color I can't stand is salmon. I love to eat it but I hate to wear it. A color test I took showed that salmon would be a good color for me but I beg to differ. Salmon reminds me of bandaids. Gross me out, Loretta!

My favorite color in the Crayola box was always Blue Green. Red Violet was a close second (see, there you go, red and purple!). I didn't care much if the Raw Sienna or the Raw Umber crayons broke, and I despised Flesh. It was renamed Peach in 1962, when I would only have been three, but I swear I remember it. Speaking of crayons, a brand new box of them (preferably with a built-in sharpener) and a pad of paper was just about the best gift I could imagine as a child. The only thing better might have been Operation, but Santa always forgot to bring it.

But back to my hair. Gray is a color that I really like -- much of the downstairs of my house is painted three different shades of it -- but I don't plan on giving up the battle with my hair anytime soon. I know there's a movement afoot for women to let their hair go gray, but consider me a member of the counterinsurgency. I'm turning fifty armed with a bottle of Clairol Nice 'n Easy.

Day 16: Have Your Cake And I'll Eat It Too

I love that Monday is cake day at "All Things Considered"! Just one more reason I love NPR. But what I really love is CAKE! I think I'll choose a cake from this book to bake for my birthday. What a perfect day that will be. I'll let you know how it turns out...

FYI, if the sweet potato pound cake just sounds too good to pass up, the recipe is on the NPR website.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=114057039

Day 17: Big Brothers Big Sisters

I deeply admire my two sisters, ordinary women, perhaps, to some, but to me extraordinary women who have overcome a great deal and have worked hard to build good lives for themselves and their children. They're strong and intelligent and funny and loving.

Since I was only five when my oldest sister, J, left for college, my early childhood memories of her are hazy. She was a bit of a hellraiser -- I do remember my parents arguing with her -- but somehow she always managed to get her way! I remember that she pierced a friend's ears at our house, and that she called me Nina. She had a car accident once and wore a big white bandage on her chin afterwards. She clicked sheets between her fingers and liked to pick at my fingernails, which I hated but which I endured because it was time spent close to her. I thought she was very glamorous and very beautiful. She wore eyeliner and teased her hair. She invited A and me to visit her after she got married and I was awestruck by her inflatable chair. She took us to a mall (I'd never heard of such a thing) and to the beach. She introduced us to penuche. She loves Chuckles. In fact, she's the only person I know who loves sugar more than I do. She's knitting me a beautiful vest. She's very friendly and outgoing and makes friends wherever she goes.

My sister A (for Ayon) and I did grow up together, at least until I was in eighth grade and she left for college. We got along except for the times when we fought violently. We played with our Tammy dolls (our mom thought Barbie's boobs were obscene) and rode our bikes and played Tip It and Booby Trap and Sardines. We squeezed into the gold armchair together to watch "Wonderama" and "My Three Sons" until the chair's arms finally gave way. We shared a bedroom for many years and played bridge on our beds; she'd stretch out between the two and I'd crawl across her body, trying not to fall into the raging river below. I'd beg her to get the cat off my head when he was attacking my hair in the middle of the night. We were juvenile delinquents together: we snuck up to the Cenacle late at night and knocked on the nuns' windows, went skinnydipping in Mrs. Haas's pool and swam in the Croton Reservoir, and flung Swedish Fish from the widow's walk of The Chatham Inn at the people below. She bought me my first record, which I believe was Toulouse Street by The Doobie Brothers. I longed to be just like her, which I'm sure she found very annoying.

I also have two older, cherished brothers. They were right when they told me as a little girl that I would never be as smart as they are. Their lives, too, haven't always been easy, but they've persevered and stayed true to themselves. They are honest and proud and loyal. They're wonderful big brothers.

My oldest brother, J, left for college when I was just three. He was tall and handsome and bounced me on his knees. I once bounced so enthusiastically that I broke his tooth. He was in the Marines during the Vietnam War but his considerable intelligence saved him from combat; he was sent to Jefferson City, Missouri for computer training. He taught me how to wrap a present and helped me with my math homework. He took me skiing. He introduced me to the Beach Boys and Dick Dale. He was really good at scaring us silly when we played Home Free All around the house. He'd make stink bombs in his chemistry lab out in the old tool shed. He was the idolized big brother. He made heirloom rocking horses for his children and his nieces and nephews; they're replicas of the rocking horse that our grandfather made for him. When our much-climbed-in old apple trees had to be cut down, he made each of us a simple but exquisite bowl out of the wood. He walked me down the aisle at my wedding. He's very sentimental and might actually cry more easily than I do. I know we both had tears in our eyes that day.

My brother D left for prep school when I was in second grade. Big brother J beat him up so he beat me up. He liked to nap curled up in front of the radiator in the living room. He played the electric guitar and introduced me to The Ventures and "96 Tears" and "Devil with the Blue Dress On". He taught me how to play Spit and War and I Doubt It. He loved to play table hockey and would beg me to play with him even though I was no good. He also liked to play ping pong. He was a fast runner but sometimes I could beat him when we'd race around my grandmother's apartment building (or maybe he just let me). I remember going to watch him run cross country at school and cheering him on, feeling quite proud that he was my brother. He was impressive in his Army uniform, serving as a Military Policeman in Germany during the war. He sent me a fabulous pair of carved red wooden shoes and a music box from his travels during those years. The music box is in my daughter H's room now. Later, he walked our mom down the aisle at my wedding. He likes donuts, too. He always calls me right after I've replied to one of his e-mails (he sends a lot of funny ones) because he knows I'll pick up then. I hate picking up the phone. His somewhat abrupt manner -- "Okay, gotta go, see ya" click -- belies his big heart.

My brothers and sisters and I are all our own people. We certainly have a lot in common but we also have our differences of opinion. Sometimes we get angry -- when a Martin gets angry look out. We no longer have parents to act as the glue and the peacemakers and the news anchors. I'm not so good at keeping in touch. It's easy for me to get bogged down with day-to-day matters and to rely upon an occasional e-mail or news through the grapevine to keep up-to-date. I just hope that my brothers and sisters know that my silence isn't indicative of a lack of care and concern and love. The ties that bind. I love them all. I'm adding "Reach out and touch more" to my bucket list for fifty and beyond.

Day 18: No Contest

Were I to submit a blog post to the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, where wretched writers are welcome, perhaps it would read something like this:

It was a dark and stormy night, following what had been a dark and stormy day during which little has been accomplished; not much has been done. She's had a nameless tune stuck in her head all day and it's making her crazy, crazy like a bull in a china shop although why anyone would bring a bull into a china shop is a question worthy (or perhaps not) of consideration at some other time than the present because she’s too tired. The kitchen sink is filled with dirty dishes, dishes that should have been washed during the day when she wasn’t doing much, but all she wants to do is climb into her unmade bed; the bed was made yesterday, though, so it’s not so bad, and only her husband slept in it last night because she was in the city having fun with her girlfriends, hence the lazy day today, so the sheets aren’t too messy since only one person slept in them. Problem is, she has to write her blog, the one that she has been writing now since August 3rd without a break although, truth be told, some of the entries are much better than others but I guess that’s to be expected since not everyone can be on all the time now can they, and despite the fact that she's been waiting all day for inspiration to strike, it’s pretty clear that that hasn’t happened and it’s getting late and she’s got to get this posted before midnight and like I said all she wants to do is go to sleep and wake up to a bright, bright sunshiny day. She doesn't have many opportunities left (seventeen to be exact... oh wait! that’s the number of syllables in haiku, and her daughter H pointed out to her that she messed up on a few of them way back on Day 36 so I had better prove that I know how to write one now: She’s getting older/Is she getting wiser too?/Only her hairdresser knows for sure -- well, I guess she can’t write haiku after all) to share all she's learned and experienced and witnessed and forgotten about these last fifty years and to hypothesize about where it all will take her, let’s hope she remembers to bring her reading glasses, but tonight just doesn't feel like the night when she has to figure it out. She's been trying to do that for a long time now, and hopefully she has a long time remaining in which to continue to try to figure it out because it’s not going so well so far. Maybe she'll come up with some answers along the way; I really hope more than anything that she can figure out the name of the song because I really like it and I'm almost positive that she does, too, because she heard it in the bar yesterday with her friends, the bar where one drink was something like $15 and K didn't even drink hers because it tasted like whiskey instead of tequila, and the minute she heard it playing she said, "Oh, I love this song!" but she couldn't remember any of the words or who sings it and now she can't google even one word of the lyrics which might help. In the meantime, she has decided that it's okay to go to bed even if the dishes aren't done. That's a start.

Day 19: Friday Fun

I'm going into the city today to wander around with a few friends and have dinner. I don't know whether I'm more excited to hang out with my friends or to eat solid food! I wonder if this is how a baby feels three or four months after birth: milk is great but give me some grub! Perfect segue into this video that a friend posted on Facebook. It's one of those sappy things that left me in tears. And Lily looks just like a younger Carmen who, by the way, got a relatively clean bill of health from the doctor the other day. Go doggies!

Day 20: Home Invasion

Our house is teeming with unwelcome guests. One of the worst offenders are the Asian Lady Beetles, which are not to be confused with those cute little polka-dotted ladybugs that are supposed to bring good luck. And that's a good thing, because I can't even begin to count how many of them I've flushed down the toilet in the last 24 hours. I've done a little research on these pests, the ones that 6'3 J is terrified of, and it seems that they're just looking for a four-star hotel to hibernate in for the winter. They don't cause any structural damage and they don’t chew anything. They’ll pack their bags and leave in the spring.

Asian Lady Beetles particularly like the warm, sunny side of light colored houses. Yup and yup. They're all over the southwestern side of our light coffee, baja dune and seashell colored house and they're squeezing in wherever they can (why couldn’t we have painted it plain old dark brown?!). Every half an hour or so I go into the living room and sweep these surprisingly fleet painted ladies off the windows and walls and into my hand -- as many as 30 or 40 at a time. They feel kind of creepy crawling around my palm yet I doggedly persevere. I think I've got them licked but no, minutes later the replacement troops have arrived. I even hosed off the house this afternoon in an effort to drown them or stun them or make them think that maybe this isn’t such a nice place after all, but they paid no heed. I guess they prefer the toilet.

Something really gross? Sometimes they get crushed as I pick them off the wall and they leave a trail of yellow shmush. Apparently when they feel threatened or are harmed they excrete this foul smelling liquid from their legs. And J's right, it truly stinks. He immediately smelled it when he got home from school this afternoon. He walked in the house and asked me if I'd been crushing ladybugs again.

And to top it off? Today's the third and final day of my cleanse. I'm actually not hungry anymore, but still and all, when I saw that today's little bag of goodies contained a small baked apple, I almost cried. I ate it with my fingers after one of my killing sprees and the awful ladybug stank must've gotten under my fingernails because I could taste it in my apple! Revolting!

Speaking of stank, we’re also suffering from a stink bug infestation. For several weeks now the occasional brown, rather prehistoric looking beetle has been trying to get in our bedroom. I shoo them out, and although I don't really like it when one has gotten in and goes buzzing by my head, they haven't bugged me too much.

Late this afternoon, however, I went into my bedroom and found scads of ladybugs making themselves comfortable as well as at least twenty of these big brown monsters clinging to the insides of our windows. It was a chamber of horrors! Down the toilet they all went. They're called Western Conifer Seed Bugs, also known as stink bugs because of the foul smelling substance they secrete when threatened. Unlike the ladybugs, I haven't gotten a whiff of the stink bugs' perfume, probably because I haven't posed much of a threat until now. Now that they know I'm their mortal enemy, though, well, I'm kind of scared to go to bed tonight.

And finally, one of our computers has a particularly malicious virus. Our trusty computer man spent the better part of the day waging war against the virus but it's tenacious. This doesn't bode well for our other home invaders.

Day 21: Untitled

I cannot lie: I spent most of the afternoon sitting in front of the tv watching reruns of "Top Chef". I was very low energy, very tired -- perhaps a result of the liquid cleanse, or perhaps it was all in my head. Either way, I couldn't seem to get out of my own way, so I took care of some stuff in the morning and had a really lazy afternoon. It's good to do that sort of thing every once in a while. But why I chose to watch "Top Chef" when I can't eat is weird, just like going to Whole Foods yesterday. Funny thing is, none of the food the competitors made looked particularly good to me. Maybe I have more willpower than I give myself credit for. Or maybe I'm bored with scallops (they use them a lot) and smears of sauces on the plates. That's so 2008.

Tonight I'm supposed to take a bath as part of my cleanse ritual, so to the tub I go. I'll bring the book I'm reading with me, which is, surprise, surprise, about food. It's the new book by Julie Powell of Julie and Julia fame. Turns out she became a butcher after she finished her experiment.

I wonder what I'll become after I turn 50...

Day 22: Cleanliness is Next to Hungriness

Three women from my town recently started a business promoting healthy living, and among the services they offer is a three-day cleanse. I got an e-mail Sunday night asking whether I'd be interested in joining the group starting today. Did they know that I ate several pounds of buttercream frosting on Sunday? Had word gotten out? My willpower these last few months has been at an all-time low -- even my fat jeans don't fit -- and I decided that this cleanse would give me a much-needed jump-start. I said yes without hesitation. I picked up my bag of goodies this morning.

So far I've been an excellent camper. I haven't eaten anything I wasn't supposed to except when I licked my finger after slicing the lamb roast that I made for everyone else's dinner. I didn't even realize I was doing it until it was too late. That's the same excuse I use after consuming an entire package of Oreo Double Stuffs. Anyway, I've had several interesting and tasty drinks today made out of a variety of fruits and vegetables. I had a shredded cabbage salad for lunch. For dinner I had some sort of thick pureed soup which was LOADED with cayenne. I've been drinking lots of water and cup after cup of green tea. I pee every five minutes. I'm being so good! All the while I'm dying for sugar, for carbs, for fat. I'm dreaming of buttercream frosting.

For some strange reason I went to Whole Foods today, a place I rarely go. Call me a masochist. I was okay until I hit the very last aisle, where parmigiano reggiano, coffee beans and massive chunks of chocolate are all on display, unwrapped, samples abounding, within a few feet of one another. The aromas wafting through that space blindsided me and I felt almost giddy. I got out of there fast.

The best thing that's happened today is that A came home for the night as a surprise. She could almost take my mind off food except that she walked in with a box of Pop'ems and an Entenmann's Marshmallow Iced Devil's Food Cake. An offering of love, but I had to deny, deny, deny. It just doesn't seem right.

"Chopped", my favorite show on The Food Network, is on tonight. "Top Chef Las Vegas" is on tomorrow. I think I'd better TiVo them.

Day 23: That's What Friends Are For...

I was impressed by and slightly jealous of my friend K when I spoke with her this morning. She was in the midst of a major house purge and reorganization. I guess she's been fending off chaos for a while now and is finally attacking it head-on. Once she's done, her argument goes, not only will her house be uncluttered and tidy but so will her brain. She'll then be able to take on a new project or commitment with a free and easy mind.

I, too, love order. Clean, well-organized closets, shelves and drawers make me swoon. I dream about paying every bill the moment it arrives; never having less than a quarter of a tank of gas; picking up the phone every time it rings and dealing with whatever it is that's coming through that line rather than letting it drift in voicemail oblivion. Never put off until tomorrow and all that...

The problem with this way of thinking, though, is that in reality you're never done. You fantasize that once the big event is over, once you've finally gotten the car inspected, once the tupperware is stacked by size and shape and all lids are accounted for and once the water filter is changed -- once you get to the bottom of the to-do list -- everything will be better. Then you'll be happy. Then you'll be able to start that new exercise program. Then you can say sayonara to stress. But let me ask you: have you ever actually gotten to the bottom of your to-do list? Don't new errands, new tasks, and new projects constantly appear there? Remember my theory about the Elves and the Shoemaker? Precisely! And need I remind you that Halloween costumes and turning off the outside water for the winter and new snowboots and boiler repairs are just around the corner? Ever heard of Thanksgiving? Christmas? Not to mention college applications in all their hellishness?

I didn't have the heart to say this to K on the phone this morning. I really didn't want to burst her bubble. Her euphoria was so contagious I almost broke out the label maker and tackled the overflowing cubbies in the mudroom. But I resisted, stayed true to my lazy self and instead did a Ken-Ken puzzle. I was a bit rusty and it took longer than usual. I also went online and looked at sheets (which we truly do need) and then wandered down to my garden to check out the brussel sprouts (not quite ready to harvest). I called the insurance agent and discovered that our policy doesn't cover J while he's delivering Chinese food, so I told him he needs to find a new job. Enough for one day! I'm exhausted!

K's a lot smarter than I am and a lot more determined, so maybe she knows something I don't. Organizing my files doesn't give me a sense of peace but it does leave me with a real sense of accomplishment, and that's surely something. Okay, I'll do it tomorrow! Or better yet, maybe K can bring all her positive energy over here and tackle my mountains of crap for me -- I have a birthday coming, after all.

Day 24: First Person Singular

During his sermon at church today, our minister told us that he starts each new confirmation class with the question, "Who are you, really?" and then gives the kids a sheet of paper with I am ___ written 15 times. So I thought I'd give it a go.

I am mostly a good mother.
I am a so-so wife.
I am strong.
I am filled with good intentions.
I am not always right, although that's difficult for me to admit.
I am a good listener.
I am moody.
I am funny.
I am pretty good at telling people that I love them.
I am sentimental.
I am good at wasting time.
I am aware that I have all I do because I'm lucky, not because I deserve it.
I am a believer in sharing my good fortune with others.
I am looking forward to turning 50, but I'm nervous about growing old.
I am superman. No, not really. Just reminds me of that REM song.

Day 25: Out of the Mouths of Babes

The other day I posted my "This I Believe" essay. Now I want to share the "This I Believe" essay that a kindergartner from Austin, Texas wrote. It's easy to feel jaded about this world of privilege that we all live in. Tarak McLain restores my hope that maybe, just maybe, things will work out. Our world needs more thinkers like him. And Tarak, I couldn't agree with you more that everyone is weird in their own way. But unless I absolutely have to, I really don't want to wake up early. It feels lovely to turn off the alarm and go back to sleep. Almost as good as taking a dog nap in the middle of a dismal afternoon. Even a seven-year-old doesn't know everything; still and all, my guess is that he knows a whole hell of a lot more than most 600-month-olds...

http://thisibelieve.org/essay/57159/

Day 26: Conehead

Well, it seems I have to eat my words (along with everything else in sight). I was completely wrong about Carmen and her attire. She did indeed come home in an Elizabethan collar to complement the 23 staples in her leg. The glass half full way of looking at this is that I might be able to do something fun with it for a Halloween costume.

Out of nowhere H told me in the car today that I'm almost 600 months old, which doesn't actually sound that bad to me.

It's another gray day, but the fact that it's Friday makes up for a lot. I'm going to do something I rarely do and take a nap -- just another in a long string of guilty pleasures. Not a catnap, but a good, long sound one. A dog nap. I refuse to wear the collar, though.

Day 27: Oh the Weather Outside is Frightful

It's October 15th and it was actually snowing earlier today. Not sticking, but there were some discernible white flakes in the air. Now there's just a steady rain: ugly, depressing and cold. The only cause for celebration was that H's soccer game was cancelled. Am I a terrible mother? I just wasn't in the mood.

This morning I brought Carmen to the vet for surgery on her elbow. She had a malignant tumor removed a few weeks ago and today's surgery was to remove a larger margin of tissue, although there's not a lot of flesh on an elbow to begin with. Poor girlfriend. I felt terrible leaving her there. At least she won't have to wear an Elizabethan collar. There was an otherwise studly American Bulldog thus encumbered at the vet's office and I could tell he was embarrassed when Carmen caught sight of him.

I was sad when I left the vet's office and food seemed like a good solution. I went to the grocery store and did a BIG shopping -- it had been a while and our cupboards were bare. Truly, though, it was just a convenient excuse to buy candy corn. My next stop was the apple orchard to buy cider and donuts and an apple pie. Sadly, I also had to buy apples. In past years our refrigerator would be stocked with apples that we picked on Columbus Day. This year, the tradition took a backseat to college, friends and dwindling interest. I guess it was bound to happen. At least my kids still write letters to Santa. The threat of no Christmas presents is a pretty powerful motivator.

My mom sometimes made pancakes and bacon as a special treat for dinner on a yucky night like this. I briefly considered it tonight, but the idea of having sugar and fat for dinner after eating a pound of candy corn made me feel sick. Instead, I've made a recipe my sister sent me for lasagna soup. When my kids see the spinach and the mushrooms floating in it they're going to mutiny.

L is hoping for a snow day tomorrow (dream on, buddy!). When the kids were younger they believed that wearing underwear on their heads to bed and putting spoons in the freezer created good snow day karma. I wonder if they're too old for that now, too. Maybe it could also make Carmen all better? That would be so delightful.

Day 28: Special Delivery

So, last night it was the dogs who smelled up the joint, tonight it's J, the newest Chinese food delivery man in town. He just walked in and I swear he smells exactly like General Tso's Chicken. Who was General Tso, anyway (I don't know the etiquette of naming food after people, but I assume it's an honor bestowed posthumously)? I guess he was probably a little bit sweet and a little bit spicy. J is mostly just sweet. He was born that way -- happy, easygoing, laid back -- and it serves him well.

For the past few days I've done practically nothing but work on J's yearbook ad. I do believe I mentioned that it was due last Friday, but the queen of extensions got an extension. The page is done now, nothing left to do but glue down the pictures, and I'm really happy with the way it turned out. Ridiculous to put that much effort into it, especially when no one will look at it for more than a split second except me, but I'd know if I didn't do a good job. It would stick in my craw. Perfectionist that I am, good enough simply doesn't cut it. Perhaps 50 will mellow me.

Putting together this ad has been a real tear jerker. I've been going through all our old pictures, reminiscing, smiling, laughing, and thinking about how much I'm going to miss this sweetheart of a big boy when he leaves for college next year. I'm so proud of my kids, and it's amazing to watch them grow, but right now I'm wishing we could stop the clock. I don't want them to leave me.

Day 29: The Best Laid Plans

Olivia Beyonce the dog has just come inside reeking of poop. She's rolled in something and it's deeply nasty. I was planning on writing my blog now, but instead I must give her a bath. Shit happens.

P.S. Turns out Carmen Aretha had a romp in the same shit. Although both of them are now shiny and clean, they smell like wet dog and are deeply ashamed...

Day 30: Heaven on Earth

For the past four years, NPR has been airing a weekly series called "This I Believe" during which people share essays describing their core beliefs in 500 words or less. I wrote a "This I Believe" essay for a project at church two years ago, but try as I might, I couldn't get the word count down. "Words, words, words" as Hamlet said -- 577 to be exact. I figured I'd get around to editing it and submitting it to NPR another time.

Well, another time was today. Now or never. A few years' distance made me much less proprietary about each and every word, and without too much difficulty I managed to shave off 109 of them. There's hope for me yet! NPR stopped airing "This I Believe" earlier this year but This I Believe, Inc. is still collecting essays for its database, so perhaps my essay will appear there one of these days. With 60,000+ essays already in the database it's unlikely that anyone will ever read mine, but then again, that seems to be my preferred medium. I don't know who the heck reads this blog and that doesn't stop me!

I highly recommend going to www.thisibelieve.org and exploring some of what's there. You might just get inspired to give it a go. In the meantime...

This I Believe

The teasing whine of bagpipes; the magical glimpse of a hummingbird; pale pink geraniums bursting into bloom in November: all proof of something I know exists, not because I can see it or hear it but because I can feel it.

Bagpipes. My father’s parents were born in Scotland and he indulged his love of everything from that land. Many a morning we would wake to the oily smell of kippered herring frying on the stove. My dad dragged me to the Scottish Games to watch the caber toss and a wee bit o’ Highland dancing. And he arranged for each of my brothers and sisters to be serenaded by bagpipes at their weddings as he was, later on, at his memorial service.

When I was planning my wedding, I mentioned bagpipes to my mother and she replied firmly and without hesitation, “That tradition died with your father, Nancy.” No arguing. Done.

One glorious summer afternoon years later, I went for a run down a deserted path through the Vermont woods. The silence was eventually broken by a familiar drone; peering through the trees, I saw a bagpiper, in full regalia, standing on a small bridge of land between two ponds, serenading me. “Your bagpipes, Sister,” I could hear my dad saying as he tickled my knee. For the rest of my run, he was right there by my side.

Hummingbirds. In her later years, my mother became fascinated by hummingbirds, by their beauty and their fragility and their rapidly beating wings. As I’d never seen a hummingbird, I didn’t share my mom’s passion. Yet shortly after she died, I was lying in a hammock in her beloved Adirondacks and turned my head to see a hummingbird hovering nearby. Several weeks later, standing on the deck of our new home, I was visited by a ruby-throated hummingbird. I’ve since snapped photos of them, notoriously shy, just feet away from me, happily feeding on purple verbena. I even rescued one that was trapped in our garage with the help of a butterfly net. When I see a hummingbird I’m filled with my mother’s presence.

And the geraniums? I didn’t inherit my mom’s green thumb, but after she died I did inherit one of her prized potted plants. Determined not to kill it, I fed it and watered it and brought it inside at the first hint of frost. And five months later, on November 11th, 2004, it burst into full bloom for the first time, a spectacular birthday present to me from my mom.

I believe that bagpipes, hummingbirds, and geraniums are a loving reminder that my parents are always nearby. I believe these reminders are a gift from God, a manifestation of God’s love for me. I can feel it, I can sense it, and it’s heavenly.

Day 31: Old Friend

An old friend, not as in old (because she won't turn 50 until a week after me) but as in long-time. I first laid eyes on her in fifth grade when I transferred to her elementary school. I thought she was just about the coolest person I'd ever seen, but she didn't notice me. In middle school she still stood out from the crowd in her midi-length fringed vest. My mother would never have bought me something so impractical, so groovy. I wore Danskin striped tops and matching pants with desert boots.

In ninth grade we were in the same biology class and we became lab partners. Our friendship evolved while looking at slides and pricking our fingers to determine our blood types and mooning over all the cute tenth grade boys. We became best friends, a friendship that remained intact even as we made other friends and hung out with different groups of people. It wasn't always an easy friendship -- we were very different people in a lot of ways and we were immature and often hurt one another -- but it endured.

College split us up for a while, but after visiting me several times at Hamilton she decided to transfer there. I felt as though my space had been invaded. I worked hard to create a life for myself there and she just blew in and blew everyone away. I was jealous, and I was hurt that she didn't need me.

We've kept in touch sporadically in the years since graduation. Her mom still lives here in town, and she herself has lived here for periods of time, travelled, lived elsewhere and come home again. She's a vagabond, a free spirit, an adventurer, still blowing in and blowing out. Always questioning. Always challenging herself and those around her. I wish I was a bit more like her. She has worked much harder at staying in touch than I have; I often push her away. What's that all about? She demands a kind of energy and a kind of involvement that I had decided I just didn't have enough of anymore. I'd thought that this was a friendship I'd always look back upon fondly, but one that had run its course.

So I was unprepared for the hug that we shared when she walked back into my life this afternoon, the one that I wished would never end, tears streaming down both of our cheeks, our slightly puzzled children looking on. Yes, she prods me and asks hard questions -- she doesn't mind getting dirty -- and yes, she leaves me in the dust; although we may have matured, we still manage to hurt one another. But we forged something all those years ago over the study of photosynthesis and the dissection of frogs that won't be broken, no matter the distance, no matter the years, no matter the misunderstandings.

So now here we are, come perhaps not full circle but certainly much of the way around. Time to forge a new kind of friendship, one based on a lifetime of disappointment and anger and pride and laughter. And maybe, just maybe, we're finally mature enough, now that we are, for all intents and purposes, 50, to recognize that we are who we are, and that that's precisely the reason we've loved one another all these years.

She's a middle-aged, dear old friend. Fair dinkum.

Day 32: Random Thoughts Part III

A random kind of day -- stochastic. I went to Target and bought some new mascara, which is weird since I rarely wear it. But I think maybe my eyelashes are getting thinner, and since I've already made it clear that I won't be using the eyelash-growing medicine that Brooke Shields touts, I guess mascara is my only solution. I saw some with sparkles in it but decided they might draw a little too much attention to my aging orbs. So no sparkles. I did however, buy a large, sparkly, light-up pumpkin to put outside until we carve the real things. Every girl likes a little bling, right?

I was shocked and dismayed to discover that Target already has Christmas lights and a few decorations for sale. My god, it's not even Columbus Day! We haven't celebrated World Menopause Day or Have a Bad Day Day yet. How can I be thinking about Christmas lists and tree decorating? And yet I must admit that just the other day I realized that I ought to plant some amaryllis bulbs soon if I want them blooming in December...

Now I've got to get ready for a 50th birthday party. What to wear, what to wear? I checked with the birthday girl about the dress code since I DO NOT WANT TO BE CAUGHT IN VIOLATION AGAIN!! Notice the upper case voice. No jeans tonight.

Which, as it turns out, is a good thing, since only the men were in jeans. I wore the only nice slacks I own that I think I can fit in at the moment, and I decided that this might be the evening to break out the Spanx and give them another try. They still don't work. All that junk has to go somewhere, right? It doesn't just miraculously disappear. It bulges out the top and it bulges out the bottom. Let me tell you, I had telltale Spanx panty lines several inches above my knees and they were not attractive. Off came the Spanx. I am not a believer.

I spent most of the afternoon pouring through the thousands of photos I have stored on my computer. I have to create a senior yearbook ad for J this weekend. Doing anything with photos stresses me out. But do it I will. My yearbook portrait was lost and I'm therefore one of the seniors "not pictured" in my high school yearbook. What if I become famous someday and "Entertainment Tonight" or People wants to show a picture of me in high school? I'm one of the loser seniors not pictured! This ad for J is an insurance policy in case his picture is lost. If that happened I'd think it was a conspiracy; it certainly wouldn't be stochastic.

Day 33: Looking Good

I went into the city today to have what was supposed to simply be lunch but turned into a six hour laugh fest with nine women I went to college with. Only one of them was a good friend during those years. The others were mere acquaintances. Several became good friends after we graduated and moved to New York City, and still others didn't become valued friends until perhaps today. I'm sorry I didn't hang out with them when we were at Hamilton, because I think I would have had that much of a richer college experience. Oh well, hindsight is a lovely thing. I guess I have a lot of catching up to do, which is also a lovely thing. These are smart, funny, successful, compassionate women and I was honored to be among them.

And by the way, fifty-year-old women never looked so good.

Day 34: In Memory of William Safire

I'm a shoe whore or, as my kids would say, a shoe ho. They both sound like shoe horn, one of which, I now recall, my dad always had on his dresser along with the aforementioned hickory nuts and repulsive licorice candy. I've never been able to figure out why you need a shoe horn to get on a shoe. If you've bought the correct size, what's the problem? My dad wore garters to hold up his socks: again, slightly confusing. Isn't that what the elastic ribbing is for?

Anyway... Oh my, I shouldn't be using that word anymore, even though I love it -- it's exactly what I mean! And yet today I saw the results of a poll done to determine which conversational words the American public considers most annoying. Whatever took top honors, followed by you know, it is what it is, anyway, and at the end of the day. Stop right there! I don't see the word like on that list. The people being polled (the pollees?) clearly don't eat dinner with teenagers every night.

I'm not talking about using like as a verb, as in "I like Sugar Babies" or "I only like the tips of asparagus."; I'm talking about "Like, like, oh man, it was so, like, sick dude." Is it, like, a modifier? Who knows, you know? Whatever it is, my kids' conversations are positively littered with it. On certain evenings I beep each time one of them says it (an interjection, I do believe, or perhaps just an interruption); it ends up sounding like the Long Island Expressway at rush hour, people just sitting on their horns -- HONNKKKK! And they still don't stop. They tell me I'm being annoying. Fine (my friend K's pet peeve word), whatever.

Gross is the word that my mom hated. Every now and then, later in her life, she'd say something was gross, but it just didn't sound right coming out of her mouth. It sounded kind of gross. "Gross me out, Loretta!" my friend N, who grew up in the South, would say. When my mom wanted to treat me to something -- perhaps a chocolate ice cream soda -- she'd exclaim, "I'll blow you to it!" As a young adult, I used that expression a few times myself until I noticed strange looks on people's faces. My dad used the word bunk, as in "That's a lotta bunk!" (nicer, I guess, than b.s.). And if he didn't feel well he'd say he felt punk. J was feeling kind of punk today after getting a flu shot.

Anyway (I refuse to give it up), today's urbandictionary.com word of the day was shoe whore. One of the definitions was "Like a bag hag but obsessed with shoes." Dude, that's like, so cool: I'm a shoe ho as well as a bag hag!

Of course, at the end of the day, it is what it is.

Day 35: Zilch

Is it okay to take a night off? I've tried before but I've always ended up writing something, or offering up a clip, a video, something. Tonight I'm running on fumes. Or do I have writer's block? Wow. Another problem to add to my list.

Day 36: 17 and Counting...

I seem to be spending an awful lot of time in the city lately -- six out of the last nine days, but who's counting? Counting is another thing I seem to be doing a lot of. So it only seems appropriate that I use haiku to describe my day. It's not as much of a stretch as you may think. You see, as I was walking to the train this afternoon I came across a flyer for a lecture about haiku being given by an award-winning haiku poet, some of whom's poems are in a haiku anthology (which I imagine is quite slim).

Haiku. A form of Japanese poetry consisting of three lines and a total of seventeen syllables (5/7/5). Quite a challenge for wordy me.

Anyway, my trip into the city, in haiku.

To New York I go
to break bread with my daughter,
To nourish my soul.

The train whistle blows
The lady next to me sleeps -
Her chin on her chest.

Next stop Valhalla.
Greatest first baseman ever,
Lou Gehrig lies there.

The subway is packed
The doors bounce open and closed.
Should I go for it?

I swallow my sneeze;
Everyone will think I'm sick -
Disgust plain to see.

I walk to A's dorm
filled with anticipation.
Four hours with my girl!

A baby one day
A college student the next.
How did this happen?

A's lost her charge card
Left in cab at 5 a.m.
Phew! All charges are hers.

Sometimes I worry
Her daily life overwhelms -
Similar to mine.

Talk of grades and shows,
Biology and theater,
Dramatic moments.

Out at L'Artusi
Eating lots of yummy food.
Mom and Annalie.
(she wrote that one)

Sitting at the bar,
Mother daughter catching up --
Her happiness makes me smile.

Now goodbye, farewell.
Promise to get a flu shot.
I love you, sweetheart.

Back on the train, home
to the others waiting there.
Soon to leave the nest.

Time to write the blog.
The days are speeding by now.
5-0 close at hand.

Watch says it's bedtime.
I must go upstairs right now.
I am very tired.

Day 37: Three to Five

As I learned yesterday at college, exercise is one of five things you should do daily to improve your mood, which may explain why those cheerleaders were so damned perky. I work out several times a week with a personal trainer who whips "it" into shape (I think she listens to Devo). Sadly, I missed our appointment this morning because I couldn't find my car key. I don't have a spare because it, too, has been misplaced, but that was a while ago and the search has long since been called off. I know I had this key on Saturday before we left for the city, and I thought I knew just where I'd left it. Wrong. I'm grateful (another happiness booster) that I eventually located the key after an hour and a half of turning my house upside down. I looked in all the places one might imagine -- the microwave, coat pockets, purses, desk drawer, hamper -- and finally found it outside where you'd least expect it: in the car. Exercise opportunity lost, although perhaps all the going up and down stairs counts.

The professor also suggested that we perform five random acts of kindness a day. Let's see... I did push the shopping cart back up to the front of the grocery store rather than leaving it by the side of my car, and the man who works there thanked me (score one for him), but that doesn't seem extraordinary. I really think everyone should do that. Plus I got in another thirty seconds of exercise.

I went over to my neighbor's house to deliver two pieces of her mail which were left in our mailbox. I suppose that could have been a mark in the kindness column had I not mistakenly opened one of the envelopes, which turned out to be her credit card bill. I'm grateful that she was so gracious (score one for her).

I didn't yell at the Verizon customer service rep about my cell phone bill. When we bought H her new cell phone no one bothered to tell us that it came with a free month of a navigation system which thereafter automatically rolls over to a $9.99 a month feature. Hello! My 13-year-old doesn't need a navigation system! And it turns out that both her phone and J's came with a free month of something called V-Cast which thereafter automatically rolls over to a $15 a month feature! The Verizon rep pretty much agreed that those are sneaky tricks (score one for her) and that I can expect a $39.99 credit on next month's bill. I'm grateful!

I've nailed my three gratitudes, but I need two more random acts... Oh! I wished someone a Happy Birthday today. I didn't have to do that.

And as my fifth and final kindness, how about I do everyone a favor and end this blabbering right now?

Day 38: Continuing Education

Just home from "One Day University". D says it felt like we were on a cruise ship, right down to Hofstra University cheerleaders and Chubby Checkers performing at intermission. Give me a B, give me an I, give me a Z, give me an A, give me an R, give me another R, give me an E...

The class I got the most out of was about the psychology of happiness; the message, in a nutshell, was that we can change our baseline for happiness. Five daily strategies were recommended: meditating, exercising, simplifying, journaling about positive experiences, and writing down "three gratitudes" before going to bed.

So, my three gratitudes for the day:

Really good food. Much as I love my snack food cakes, I also love the really good stuff. We headed into the city yesterday afternoon and spent several hours looking at bad art. To recover, we each had a beautiful plate of oysters and a glass of muscadet. Perfect simplicity. Later we went to an exciting new restaurant on West 10th Street -- L'Artusi -- and ate dinner at the bar, which D thinks is often the most fun place to eat. I had a truly memorable plate of roasted mushrooms topped with a fried egg, pancetta and ricotta salata. Wow. Today we had almost two hours off for lunch so we wandered over to MOMA and ate lunch in The Bar Room at The Modern. Great art, great food. The chef won this year's James Beard Foundation Award for Best Chef in New York City. My Slow Poached Farm Egg "In a Jar" with lobster, salsify and sea urchin froth may have been what won the award for him. Froths and foams and waters can get a bit precious, but not this time. So, I'm truly grateful for the wonderful food that I eat, whether it's simple or elaborate. Soul food.

My husband. He puts a lot of thought and care into creating fun for the people around him. As the most frequent beneficiary of that largesse, I'm deeply thankful.

Food shows, specifically Iron Chef, Top Chef and Chopped. My fix when I can't actually have the real thing.

Speaking of which, the new season of Iron Chef is about to begin, so I bid you adieu.

Day 39: Unplugged Part II

Today D and I are going into the city to have some fun and spend the night. Tomorrow, in an attempt to stimulate some part of our aging brains, we're attending a day-long workshop called "One Day University". We're enrolled in classes ranging from The Genius of Shakespeare and Why He Still Matters to The Politics of Morality in America to Positive Psychology and the Science of Happiness. I hope I can stay awake.

In the interest of marital harmony, it's best that I get myself off the computer, dressed and out of here. It's a rainy day, but the city and my husband still beckon.

Day 40: Grand Jury Testimony

All anybody was talking about today was David Letterman. Imagine having to testify as to your failings, of having it all become so public. Sort of like my blog, only I'm not under oath and I'm not being blackmailed! Seriously, what possesses me to say the things I do?

I got my hair cut and colored today (goodbye gray!) and thoroughly enjoyed reading magazines while my color was setting. I learned some vitally important things, such as how to dress my age and that wearing just lipstick is aging -- if you only do one thing, do your eyes. Now they tell me. I also came across a few questions that were asked of some celebrity or other in More, a magazine for women over 40. I thought they might be kind of hard to answer, but only #5 poses any difficulty. I suppose I could cite some type of food, but that seems like a bit of a cop-out.

Here goes.

1) If I could have a do-over, I'd: have worked harder in college. And I'd be less critical.

2) To lighten up, I: hug my dogs.

3) My latest hobby is: blogging, followed closely by searching for my reading glasses.

4) If I could be a fly on a wall, I'd visit: heaven.

5) I used to hate but now I love: wearing high heels with blue jeans? It's probably not okay to do that anymore now that I'm about to turn 50.

6) I can't wait to: turn 50! I'm literally counting the days!

Day 41: Home, Home on the Page

My nightmare is over. I just went into my purse in search of my wallet and what did I find but my lime green blog ideas notebook! Not quite as weird as finding it in the silverware drawer or with the cleaning supplies, but definitely not its usual place. Perhaps this is one small indication of the fact that my whole routine has come a bit unglued. You see, I've switched from a PC to a Mac. I guess those television ads are working, because I really don't want to be the overweight, bespectacled, nerdy guy any longer. Overweight and bespectacled, fine. But in honor of my 50th birthday, I'm crossing the words nerdy and guy off my self-improvement list.

My PC is still up and running, albeit slower and slower, because there are a lot of things I don't yet know how to do on the Mac (like upload a photo onto my blog). The PC still sits in the place of honor on my desk, while the Mac is on the kitchen table. I'm floating between the two. My calendar and to-do lists and favorite pens and spectacles are in different places. Olivia the dog doesn't know where the heck to lie down (usually she sleeps in my office because that's where I am).

Among the many benefits of a new computer, however, is that I've changed my home page, which until now has been AOL since that's how I access my e-mail. The problem with AOL is that they're sneaky with their headlines and I end up spending an extraordinary amount of time reading about stuff that ultimately I'm not all that interested in. Which actress is the new face of Frigidaire? Who? Who? I have to know! Well, now I do, and all I'll tell you is that she's married to Ben Affleck and has amazing dimples. Beats me why she'd want to be the face of a trash compactor, though.

So I've changed my home page to CNN in the hopes of starting off my day on a slightly more highbrow note. I go on Safari (Internet Explorer for all you overweight, bespectacled, nerdy guys), up comes CNN, and what's the first thing I see but a report on escaping from a sinking car! My fear factor! This was meant to be.

Of course, I still sign in to AOL to get my mail rather than using the Mac's mail feature; there are just so many new things I can take. I see that AOL boasts the same sinking car news. Uh-oh... Maybe I should consider NPR? So I head over there and I find Who is Hobodarkseid? And Why Should You Care? and Spider Wranglers Weave One-of-a-Kind Tapestry and the NPR Song of the Day.

Home at last.