43rdYear: Continued

Empty Nest...

2011-11-06T21:06:00.000-08:00

The first one was the worst. Shabbat dinner with no children. Child One was at college. Child Two was in his first week of the new custody arrangement – a 50/50 split which gives him more overall time with us but only every other weekend. So Shabbat rolled around and rather than race home to make dinner for anywhere from four to fourteen people which often included friends of Child One, I came home to an almost empty house. Sig Other lay on the couch. I came in, put down my bags, took off my shoes and sat down next to him. “Should we land candles?” I asked. “No,” he replied. “Do you want dinner?” “I’m not hungry. You?” “Not really,” I replied. And I meant it. And so our first Shabbat without children passed with no blessings, no candles, no singing, no shared stories of the week. We sat on the sofa, in the dark, catching up on reality television and eating leftover crudités from a plastic container. By 9pm, we were asleep.

The second Shabbat on our own was almost worse. I decided we could not simply ignore the Sabbath, could not simply sit like tragic zombies worshipping our apple TV, picking through the Friday night dregs of the refrigerator and waiting desperately for the empty weekend to pass. I decided we would have Shabbat with or without children. And so I came home, laid a proper table, opened a bottle of wine and set out the candles. If anything, the mere process of going through the ritual for just the two of us was an even lonelier experience than not going through it at all. It turns out that ignoring Shabbat is far less sad than observing in the absence of those who make observation relevant.

Let me explain. When Sig Other and I became a couple, we discussed the ritual of Shabbat. It was important to me because I felt I could finally honor the age-old tradition of my ancestors. It was important to Sig Other because he could, as he put it, teach the children about their religion so they knew what it was they were rejecting when it came time to reject it. And Shabbat became important to all of us as our Friday nights truly represent what is most meaningful about the ritual – coming together as a family, taking time to honor one another and to honor the demarcation of the end of the work week and the beginning of the time we have, however short, to renew our selves, our bodies and spirits, to prepare for the next week ahead.

Shabbat dinners, though, are both a blessing and a burden. Friday night is not just any other night of the week. The food should be special, the table beautifully set, the mood a little different from every other night of the week. And this creation of a family setting has been foremost for me for the past almost eight years. But the creation of a family environment is not without a price tag. Periodically, whene the week had been particularly cruel and I particularly tired, I would have pangs of resentment about being SuperStep and pangs of longing for a honeymoon with my husband I never had. We never had time to be a young couple, never had periods of romantic Friday night dates and weekends away. We had children. We had family. And integrating the children into our lives, making the “step-ness” of our lives a perfectly normal thing, was more important than any walk on the beach, any quiet moment, any candlelit dinner a deux.

So you would think I would relish a Friday night alone, you’d think I’d be thrilled to not worry about what to cook, whether there are fresh flowers on the table, what time the kids will be home from school. You’d think this would be an opportunity. Child One is 3000 miles away. Child Two is on a regular schedule of back and forth that affords us two weeknights and every other weekend entirely on our own. Perfect, right? Great opportunity for romance, for coupley solitude, for self-education, self-expansion, self-growth. But really all we are is lonely. Really all we do in our moments alone is think about how much we miss the children, how much we miss Child One and her friends and reminisce about days and dinners gone by.

I suppose it’s a victory in a way – I suppose missing the children this much means we managed to integrate them and ourselves into a semblance of perfectly conventional family life in spite of a perfectly unconventional setting. But it doesn’t feel like a victory somehow. It feels more like a weekend spent thinking about the next time we’ll all be together as one.

Hospitality???

2011-10-19T16:58:00.000-07:00

There's nothing I hate more than checking into a hotel I frequent as a business or personal guest to no amenities. I like to know that loyalty is honored rather than familiarity breeding contempt. A note, a flower arrangement, cookies for kids - all are greeted with great enthusiasm. Fruit plates, on the other hand, can be a mixed bag. Consider the grapefruit, for instance. A grapefruit, in my mind, is perfect for squeezing fresh juice. It may also be useful when sliced into supremes and put in a salad. Less oft, though certainly admired, is the grapefruit halved and sectioned at the breakfast table. But rarely, rarely does one think of the grapefruit as a delicious option for a fruit bowl. Unlike the handy apple, the grapefruit cannot be picked up and walked away with. Its peel is unwieldy, often thick and overly pithy. Unlike the banana, the grapefruit has massive seeds one can't carry as one piece and deposit politely into nearby rubbish. And unlike the fruit-bowl friendly grape, a grapefruit is drippy and messy even after peeled and pithed. So why, I wonder, do hotels bother to put such a daunting fruit in a basket meant to serve as hospitality? Well, is has great volume, I suppose. It might take two apples, a trio of apricots and at least two dozen grapes to fill the space taken by one juicy grapefruit. And unlike its soft-skinned cousins, the mighty citrus lasts (or at least gives the appearance of lasting) a good long time. No mushy edges, no spoilt centers - the grapefruit can go on for weeks looking fresh as the day it was picked.

So a fruitbowl, I imagine, stands for hospitality in the modern age. Long gone are the days of truly personal touches - a favorite cookie or preferred flower. To be honest, I'd even prefer a fresh fig or apricot or representation of anything seasonal in its stead. But grapefruit we get and so grapefruit, it seems, we shall endure...

WHAT ABOUT mini-ME???

2011-10-11T20:49:00.000-07:00

Those of you familiar with Sig Other in worlds either virtual or real know that he is the true originator of the phrase, "What about me?" It is the name of his future auto-biography. And it is his daily credo. But the apple, it turns out, doesn't fall far from the tree. My return to the blogosphere after prolonged absence was greeted by a call from Child One who chided, "I saw you wrote on your blog today." "Yes," I said, "how did you know?" "I check it all the time," said she, and continued, "but I was surprised you didn't write about me. I mean, its been a big year, with me going to college and all the change." She paused then and continued, "Why didn't write about that?"

In truth, I've written a great deal about that - about how difficult her summer between highschool and college was, about the loss Sig Other and I feel with her absence, about the profound shift in all of our lives as she's transitioned, rather ungracefully, into adulthood. But none of it felt appropriate for publication. None of it, that is, except this short piece written at the request of my friend Nicola who created the 10Q (www.doyou10Q.com). So here it is (for you, my sweet Child One) - evidence that I really do think (and write) about you...

THINK ABOUT A MAJOR MILESTONE THAT AFFECTED YOUR FAMILY THIS YEAR…

It would be easiest, I suppose, to go straight to the obvious – the empty bedroom down the hall, the closet missing half its wardrobe, the usually messy bathroom now standing idle waiting to be made a mess again in a few months. The easiest thing – the most obvious thing to point to, when asked to think about a major milestone, would be the matriculation of our daughter to college. She is gone. The house is emptier, the world a little quieter, the days a little less full, because K is 3000 miles away experiencing a whole new life without us.

But in fact, that monumental event is NOT the thing that comes to mind when I think about a major milestone of this year. In fact, what I think about is the text I got from K one day this summer. It read: “…how glad I am to have a stepmother who yells at me for parking her car badly.” I am that stepmother. And for years I worked at NOT yelling at anybody for anything. For years I did what most steps do – I twisted myself into a pretzel to do the right thing, to cook the right thing, to say the right thing so the children would feel safe and comfortable and loved. And I kept my mouth shut about things I felt were wrong for fear of being disliked.

But as K neared college, I realized that her ability to cope in the adult world – in the world outside our home – was far more important than whether or not she liked me. And I started telling her what to do. I told her to pick up after herself, to knock before she entered rooms, to close the cabinets she left open and yes – to park her car straight in the driveway. We spent a lot of time alone together, she and I, in the months leading up to her departure. And those months were fraught for her – full of anxiety and fear and depression and angst. We talked about more than just parking straight and separating whites from darks when doing laundry. I said some tough things and had to hear some even tougher. And in that time, I felt a shift in myself. I felt as I stopped trying to win, stopped trying to be loved, stopped trying to be the coolest stepmom on the block. I felt as I stopped caring about me and started caring about her – what was best for her, what would serve her, what would help her cope in a world far less cozy than our home.

For the record, I have never yelled at either of my stepchildren. And in this particular case, I’m quite certain I didn’t even raise my voice. But I did give a sharp directive. And K has never parked sideways in the driveway again. And THAT may be the major milestone of our year.

Take that, Bill Maher!

2011-10-02T21:18:00.000-07:00

Pardon my absence from the blogosphere but I’m slightly superstitious. The world being what it was in the final weeks of summer – financial disaster in the US, riots in the UK, protests in the Israel and various domestic unrest in households near and far – it seemed best to keep my head down and forge quietly ahead. LBJ famously said, “Being President is like being a jackass in a hailstorm. There’s nothing to do but stand there and take it.” My friend’s father, a colleague of LBJ, had his own Texan take on the phrase and would say to his little girl, “Sweetheart, sometimes you have to be like a jackass in a hailstorm – put your down and wait for the storm to pass.” I’ve been waiting for the storms to pass and keep looking for blooming flowers amidst the burning ash.

But the other night, I couldn’t find a flower anywhere. I was home watching Bill Maher and feeling useless. There was Bill, all witty and fabulous, interviewing intelligent people who had written books or started life-changing organizations. His guests included a former governor, a civil rights activist and a world famous author. And there was me, sitting on the couch with a bowl of pasta after a week of work at a job where I save no lives, change no political policy, influence no major governments. Useless.

I spiraled then, and thought about all I hadn’t done. The world is on a scary path: economic disaster, failed education systems, escalating worldwide racism, sexism, anti-semitism. There is spring during autumn all over the Middle East, the behemoth that is China is lumbering out of its deep sleep and toward epic change and our own country teeters on the edge of insanity steeped in dark crazy tea. And I’m sitting on my couch doing nothing.

I told myself I do nothing because I'm not smart enough, didn't major in the right thing, haven't focused my energy in the right places these past several decades. And for the most part that is true. I didn’t invent a computer chip that changed the world. I have not written a book on world politics. I am not clever enough to be invited as a guest on Bill Maher and hold my own. The truth is my knowledge of world events is limited to what media I consume in the pre-dawn moments before my day jolts into full swing or the bits and pieces I catch after hours. And while I’m not the least informed of my circle, I’m hardly the most.

But today I got jolted out of my useless blues. Today I did the thing that still gives me joy, despite the fact that its part of my job and I do it time and time again. Today, I went to the movies. It seems a trivial thing really – two hours in a dark box with a big screen shouldn’t really change your mood. But it can. And today it did. This thing we do – this magical, wonderful and terribly ethereal business of making movies – this world that can be so frustrating, can seem so ludicrous at times, can also be profoundly affecting. True – its rare. And most movies are crap. I’ve worked on as many bad movies as good ones (ok – more). And truly great movies are a scarcity beyond comprehension. But they happen. And when they do, when a movie can make you laugh and cry and feel and go on a ride that feels like fifteen minutes even if its been three hours – THAT is when being in the movie business feels like something substantial.

I chose this job – this career in movies - in part because the idea of pursuing a PhD in political science seemed really exhausting 25 years ago. But in part I chose it because I love it. I love that I interact with some of the most talented, most inspiring artists alive today. I love that these artists work in a medium that has the potential to have a reach far greater than paint or ceramic or even words on a page. And I love that every experience with every artist is unique and a true education all its own.

But mostly I love that today I went to a movie theater and for two magical hours got swept up in someone else’s life. I entered someone else’s story – I saw what the director wanted me to see and heard what the director wanted me to hear. But the experience was uniquely my own. For the moments I laughed, as well as for those I cried, I was in the soothing hands of a master filmmaker and I went down the path he created for me – though I’m sure I saw the path slightly differently from the man on my right or the woman on my left. This is the beauty of film. This is the magic and strength and power of a well made movie. And this is the world I have the great privilege to be part of.

I am not a writer. I do not direct movies. But I do rely on a gut instinct to evaluate material and I do use that gut and a good bit of passion to push to make movies that make people laugh and cry and think and just get away for two magical hours in the special box we call the movie theater. They may not always work – in fact, mostly they don’t. Great film is harmonic convergence. But when it works, when a movie is really firing on all cylinders - and you get that two hours of pure joy, of a story that makes you think about the world in a slightly different way - isn't that worth something?

I still wish I were clever enough and well-educated enough and worldly enough to have written a book, or run for office or created a policy that would make me fancy and cool and smart enough to be a guest on Bill Maher. But I’m damn grateful for my two hours of bliss today. And damn lucky to do what I do.

At last...

2011-08-26T23:43:00.000-07:00

The summer night we've been waiting for. Midnight. 80 degrees. Noisy cicadas chirp madly in the dry grasses just now warming in belated summer air. This is Child One's last Shabbat before leaving for school. Hurricane Irene may disrupt our perfectly planned journey. But weeks of planning and preparation will not stand in the way of Child One's future. There may be tears and hesitation and a bumpy road of fear ahead. And that's just for Sig Other and me. What awaits Child One, no one can anticipate. My friend Jess looked Child One in the eye the other night across a bottle of wine and a soggy pizza and said, "I want to Freaky Friday with you so bad I can't stand it." That about sums it up. Shabbat Shalom to all. And a special prayer to the hope for the future we send out into the world in the next week - we wish you well and hope for the best.

Pink, pink sheets...

2011-08-14T23:20:00.000-07:00

There are brand new pink sheets in the wash right now. One set of jersey, one of flannel. Twin extra long as required by dormitory standards. They are, of course, Child One’s sheets for college. I’m washing them so they’ll be soft and smell of home when she puts them on her dorm room bed for the first time. There’s no real need for me to wash them of course. I have two housekeepers who could easily do the task and are expecting to fluff and fold in preparation for the packing and upcoming departure. But I want to wash her sheets – want to feel the warmth as I fold them and smell what she’ll smell on her first night’s sleep at school.

She is not excited to sleep on her new sheets – not excited to dive into the brand new shiny future that awaits her. I find it hard to relate. Like most 18 year olds of my generation, I couldn’t get out of the house fast enough – couldn’t wait to grow up – couldn’t wait to get away, to be an adult, to “start life” – that’s how I thought of it. I could only dream of a fancy east coast school – could only dream of the world that eagerly awaits her. But I never had to face the reality of what that meant. Maybe I would have been scared – maybe I would have hesitated to fly across the country and dive into a world completely foreign. I’ll never know. It simply wasn’t an option. But it is not only an option for Child One. It is now her reality.

And Child One is nothing like me. She does not want to leave the house, doesn’t want to grow up, has no interest in getting as fast and as far away as possible. Its not that she isn’t excited about starting school – not that she isn’t looking forward to making new friends and tackling new academic challenges. And it certainly isn’t as if she lacks gratitude or awareness. She wants to embrace what lies ahead. It’s just that she’d like us all to come along and embrace it with her. But of course we can’t. Of course she’ll have to take a deep breath and dive into the deep end on her own. And she’ll have pain and fear and anxiety as well as victory and great joy and success.

Child One’s pre-college panic is not unlike Best Friend’s daughter N’s moment the other day. Little N got an early lesson in charity as mother and daughter packed up binkies and a few infant toys and took them to a local hospital to share with children less fortunate. N was cooperative and stoic during the packing and drop off but melted into a tortured tantrum later in the day. She was having a hard time letting go, having a hard time moving beyond this phase of her life. So, for her afternoon nap, her mother found an old binky in the back of a drawer – one that had escaped packing – and gave it to the hysterical child. She calmed right away and fell quickly to sleep.

Child One is having just such a moment. Child One would love nothing more than to keep all of her binkies – to hold on to this moment, to these friends, to this life of highschool relationships and dreams. She does not want to pack it all up and move on to the next phase. She knows she must – knows that she will forget about her binkies and begin to embrace a new life soon enough.

But tonight she is digging in. And tonight I wash her sheets to make sure they smell like home. I’ll stay up just a little late to fold them and pack them away so I know she has what she needs. And maybe she’ll unpack them, two weeks and three thousand miles from here, and know that a little bit of home has followed her east and will always be with her wherever she goes.

The 168th Post in which Child One ACTUALLY turns 18 and Sig Other is inconsolable...

2011-07-05T22:27:00.000-07:00

Raucous Bollywood celebrations aside, Child One’s actual birthday is today. And notwithstanding her deeply held belief that the 4^th of July is a national holiday held in anticipation of her date of birth, this is the day, eighteen years ago when the little rosy cheeked, tow-headed girl entered the world. I wasn’t there that day. I didn’t come into her life for many years after. I feel weirdly guilty about that - an irrational guilt to be sure. But I take joy in her 18^th birthday nonetheless.

Sig Other, however, is inconsolable. He moves from stoic lamentation to breast-beating sorrow with hummingbird-wing rapidity and desires only to stay at home and mope. No celebration is appropriate, no declaration great enough, no gift big enough to express his feelings about his first born coming of age. To watch him suffer, one would assume there was something terribly, terribly wrong.

In fact, there is nothing terribly wrong at all. Child One has done exactly as asked. She has grown up quite beautifully. She has, with the greatest of both hesitation and grace, transformed from scared little girl to forthcoming young woman. If you asked her, four years ago, about future plans, she would not have known how to answer. She could not imagine leaving home, couldn’t imagine going to school out of town much less across the country and would never have thought of traveling the world on her own in search of adventure, education and justice. Sig Other used to sit at the dinner table and repeat over and over again that it was her great fortune, not to mention her responsibility and obligation, to take advantage of the opportunity in front of her – to grasp at what had eluded us and strive for the possibility of better education, greater horizons, deeper experience. Tears would stream down her face as he would look deep in her eyes and say, “you will graduate and leave us – you will go to a great school on the east coast and get an amazing education and meet interesting people and form deep relationships that will stay with you for the rest of your life.” And she would say no – she would never leave home, would never go far away, would never want to be a grown up. Yet here she is, 18 years old, about to leave for a summer volunteering at a school in Israel before starting her future at a fancy east coast school. She has become all Sig Other ever hoped. And all he can do is lament.

“This is what you raised her for,” I say to him. “This is what you insisted she do. You’ve done an amazing job. She is fulfilling every dream you had for her.” “I know,” he says, “but I didn’t really mean it. I didn’t really want her to leave.” He says this as we drive home from her birthday dinner and I imagine the evening before us – Sig Other sitting on the floor going through albums of baby pictures and listening to a mix-tape of Rafi and Paul Simon. He doesn’t do this, of course. He tucks his pain away and rather stoically goes to his office to fiddle with a faulty computer program. But I know he is suffering. I know he is in pain. I feel guilty that we can’t sit on the floor with a bottle of wine and reminisce about her colicky infancy and adorable toddlerhood. I wasn’t there for those moments. I missed her first words and first steps and first taste of delicious rice cereal. I’ve been there for my share of tears and vomiting and runny noses and pain – been there enough for lots of anxiety and some pain, a few hurt feelings and a few misunderstandings. And of course for lots of cuddling and laughs and more joy than I could ever have imagined before she or Child Two or Sig Other entered my life. But now I must go and console Sig Other and pet his head as he mourns the loss of his job well done.

The 167th Post in which Child One turns 18.

2011-07-04T07:53:00.000-07:00

Saturday night was Child One’s 18^th birthday party. She wanted something smallish – she and her best friend celebrating together – about twenty people for a nice dinner. She picked a theme – Indian – and she and her friends bought glamorous outfits. I did their makeup and filled the house with incense and geraniums and richly colored Indian linens. The henna tattoo artist arrived, the kids all put on their bindis and milled about to Sig Other’s rather raucous Bollywood soundtrack mix. Sig Other and the other parents and I hovered as long as we could – soaking up as much gorgeous, hilarious, hormonally charged teenage time as possible before making what we had promised would be a brief exit. Child One had never really invited us, you see. “You can stay” is what she said when asked if were to be part of the festivities. Not exactly a cozy invitation. And we were never included on the Facebook Event Page, which apparently has replaced paper or even email as the Emily Post of social event planning. So we made our own dinner plans – adult dinner plans – and knew that we’d be nearby and gone very briefly.

Child One and company were having a perfectly lovely time when we left. The table was piled with food and Diet Pepsi and laughter. An hour and a half later we returned to empty bottles of rock-gut vodka and beer strewn around the house. An anonymous Italian girl showed up in a cab with three leggy friends and proceeded to vomit in our bathroom while an eager teen boy waited nearby desperate to take advantage of her and another boy took her pulse, spinning his own fantasy of an emergency room drop-off. Couples made out in dark corners, others just sat around talking about their future – one was leaving the next day for Europe and then college, they’d said goodbye already to another the day before. The night was warm and smelled of spilled beer and cigarettes, smoke from a hookah (which had magically appeared in our absence) hung heavy over conversation about anticipation, fear and excitement of change. Some were drinking. Some were not. And as I walked the party with my basket they were brutally honest about who had done what and how much. It’s a pretty mild crew (notwithstanding the anonymous Italian girl) and I was impressed by how forthcoming and easy they were about handing over their keys.

And yes, I took their keys. I am the evil shrew collecting keys of potentially drunk teenagers and hiding them in a basket underneath my bathroom sink. I told them I would breathalyze them on their way out. I lied, of course. I don’t have a Breathalyzer. But fear still drives the teenage brain and so keys were collected and slowly doled out (or not) as the night went on. Most slept on couches or blow up mattresses or corners of the floor strewn with blankets. One was up before us, waiting at the counter when we rose for a cup of coffee and to share his particular account of the events of the evening. The rest made do with juice and toast and whatever was in the house as Sig Other and I fled quickly to avoid the flutter of inevitably hung over and sleep deprived teens. By the time we returned most were gone and Child One had the good sense to clean up empty bottles and whatever detritus remained from the night before.

But I was left wondering about how Sig Other and I deal with the issue of underage drinking vs. the way other parents do or vs. my own childhood. In my teenage years, we would never have partied in a house with adults present. We’d wait for any parent to leave town and invade like marauding booze bandits. We thought nothing of raiding the liquor cabinet once we’d run out of whatever screw top wine or malt liquor we could buy with fake IDs flimsy as tissue paper. And then we’d get in our cars – drunk as skunks and risk the drive rather than risk the wrath of a parent who knew the truth. This was in the early 80s. Meatballs was one of my favorite movies. There was one song – the theme song of the movie – that went like this: “We are the CITs so pity us, the kids are brats the food is hideous. We’re gonna smoke and drink and fool around (we’re nookie bound), we’re Northstar CITs!.” For some reason this song popped into my head as I thought about Child One’s 18^th Bollywood Birthday Blowout. There we were, at home with Child One and friends – and there they were smoking and drinking and fooling around. And if they weren’t’ smoking and drinking and fooling around at our house, they’d be smoking and drinking and fooling around elsewhere. So better here, in the relative safety of our home, I suppose, than out in the world and on the streets.

Happy Birthday to ME!!!

2011-06-20T22:15:00.000-07:00

I love my birthday. In fact, it’s my favorite day of the year. I can make my birthday last a week, sometimes even a month. I’ve planned lavish parties and weekends away, been feted by Sig Other with surprise parties and outrageous gifts. But this year I made no plans. This year I decided to lay low. This year belonged to Child One’s graduation from high school, and 18^th birthday and departure for college. It belongs to Child Two as he prepares for his Bar Mitzvah. It belongs to the backyard remodel and to a busy work schedule. It does not belong, I decided, to me. And so I planned nothing. But it turns out that even with no plans, even with no fancy invitation, no perfect plan, no elaborate announcement, my birthday was as good a day as any I could have imagined.

Beta Dog woke me with plaintive love and urgent snuggling, Alpha Dog, as always, woke up needing to go to the vet. Sig Other wowed me with the perfect gift, and the day continued with flowers to make a funeral home jealous, cakes and gifts and lovely phone calls. I got emails with hilarious poems and facebook posts from around the globe, a delicious dinner, far too much wine and sweet gifts from the children. It was, all told, a perfect day.

And now it’s here – the 45^th Year. I’m halfway to ninety and still have yet to find a better name for this blog. I have no fear of growing older. No hesitation to share my true age. No phobia related to the forward march of time. I quite like it actually. I revel in my older lady status. I like being the wise old sage, the broad, the ol’ lady. Notwithstanding posts about saggy arms and wrinkled skin, I have no complaints about the passage of time. Thanks to all who made the transition to my next forty-five years a smooth one. Happy Birthday to me.

We interrupt this roadtrip...

2011-06-10T07:12:00.000-07:00

To bring you graduation.

Child One, clinging desperately to her childhood, donned cap and gown and, in spite of tears and protestations, walked elegantly toward adulthood last night. Ex-Wife and Sig Other’s work of almost eighteen years, mine of almost nine, culminated with more of a whimper than a bang. Ceremony was sweet and heartfelt, too long and too short all at once. The chubby little bouncy girl is now an elegant giraffe in diamonds and heels – all legs and smiles and tears. We’ve done what we can. She goes into the world a bright, educated, inquisitive human with purpose. She is the future – a future focused on justice and ethical behavior and kindness. The world is unquestionably a better place for having her in it.

And yet I’m sure I’ve failed dramatically. I’m sure she does not have the right tools to fend for herself. I’m sure that with all of the private school education and intellectual athleticism, things very basic and banal have been washed over. So I sat at graduation, pretending to listen to someone else’s child speak, and made a mental list of all the things I will review with her this summer: how to do laundry, the proper way to make a bed, the best tips for college grocery shopping and what to keep in the little dorm fridge, how much aspirin and vitamin B to take to avoid a hangover (though its unlikely this will be her issue). I make this list and know she knows all of these things. But I do it anyway as it soothes me and makes me feel somehow useful.

Tomorrow we’ll wake at the crack of dawn to get back on the road for the last day of the ALC ride. But today we are parents of a high school graduate. Proud and a little melancholy.

Road from Paso Robles to Santa Maria. Day Four.

2011-06-09T08:51:00.000-07:00

Pismo Beach

Off the beaten path - Guadalupe, CA

Las Alamos, CA - south of Santa Maria

Wildflowers in Los Alamos

I left my heart...

2011-06-08T08:30:00.000-07:00

In King City?

Really?

Oddly, since peeling out early yesterday morning, I’ve been thinking about King City. One street, peuce hotel room, dusty little King City. At 6:35am I kissed it goodbye in my rearview mirror. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. But somehow, I can’t stop thinking about it – can’t stop thinking about how I mastered the town in three hours – how delicious the food was at the Guadalajara restaurant on the main drag – how perfect the smell of freshly popped popcorn in the tiny movie theater across the street – how singularly disgusting the restaurant/curio shop was next to the hotel. Weirdly, I sort of fell in love with the place in less than 24 hours.

Sig Other and I talked about this briefly – why it is that such a place should harbor such fondness. Why I will drive back to Bradley, CA (population 120) to take photographs later today before heading out for the next stop. Perhaps, we mused, it’s because places like Bradley and King City pretend to be nothing other than what they are – small, a little depressed, a little proud. King City is authentic to its true self. And that is what I liked about it.

I feel the same about big cities. I’ve always been comfortable and happy in big cities – particularly a prideful, boasting, self-adoring city. I adore London (which is advantageous as am there every other month or so). And my love affair with Manhattan – loud, crazy, dirty, beautiful, bustling Manhattan - may never end, in spite of an acute awareness that the movie business fell out of love long ago and made its way west, abandoning the apple to Wall Street and its sycophantic cousins.

I was, however, born with an aversion to suburbs – indecisive sprawls putting on airs of the big city but grasping for small town quaintness. This is truly a case of nature vs nurture. I was born in a suburb, raised in suburbs, had nothing horrific happen to me in suburbs. My siblings don’t share my aversion. Nor does my mother. But I loathe them. Loathe the middle-ness of it all, hovering someplace between the bustle and crackling energy of any big city and the quiet melody of true small town life.

And yet I live – have lived for almost 25 years – in the greatest sprawl in the country. I’ve never been in love with Los Angeles – not like Sig Other. Sig Other LOVES Los Angeles – it is his home, his passion, his city. I live there because I must. My work is there. My home is there. I have found great things about my city – great food and culture and tucked away corners, great friends and hidden treasures and ways to get around traffic when I truly must. But deep down, if I could live anywhere, if Sig Other would pick up and leave with me, I wouldn’t choose LA. I wouldn’t choose to live smack in the middle of indecisive sprawl. I’d choose the city. I’d choose the country. I’d choose a place that sings in bold colors and proudly wears its identity whether great or small.

And so I come back to thinking about King City as I head out on Day Four of the ride. I’m in a sort of suburb now – a city grasping to hang on to its small town roots but losing the battle to housing developments and shopping malls. And I’ll make my way to the next town – one caught between two worlds as this one is. But I think I’ll take the back roads – think I’ll cling to the rural routes and keep the illusion a little longer that I’m on a road trip to a thousand King Cities and Bradleys and such…

Oh Mary!

2011-06-08T06:21:00.000-07:00

5:02am on Day Four. Sig Other is a bit sore and achy in anticipation of yet another century – the ride from Paso Robles to Santa Maria has two long, sloggy hills at the very beginning. He layers well - the sun is well hidden behind a bank of coastal sludge and will likely remain so. He prepares for the day and I hear him mutter under his breath. I lean in to hear him, worried that perhaps he’s getting run down from the ride or is in pain and not admitting it – worried I’ll hear about an aching back or pulled muscle. But what I hear is this: “that bitch better leave me a lone today.”

I know what “bitch” he means. He means the rider who thinks his friend Mark is his lover and feels that Mark somehow dissed him. I know this because yesterday, when I met Sig Other on the road for lunch, I overheard the following:

“That queen is after you, my friend.” “I know. She is way into my shit.” “Oh yeah, girl. You know she is.” “If she comes after me…”

Its true that Sig Other has always had a gift for acclimating – you can take him anywhere – cocktail party, football game, museum or campground and whether he is actually comfortable or not, he will find a way to speak the vernacular, to fit right in, to become the hit of the party. So I’m not SURPRISED really that he’s found both friends and enemies on the ride. But it’s a little weird to hear your 6’4” tough Israeli husband refer to another man as “her” or “that bitch” or “Mary.” It's a little weird to hear other men refer to your husband as "girl" and watch them flirt with him. It's a little weird to hear them offer to loan him an outfit for red tutu day tomorrow. Or maybe it's not. Maybe it’s just another day on the road…

Day Three - King City to Paso Robles

2011-06-08T05:56:00.000-07:00

The day began at 4:30am in great haste to depart King City for greener pastures. Long day meant late posts so apologies for posting images from Day Three on Day Four... More to come.

State park in King City - just before rideout. 6:15am

Lunch on the road. BBQ in Bradley, CA. Population 120.

Road between Bradley and Paso Robles

Paso farm.

Post ride visit to the beach.

Seagulls at San Simeon

The Princess Plan

2011-06-06T15:52:00.000-07:00

AIDS Lifecycle riders fall into two basic categories: those who are on the regular program who check their bikes, eat meals with the group and sleep in camp in tents like this:

Tents sleep two people each – tent mates are assigned at check-in unless you’re traveling as a couple or with a friend. You pack your own gear, are responsible for set up each day after the ride and break down each morning before ride out. Shower facilities are portable trucks that travel from camp to camp.

And then there's the Princess Plan. The Princess Plan allows riders who are a little more, um, persnickety, to stay in the hotel of their choice along the route. Obviously at additional cost and slight additional hassle as the P-Plan requires someone willing to pick you up from camp, take you to your hotel, drive you back in the morning, etc. In some cases, riders use taxis. In some, they have friends in each town who are thrilled to see them and support their efforts. And in Sig Other’s case, there’s me - his personal soigner.

The Princess Plan started perfect enough. No complaints from rider OR soigner about the bed at the Four Seasons. Santa Cruz proved equally pleasant though in a sort of funky beach motel sort of way:

And then came King City.

This is the stop I’d been dreading all ride – the stop I knew would be challenging both in terms of accommodations and cuisine. I was prepared for Deliverance. But somehow, even the anticipation of a dingy fleabag motel could not prepare me for the smell – the smell of disinfectant on musty carpet and lit up by fluorescence. There is no smell like the smell of a cheap motel. No color like the green of a shiny cotton bedspread under buzzing ceiling lights that turn on and off with motion detector timers. And no sound like the sound of a room facing the highway with only a gas station between to cut the hum of cars speeding by, headed for destinations better than this.

Somehow, the Princess Plan landed me in the middle of a Sam Shepard play – sort of sweaty and dirty and not at all sexy though I do have a craving for long pull off a frosty bottle of beer and a sudden urge to suck mightily on a cigarette. Perhaps Sig Other can skip the showers and throw on a wife-beater and a pair of torn Levis to complete the picture.

Welcome to King City. Welcome to the Princess Plan. What I would give to be in camp, cozy in a sleeping bag, sharing a tent with a snoring stranger…

Day Two Continued - Salinas to King City

2011-06-06T15:29:00.000-07:00

Farm outside of Salinas

Road to King City - slightly off the beaten path

Tonight's entertainment

Day Two - Santa Cruz to King City

2011-06-06T08:24:00.000-07:00

Santa Cruz Pier at dawn.

Santa Cruz coastline

Santa Cruz - Natural Bridges State Beach

6:23am - Camp before rideout

Day One - San Francisco to Santa Cruz

2011-06-05T15:39:00.000-07:00

Boardwalk - Santa Cruz

Santa Cruz Pier

On the road...

Sig Other Rides Out...

2011-06-05T15:32:00.000-07:00

There is a preponderance of homosexuals here...

2011-06-05T08:23:00.001-07:00

Our regularly scheduled program of introspection and musings regarding step-parenting and middle-aged sex is interrupted in honor of the tenth annual AIDS/Lifecycle ride and my chronicling thereof. Sig Other announced several months ago that he would be embarking on this weeklong adventure and it never occurred to me at the time that either a) it would actually come about or b) I’d be roped in. But suddenly there we were, at the Cow Palace in San Francisco – standing in line after line to prepare Sig Other for the 545-mile ride. I will not be joining on two wheels. Rather, I will follow on four – playing unofficial “soigner” on Sig Other’s ride. We walk toward registration and Sig Other notes with some surprise, “there is a preponderance of homosexuals here.” Yes, I remind him. This is, after all, an AIDS ride.

Sig Other is not homophobic. But he is filter free. Five minutes in and already he is wandering around the Cow Palace saying things like, “this is SO gay” and “there are a lot of gays here.” Generally, Sig Other likes to think of himself as living in a “post gay world” – a world in which labels are unnecessary and equal rights prevail for all. Of course, that is NOT the world we live in. And in our world, our gay friends are denied basic rights – the right to get married, etc. So Sig Other is riding in support of a cure for a disease that, without activism, would have otherwise gone unexplored. Sig Other was aggressive and successful in his fundraising – he’s in the top 10 percent of donors on the ride. He cares about justice and ethical behavior and feels a responsibility to do tzedakah. But what he LOVES is riding. What he loves is the bond between bikers, the obsession of the road. I remind him, as he wanders and makes his comments, that in fact he would have been just as happy riding in support of virulent toe fungus were that a cause he could raise money for. But as this is for AIDS, he should be aware that there will in fact be a number of gay people present and not all will share my deep appreciation of his filter-free style.

As much as Sig Other loves riding, he has an equal and opposite response to large groups – large groups make him a bit queasy. Large groups of people ordered from one area to another, standing in lines and shuffling about make him feel that he’s reliving a scene out of Schindler’s List. He bore up well through the first hour or so of registration - 2500 people going from medical check to e-ticket to the waiting area for the orientation/safety video. I, on the other hand, was starting to feel like one of the cows for which the palace (a misnomer if ever there was one) was named. We waited on cold concrete in what looks like a cavernous metal barn, were herded from one line to the next, from waiting area into the video room. Doors closed, we were seated, asked to turn off our cell phones and told that if we left the room for any reason during the video we’d forfeit the bright orange wristbands proving we’d seen the video and have to start over from the beginning. That’s when Sig Other leaned over to me and whispered, “See - this is when they turn the gas on.”

Sig Other rode out first thing this morning. With his friends Mark and Max and 2500 others. I’ll meet them at their first stop in Santa Cruz later today. More then…

Berries and cream please.

2011-06-02T06:54:00.001-07:00

Child One did not like me when we first met. Child Two takes every opportunity to remind me of this. It gives him great pleasure. “Maybe,” Child One said to me last night, ”it was because you tried to serve me strawberries with balsamic and basil instead of sugar and whipped cream. I was only ten. Who serves a ten year old their strawberries with balsamic?” I remind her then she was not exactly a typical ten year old and already had a remarkably sophisticated palate. She considers a moment, agrees and says perhaps she’ll try it again soon.

This observation did not come out of nowhere. We had come home late from a movie, both starving, and I’d whipped up a quick dinner of scrambled eggs with shaved ricotta salata and sautéed baby zucchini with fresh sage. For dessert, she grabbed a nectarine from the fruit bowl and asked if I thought it would be good. “Better,” I said, “with a drizzle of thick balsamic and some chopped mint.” That’s when she wrinkled her sweet nose and reminded me of the berries.

Once or twice, when the reminder comes that Child One did not, in fact, like me when we first met, I suggest that perhaps her not liking me had nothing to do with me. She did not like the girlfriend that came before me (nor did I for that matter), or the one before that. I suggest that perhaps ANY girlfriend who would come into her father’s life would not be received with open arms – that the girlfriend would be a threat to her own relationship with her father and a threat to the possibility that Sig Other and Ex Wife would reunite. Child One dismisses this without a thought, “No,” she says, “I didn’t like you but that’s not why. Maybe because you were bossy and I was afraid of you.” She pauses there. I agree with her. I tell her I agree with her. And then she continues, “But now I’m sort of bossy too and I love you so much!” We laugh and leave it at that.

But I know – I will always know – why Child One didn’t like me. I know and will always know why, even now that she truly does love me, she will remember those first years as difficult and fraught. No child wants a third parent. No girl child wants a woman to threaten her special relationship with daddy. No boy child wants a woman to take his mother’s place. These delicate relationships – the tenuous spiderweb dance we do as blended families – take constant attention – constant observation – which child is comfortable – which is feeling insecure – which is taking advantage, and which simply does not like balsamic on her strawberries and would prefer a simple serving with sugar and cream…

Buy you a drink?

2011-05-26T19:43:00.000-07:00

As the 45^th year rapidly approaches, I find myself increasingly frustrated with my own physical limitations. In sheer defiance of aging cells and waning hormones, I want nothing more than to kick-start my sex drive and recapture the vivacity of my 30s. I wouldn’t mind ironing out some wrinkles and subtly lifting parts of my anatomy, but really I’m much more focused on revving up my energy level and turning up a slightly dimmed porch light. I want this for myself, I want it for Sig Other, I want it for my marriage.

So what’s a girl to do? Where is the magical elixir meant to rocket body and soul back a decade? In search of answers, I went to various shrinks and doctors, had hormone checks and blood work done and started talking to girlfriends of similar age. My malady, it turns out, is not at all unique. And there is no magic pill, no special formula. Almost every woman in her 40s feels the exact same way – we like the idea of sex. We just like the idea of sleep more.

But surely this has to be resolvable. Surely, I can overcome. And so, a hit and miss combo of potions and pills, trial and error have become part of a life spent trying to recapture something I likely wasted years ago. Mornings now begin with massive handfuls of vitamins and supplements, washed down with a vile shake of protein powder, super greens, flax seeds, chia seeds and a magic potion called “maca powder” which is meant to kick start the libido. I try to work out regularly and fail miserably as something else (anything else really) always gets in the way. I’ve seen shrinks to determine what deep-rooted pathological disturbance is clearly hampering my sex drive. But frustratingly, head doctors, vagina doctors and general doctors all agree – there is nothing wrong with me. I love my husband. I’m attracted to my husband. I like sex. I’m like sex with my husband. I’m just tired. And middle aged. And overworked, overwhelmed and overscheduled. Even more frustratingly, these shrinks and doctors and soothsayers all have the same advice: make a date night, check into a hotel, get away for the weekend. Are they kidding? When would I possibly find time for any of those things? Sig Other and I are lucky enough if we get to spend one whole day on the weekends together. Between his travel schedule and mine, between schlepping children and realizing our precious time with them is ticking away, between being engaged in the world in a way we feel both responsible and life affirming, WHO HAS TIME FOR DATE NIGHT? Add to this the special cherry on top of my particular situation: a career spent sublimating my femininity in a business gone deaf and blind to women of a certain age. I am neuter – a sexless dame in a young man's game.

I never understood women who were offended by wolf whistles and catcalls. One of the things I miss most about living in New York is walking down the street and getting a look or a smile or even a whistle from a construction worker, a truck driver, a guy in a three piece suit. I don’t mind having a door opened for me. I don’t mind a jeer every now and then. I’m a girl and want to be treated like one. I am certainly the girl at home. Sig Other is flawless in his recognition of my femininity and never fails to notice, to compliment, to support me as a woman.

But every now and then, a girl needs to feel cute to someone other than her husband. Every now and then we need to be reminded that we are sexual objects to someone who still finds us mysterious and alluring and doesn’t know what we look like when we sleep or that we snore or don’t look cute when we cry at bad movies. Every now and then, we need a flirt.

So it is with great gratitude that I send a thank you to the young man who offered to buy me a drink in a bar – who wasn’t daunted that I was waiting for a male friend, or that I’m married or that I’m much, much older than he and who, in spite of my protests handed me his card. I will find him a girlfriend – an age appropriate, single girlfriend – as a token of my appreciation. But he will never know that, at least for a day or two, he was much, much better than a cocktail of maca powder or a facelift could ever be…

LET YOU KNOW MONDAY...

2011-05-25T18:24:00.000-07:00

“My stomach really hurts,” Child Two declares as he gets into the car. Its 10:30 on a Saturday night and we’ve just picked him up from the third in a series of what is known as the Bar Mitzvah Circuit – the social season for the tween set. Every private school kid in southern California inviting every other private school kid to his or her bar or bat mitzvah. They don’t all go to the same temple or even the same school. And these temples are not close together. Like every other activity in a Los Angeles child’s social calendar, there’s a lot of schlepping - weekend after weekend of driving to the temple for services, back from the temple after services, to the party in the evening, picking up after the party. On and on, an endless cycle of sweaty, nervous hormones in khaki pants and blue blazers – an endless cycle of pasta bars and photo booths, of disco bands and empty dance floors.

“My stomach hurts,” he says. “No,” he continues, “it’s more like my kidneys. My kidneys hurt. “ He pauses and then, “Actually, I’m vibrating.” Child Two did not eat a bad piece of sushi. He did not hit the dessert table one too many times. And he wasn’t stealing sips from the grown up’s table. No. Child Two had just asked a girl out. His first girl – the girl he’s been pining over since the beginning of the school year and the most sought after girl in his class.

For thirty-five minutes – the time it takes to drive from the temple at the beach all the way to our house in the valley – we hear, in detail, the blow by blow of the approach – what he said, who was around, the specifics of the physical manifestation of hormones and nerves as only a love torn twelve year old can describe. And what does she say? This vixen, this whore? “I’ll let you know on Monday.” Monday! Seriously. A 48-hour wait for a twelve-year-old boy who has worked up the nerve to ask a girl out. Torture.

He proceeds to tell us what it would mean if she said yes. Apparently, “will you go out with me” means more than just a date. It means a date AND it means you’re now a couple. So we spend a few minutes talking about what they’d do together (I suggest a movie, he counters with “we should start slow – I’ll take her to the Coffee Bean”). And we talk about what it would mean if she says no (social suicide, everyone will know about the rejection and there’s no one else to ask out for the next six years).

When we return home, Child One is there with a gaggle of her friends – all seniors – boys and girls who had their own experiences on the circuit and who listen raptly as Child Two shares, once again, the story of exaltation and humiliation. The boys offer up congratulations and words of advice. The girls high five him – tell him how cool he is. And Child Two trundles off to bed still jittery but a little more sure of himself and with a little less of a stomachache.

Now, we all know what “I’ll let you know Monday” really means. Nothing good ever comes with a delayed response and an answer on Monday. If something is exciting, intriguing, enticing, you jump on it right away. If you need a moment – if you have to sleep on it – if you delay the inevitable until Monday likely you are just cruel. And so I hate her. I hate this little twelve-year old bitch I’ve never met. Just as I imagine I will hate girl after girl who might disappoint my sweet boy. But I’m so proud that he asked – so proud that he had the presence of mind, the confidence and the balls to approach a girl at all (much less the most sought after girl in 6^th Grade). And now I’m buckling in for a year full of Saturdays, and battening down the hatches for the rest of the tweens, the dreaded teens and what I hope is a future of more yeses than Mondays…

Sorry...

2011-05-24T22:04:00.000-07:00

It turns out that the best way to start writing again is simply to start writing again. The 45^th year approaches rapidly and I realize I’ve abandoned computer for pursuits all work related. And while work is a flourishing and happy place at present, my inner life may be atrophying at a pace too rapid to notice. Certainly I am less interesting at a dinner party than I was in the blog prolific days of the 43^rd year and when hours were spent contemplating navels and books and articles rather than screenplays about superheroes and monsters. Still though, Child One and Two grow and remain fascinating fodder – the world of being the Evil Step challenges daily and Sig Other remains the present and entertaining love of my life. So I will attempt, in spite of the continued onslaught of work, to return to The 43^rd Year, as I approach my 45^th…

We got in!!!

2011-04-07T16:04:00.000-07:00

One thing I may have failed to mention as we waited for Mr. Tufts (or Misters Brown, Amherst or Barnard) is the unique and perhaps misguided way in which we, the collective parents of Child One, felt that WE were waiting to hear from colleges. So much so, in fact, that we had to discuss the rules as they pertained to incoming mail. And even though we discussed said rules, I felt quite sure that I would find myself home early from work on one of critical days, and if I should find myself wandering toward the mailbox I care little about and pay almost no heed most of the year, and IF I should happen upon an envelope from one of the many fancy, high-end universities Child One applied to, I MIGHT, just might, be inclined to open said envelope despite rules of normal acceptable social engagement that suggest I respect Child One’s right to open her own mail – the mail addressed to HER that holds information about HER future – not mine, not Sig Other’s, and certainly not Child Two’s.

But that was just silly. There was no scenario in which said mail was to sit, unopened on a countertop for an hour or perhaps more while Child One meandered around from school to friend to whatever activity struck her at the moment. There was no scenario in which I would have been able to tolerate our collective future hanging in the balance whilst a simple piece of flimsy paper floated between us and our future fantasy. And I certainly could not, and would not, accept that it would be somehow inappropriate for me to open an envelope which holds the future of Child One. And so very strict rules were laid out to which Sig Other and I were sworn to adhere.

But of course, the rules were made only AFTER a specific breach – a breach that occurred innocently enough, but which revealed all there is to understand about applying to college in the modern age of parenting. A few weeks ago, Sig Other made an urgent call to me in the office. He asked me if I was sitting down and I, anticipating news of death or disease, was quite pleased to hear the drama was simply that Child One had been accepted to one of the schools of her choice. This acceptance came much earlier than we were meant to officially hear from any college and quite out of the blue. Sig Other told me that he was looking through the mail and noticed a rather thin envelope addressed to Child One from one of the colleges in question. “And you opened it?” I asked rather harshly. “Of course,” he replied, “it was a thin envelope so I assumed it was a note saying we’d made an error on our application.”

And there it was. A statement so innocent and yet so loaded. “Our application.” Not the application of Child One. Not an application made by a young woman trying to determine her future on her own. Rather, an application made by Child One, by Sig Other, and I suppose by Ex-Wife and me too. WE all applied to college – several really. And WE all were waiting to hear from seven universities until just recently.

Now we’ve heard. WE got in some places and got rejected (yes, I said REJECTED) from others. And now we wait whilst Child One ponders and weighs her decisions. Now we wait and try hard not to influence too much in one direction or other – recognizing that this is HER decision, after all. Not ours. Our future hangs in the balance with her but she alone will decide where she’ll go to school. I can only cross my fingers and hope its one simple plane ride away…

Waiting for Mr. Brown...

2011-03-23T08:55:00.000-07:00

Or Mr. Tufts, Wesleyan or Amherst. Or really any one of the fancy East Coast colleges Child One applied to. This is the moment for highschool seniors everywhere to experience anxiety, stress and fear. And for parents of highschool seniors – particularly those of us who are, perhaps, a little too involved in the lives of our children – to wring our hands, soothe furrowed brows and act as if we don’t share the anxiety, stress and fear. And this is the moment when I remember all those moments at the end of last year – all those moments when we struggled through the dread disease, “Mediocrity.”

Child One periodically came down with Mediocrity during the application process. Mediocrity doesn’t manifest as a fever or vomiting, but is often accompanied by sniffles and tears. Mostly, Mediocrity is accompanied by conversation about college – where she’ll get in, where she won’t. Of course, not getting in to a particular college is known as “rejection.” Which, by very definition, means that getting in is equivalent to “acceptance.” And since Child One is applying to schools I could only dream of at her age, acceptance to any of them feels like something with very little relation to mediocrity to me. But I don’t breathe Child One’s rarified private school air and I don’t occupy her self-motivated, driven, competitive shoes. And so it doesn’t matter one bit that I would be happy with whatever school she goes to. It doesn’t matter that Sig Other is incredibly proud of her no matter what. What matters is that somehow if she doesn’t get in to the top top top of her choices, she will feel like a failure.

Of course it is true that of the seven schools, one is considered better than the other six. It is also true that neither Sig Other nor myself expect her to get into said school. And there is one of the seven that is, of those very high-ranking, very specialized schools, that could be considered to be sort of at the bottom of what is still a tippy top, fancy-pants list. When Sig Other and I ask Child One what would happen if she got accepted to the last of the very elite seven, she answers that she will feel mediocre.

A quiet beat follows her response and a look passes between us – between two people who have spent their whole lives working hard and feeling mediocre – two people who have very little interest in belonging to clubs that would have us as members and two people who strive to constantly be more – more successful, more interesting, more interested. And we start to laugh. Child One is sort of indignant so we explain. We didn’t soothe or chide or pretend that we didn’t understand. We do understand. All too well. So we say, sort of simultaneously, “oh shit – we did it to her.” Somehow the gene – the “I’m mediocre” gene - passed biologically through her father and perhaps through the ether from me, leaving Child One stuck in a world in which she’ll never be quite good enough. I’m not sure it’s a bad thing. I’m not sure anyone who I admire ever feels completely and totally up to snuff. But it sure sucks watching your kid – your brilliant, hard-working, beautiful, ambitious, shiny kid – suffer ridiculous breast-beating insecurity and know that somehow you couldn’t break the cycle – couldn’t end generations of mediocrity on her behalf.

I’m hopeful Child Two will escape it. He’s oddly incredibly pleased with himself most of the time. True he has moments and bouts and can’t help comparing himself to his sister, particularly now that they’re in the same school and her shadow looms large over him. But I often catch him looking in the mirror and sort of winking at himself. And he mostly speaks with the confidence and maturity of a kid far beyond his age. It isn’t an easy road, the one in front of him. Between Sig Other and Child One, he surely must feel the pressure to succeed. But hopefully we’ve given him enough room to be different, to be his own dude, to define himself in his own way. And since so far he’s chosen to veer away from every road his sister has travelled (she rides horses, he can’t stand them, she played piano, he chose drums), perhaps the road of mediocrity will elude him.

In the meantime, Sig Other and I will wring our hands and wait by the mailbox...

The wind began to pitch...

2011-03-08T06:37:00.000-08:00

The house to switch. Child One and I, on our own with Sig Other far away across the country, huddle safely in our abode as unseasonable wind rattles the windows and shakes the doors. It’s crazy out there. I imagine myself as Dorothy – battened down in a house rocked by wicked witches and wacky winds.

I’d say its an October wind but for the fact that its March. A Fall wind makes LA weird and a little sexy. But it’s March. And so I’m feeling rather upside down. Fall wind blows crazy hot air, keeps dogs up at night, stirs the restless from their beds, keeps the anxious on edge. This is the wind that Southern California owns – the Scirocco of the continental US. But tonite is different – wilder, colder, more unusual – an unpredicted storm blowing through and keeping us up on what should be a cozy night.

Crazy wind has always kept me up. Child Two, more sensitive than most to others’ moods, noted early on that wind makes me cranky. “Uh oh,” he’d say, “its windles. Not good,” And I’d know he was talking about me and my moods. He’s right of course. Wind has always make me cranky, put me on edge, upended my sleep, my mood, my sense of well-being. Its as though somehow I believe that wind is a sign – a harbinger – of some unbelievable doom.

But no such doom came tonite. Not for Child One and myself. We are snugged in. Alpha and Beta seem unperturbed by the turbulent air. Were it truly a storm I imagine the two of them upended by anxiety – running to and fro, back and forth around the house and howling in even pitch with the whipping wind. And yet they display no such angst. Beta Dog is snuggled sweetly beside me, head on pillow and arm thrown across as though reaching for me as Sig Other would. Alpha lays quietly on her couch – queen of her domain and blissfully unaware of the chaos around her. They, the both of them, are blessed with deep sleep rather than deep thoughts – one being an incontrovertible inhibitor of the other. I envy them simplicity and bliss. I envy them their zen. I remain awake – Dorothy on a windy eve, hoping my house doesn’t fall on a wicked witch but liking the idea of new red shoes.

I’ve not written in months – been buried in work and in life – happy but unavailable – to my computer, to my family and friends, to myself. So here I emerge, like a groundhog looking for my shadow and finding only an unseasonable tempest – I’m likely to disappear under ground for longer than I’d like but happy to poke my head out albeit briefly. And for once, I’m grateful for the wind, grateful to be kept up, if only for a moment, and given the time to write…

OUCH!!!

2011-01-21T07:49:00.000-08:00

There’s a nasty bruise on my left knee. And one three inches down on my shin. Those are nothing compared to the one just under my arm and the other that’s finally going away on my right knuckle. I didn’t fall down a stairwell. Sig Other has not taken to beating me. These are war wounds – evidence of a weekend spent on the battle field of twelve year old boys and grown men – evidence of paintball.

Child Two loves paintball. And so, for his 12^th birthday, rather than his weekly solo sojourn to the fields, he asked for a private paintball party that included his friends, his family, and most specifically ME. It was a big deal to him that I play and I was convinced it was his opportunity to take a shot at his stepmother although he did spend a great deal of time helping me choose my gear and talking me through strategy on the field. And in spite of excuses and protest, I found myself last Sunday sporting a protective vest, double hats, a balaclava and a mask and heading out onto a dusty battlefield. I didn’t get hit in any of my protective gear, of course. I only got hit in exposed areas. And in spite of double pants and multi-layered shirts, I bear the wounds of combat and wear them proudly.

Twelve year old boys, one on one, can be lovely. And Child Two, for the most part, has nice friends. There’s the polite boy who thanked me periodically, the tall handsome one we call “Slutty J” cuz he’s had three girlfriends in the half year of school so far (we can’t quite yet grock what it means to have a girlfriend in 6^th grade but we’ve put Child Two on the case and hope for an answer quite soon), the handsome twins, and a few others whose names I kept forgetting.

I’ve always been better at remembering Child One’s friends – perhaps because she spends more time with us, perhaps because she’s more social and talks about them more or perhaps because they’re girls and therefore more familiar to me as types (the silly cheerleader, the insecure slut, the brilliant nerd, the flirty artist). The truth is, I’m not terribly used to boys and boy things. I grew up sisters and my family was largely female identified. We baked and had art projects. I was sort of tomboyish but only because I played softball and volleyball (girl sports but still sporty in my house). We referred to my grandparent’s house as “going to Grandma’s” and when we visited my mother’s sister and her husband we “went to Aunt Ruth’s house”. My mother has no brothers, my father had no brothers.

Child Two spends more time with Ex-Wife. We see him on weekends, for holidays and occasionally during the week. And mostly, Child Two is a solo act. He’s terribly popular at school but has never been one for play-dates or sleepovers. Over the years he’s brought a friend or two around. But truly, I’ve never been much good at remembering their names or really getting to know them. A day with a pack of them was an eye opener: twelve year old boys, one on one, can be lovely. Twelve year old boys in a pack take on a whole different persona. Lovely, polite, interesting young men become foul-mouthed little jerks in the blink of an eye. Hot–headed competitiveness and raucous combat yielded a moment or two of aggressive swearing and some brash attitude. And there were definitely moments when I thought about turning in my weapons and waiting out the party on the bus.

But, for the most part, the day went smoothly. Shaggy-haired Twin gave me combat tips and Slutty J checked in on me as I rubbed my sore knuckle. Whatever testosterone raged on the field calmed itself by lunchtime and by the time each boy was returned to his respective parent at the end of the day he had returned to the sweet, sleepy child we’d received. The paintball party was a massive success. And spending the day with boys, spending the day with Child Two in his favorite environment – a place where he’s transformed from our brilliant, sweet, funny son to a hardcore warrior – was a treat.

On the bus home, filthy and exhausted, I finally understood that the invitation to play with Child Two wasn’t so much about the joy he got out of my humiliation (although that certainly was a kick for him) nor was it really even an opportunity for him to shoot at me (although he certainly did that as well). Mostly, it was an invitation to glimpse behind the curtain. Child Two was inviting me, inviting all of us, to experience a side of him we don’t see on a daily basis – the side of him that is embraced by a group of older boys and men who see him not as a sensitive, bright, engaged young man, but as a fellow soldier and colleague in arms. Spending the day on the field, getting to know him, getting to know the world of boys, was an invitation to a magical world of mystery, intrigue and, apparently, bruises. And one that I will cherish long after my battle scars disappear.

Apologies...

2011-01-02T21:06:00.000-08:00

For having written so little in so long and for my first post back after over a month being sort of morose and self indulgent. I will return, I promise, with some wit and wisdom. This, being the first post of 2011, I beg your indulgence and forgiveness and welcome you to the second half of my 44th Year...

Almost 15

2011-01-02T21:04:00.000-08:00

Child Two loves the snow. I’m not sure we realized just how much until this past week when we visited my familial cabin in the woods in Lake Tahoe. There, Child Two bounced around in fresh powder, made snow angels, discovered his inner snowboarder and sledded down the neighborhood streets before the plows came to do what must be done on snowy passageways. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the boy so joyous – it was as though he was a fish who just discovered the joys of the open sea or a puppy let loose in a field of bouncing balls. Child Two took to the snow like a duck to water, pouncing into drifts and throwing himself joyously into virgin fields of white powder with abandon. The trip, it turns out, was slightly trickier for me.

Almost forty years ago I put on my first pair of skis – they were wooden with cable bindings. I had red leather lace up boots and bamboo poles. I’m sure I complained about the cold and the shlep, but for the next twenty years or so, I bombed down mountainsides regardless of weather or conditions, first with my father and then with my best girlfriend. I tackled slopes of any level and in any location. And then, about twenty years ago, I moved to Los Angeles. I was making little money and could barely afford rent much less the now expensive sport and I realized two terribly important things: first, that my best ski companion had always been my father and he was now dead; second, skiing is cold and uncomfortable and expensive. I had bad circulation and no money. And so I quit – cold turkey – no more skiing. And that was it. For twenty years.

Then along came Sig Other who decided, just a few weeks ago, that I should get back on the horse (the horse, in this case, being a pair of skis). For reasons I am still pondering, I relented, and Sig Other, Child Two and I packed up ridiculous amounts of gear and flew north to my family cabin. We arrived in a near blizzard and muscled through blustery snow in a rented Yukon XL. Four days of spectacular skiing and crazy snowstorms yielded fun and happy exhaustion. Skiing, it turns out, is sort of like riding a bicycle and after twenty years off the boards, my muscle memory did not fail and I was back at it, knee deep in powder in no time. For four days we bombed down slopes until finally, on our last day, we took it a little easy and ended up back at the house before sunset. Child Two had been aching to sled, so I took him for a walk in the neighborhood in search of the perfect hill while Sig Other relaxed by the fire with an aggressive game of online Scrabble. Child Two lugged a red plastic toboggan from the garage. I wielded an orange plastic disc. I wasn’t thinking really, as we wandered around looking for a place to slide.

But just up the street from our family cabin in Tahoe is where my father died. It’s a house directly behind ours, two blocks up. The house belonged to friends and we’d been their guests for summers and winters of my childhood. My parents fell in love with the area and, when they could finally afford it, bought a lot here and set about building their dream vacation house. It was, to the best of my knowledge, my father’s greatest dream to build his own house – a house where his wife and daughters could spend time in the place he loved best. And so our friends offered their house to him as he set about the task of building our home from the ground up – just him and a guy named Chuck. Dad started in the spring of ’81 when the snow thawed. The plan was that he’d live in our friend’s house while he built ours and we would join him when school let out for the summer to help in the task of raising walls and hammering nails and painting wherever we could. The plan was to complete the house before the first snow of that winter.

But it was not to be. A few months into the build, on the last day of school and just before we were to join him, my father died in the house up the hill from ours. Peacefully we hope and just short of seeing the completion of his big dream. My mother made sure the dream was made complete – she hired a contractor to carry out their original plans and the house was built as he would have wanted.

For many years I defined myself first as the girl whose father died when she was fourteen – eight days shy of her fifteenth birthday. Whatever else I was or wanted to be trailed far behind that simple fact. Years passed as I struggled to shed that definition – to move past it to a sense of self that lived outside of childhood trauma. And I did. Two divorces and a good deal of therapy later and I can now pin my neuroses on other psychological traumas. But I grew out of, or so I thought, being jus the girl whose father died when she was fourteen.

And for years I avoided this house. No one else in my family avoids it. They like it. They like coming here and living my father’s dream – reveling in the knowledge that this is what he would most like, this is what he would have wanted – families united around a fireplace, a game of Scrabble, a puzzle completed, a meal cooked together. And after years of pestering and cajoling, Sig Other finally got me to come here. Child Two should see the mountains, have a chance to try snowboarding, go on vacation by the lake. And I went along.

And so I found myself, four days into my vacation, after Child Two had joined throngs of kids as they belly-flopped and slipped and slid down the unplowed road soaked through and happy, walking though the neighborhood. I found myself walking past our old friend’s house up the street – the house where my father died. Our friends don’t own it anymore. The kids grew up and moved all over the country and keeping the house no longer made sense. But there it was, a little spruced up, a little fancier and now owned by someone I don’t know. And I recognized it just the same. I remembered the smell of the upstairs bedroom – sort of a lofty attic filled with dumpy bunkbeds where the kids all slept. I remember the smell of Bisquick pancakes smothered in Aunt Jemima served with Oscar Meyer bacon for breakfast – our parents cooking in long underwear and sweaters and getting us all ready for a long day on the slopes. And I remember looking through the window from the front porch into the living room and through to the master bedroom – the room where my father died.

His body was long gone by the time I last looked through that window, almost thirty years ago now. But I could imagine how he was laying – was I told how he looked when he was found? Did my mother say he was on the bed, on his back, legs crossed at the ankles as they always were when he napped? Were his hands behind his head as he lay in repose? I’m not sure. But that’s the image I have – the image of his legs crossed at the ankles, visible from that front porch window only from just above the knee down. And that’s what I thought about today as I walked by the house with Child Two.

“There’s the house where my father died,” I told him. I’m not sure why I said it. It wasn’t necessary and I hope it didn’t freak him out. “Does it make you very sad” he asked. No, I lied. I didn’t know it was a lie in the moment. In that moment I thought I was just walking by a house I used to know in a neighborhood I used to frequent. But hours later, after dinner, sitting by the fire trying to read a book, I started to cry. Coming back here, it turns out, turned me back into the girl whose entire identity could be defined by the fact that her father died when she was fourteen – eight days before her fifteenth birthday.

I’m home now, a little sore and wrung out by muscles exercised in mind and body not used for the past two decades. And its Sig Other’s birthday today. He is 48 – the age my father was when he died. I’m glad I went to Tahoe, glad I skied, glad I stayed in the home my father built. But it will always be a challenge for me, always be fraught with the bitter and the sweet. And I will always think of myself, when I’m in that house, as the girl whose father died when she was fourteen – eight days before her fifteenth birthday…

Meet me in Verona

2010-12-08T07:28:00.000-08:00

Sig Other loves the opera. He loves the music, he loves the voices, he loves the drama. So when we found ourselves in Vienna for a night, staying at a hotel directly across from the Opera House, he immediately went about securing tickets to that evening’s performance of Rigoletto. As it was high season and tickets were scarce, he was unable to find four together. But the concierge did manage to find two pairs of seats in boxes directly opposite one another. And so it was decided – we’d dig into our suitcases of shlubby travel clothes, put together an acceptable outfit and attend the opera as a family in style.

The Vienna Opera House is stunning and if you’ve never had the opportunity to sit in a box at the opera it is truly a special feeling. Just inside the door to our box was a red velvet anteroom with its coat hooks and bench and mirror and imagined myself in the 1800s having arrived by horse and carriage and hanging my long coat on hooks before fishing out my fan and opera glasses. Child Two and I took our seats in front, I showed him the little pop up translator box and changed the setting to English and we settled in. He made it through half the first act before passing out on the balcony railing, heads in arms. I poked him periodically to make sure he wasn’t snoring.

Rigoletto, Sig Other had warned me, has a complicated plot with twists and turns that are difficult to follow. He’s wrong, of course. It’s incredibly simple and sort of silly really. It’s about betrayal and revenge and the love of a father for his daughter. Sig Other tried to taunt me with his knowledge of plot as the end approached. “Its so tense,” he said, “you have no idea what’s going to happen.” “She’s going to die,” I said and he looked sort of crushed. “Her father said that thing about dressing as a boy.” “But its tragic,” he continued. And of course she died. And of course Sig Other wept and clung to Child One.

The thing about opera is this – its structure is antithetical to how I life my life (and how I do my job for that matter). Opera takes something very, very simple and makes it very, very complex and overwrought. Subtlety is thrown out the window. It’s a teenage fantasy really. A thought as basic as “You’re pretty” can turn into a ten minute aria and “I’m going across town to tell the baker” becomes high drama. I suppose Shakespeare could be accused of the same. I suppose a sonnet is really just a long, drawn out declaration of a simple thought. But the truth is that the music of Shakespeare’s language is just easier on my ear. The cadence of the well-written word is a rhythm I find more enjoyable.

This is not to discount the EXPERIENCE of going to the opera. I will happily escort my husband on special occasions and when we find ourselves in cities boasting phenomenal operas. I enjoy the architecture and the feeling of being thrust back to another era. And the idea of attending La Scala in black tie is truly marvelous. Its just that I find my editorial instincts taking over and wondering why “I love you” couldn’t be said in a shorter amount of time. I find myself thinking a truly complicated plot could justify three full acts and my mind drifts to how those women sing in those tight corsets and why all opera singers are a little hefty. And then to this: when the man says, “dress as a boy and meet me in Verona” you know bad things will happen.

Railway in Birkenau

2010-11-28T09:20:00.001-08:00

Photo credit: Sig Other

Auschwitz

2010-11-28T09:18:00.000-08:00

It’s the stairs I’m struck by. From the first floor to the second, they’re terribly worn - warped and wobbly from years of use. We’re walking through the barracks and around the grounds of Auschwitz and I’m struck not by the numbers or the stories but by the stairs. Auschwitz is made of three parts: the original camp which was a former Polish army base, Birkenau which was built exclusively as an extermination camp and Auschwitz 3, the labor camp, which no longer exists.

As we travel from Auschwitz and Birkenau I ask about the stairs. I worry I’m not clear – I don’t know how to ask what I want to know. Agnieska, our young Polish guide, understands immediately. The wear, she tells me, is not from the footsteps of concentration camp victims – she knows that’s what I was thinking. It is not from any of the 80,000 shoes that represent a mere fifth of those who perished. The wear is from the shoes of visitors. “Remember,” she tells me, “the victims were here only five years. Visitors have been coming for over sixty.” Millions of feet stepping where victims stepped – tens of millions of visitors tracing the footsteps of one million victims – tracing but not fully getting the picture. I find comfort in the wear of the stairs of Auschwitz – comfort in the familiarity of dips and grooves. I’m not sure why. Maybe its knowing that so many have come to see – so many have come to try to understand – so many have come to remember. Or maybe it’s just that I fixate on the worn stairs and find comfort in the familiar amidst the unfathomable.

Agnieska doesn’t go into the room with 80,000 pairs of shoes. It’s the thing she cannot tolerate. The display of shoes, to her, is the most upsetting sight. It isn’t the shoes that bother me. It’s the wax. Across the hall from the shoes is another room with a display of brushes and combs on one side and a case holding tins and tins of wax and shoe polish. Shoe polish is something you take with you when you believe you are leaving home to build a life elsewhere – to live in a place where you want to look presentable, build a new community, celebrate family birthdays and anniversaries and weddings. Shoe polish is not something you take with you when you believe you are leaving home to die.

I ask Agnieska about herself – how she chose this job. I know she is not a Jew and I am struck by her youth – such a young woman to choose such a serious job. Her grandmother, she says, was sent to a labor camp in Germany during the war. As a girl, Agnieska would listen to her grandmother’s stories and became obsessed with the holocaust and so she studied history and Hebrew and became a guide so that the stories would continue. She speaks with great pride about her country – about the Polish people and how they suffered during the war. The camps, she is quick to point out, were not just for Jews. The Poles were the first prisoners of Auschwitz along with a few hundred Jewish intellectuals. As she speaks we walk slowly down the gravel road of Birkenau and snow begins to fall.

The barracks of Birkenau are lined up in neat rows, as they would be in any army base. They’re made of brick or wood. Row upon row of standing barracks followed by row upon row of ruins – skeletons of chimneys and outlines of buildings that once were - all precisely stacked up on either side of the long road to death. Past that, the woods – dense and beautiful – a sharp contrast to the haunted foreground. It is stunning in its simplicity, in its austerity, in its quiet. There are no signs blinking “death to the Jews”, no splashes of blood on the walls, no emaciated skeletons reaching from the dark. There are only barren buildings, scant photographs and the chill wind whistling between buildings once stuffed with humanity waiting for extinction. It is the familiar of this place that is so striking - the absolute everydayness of it. Sig Other notes that it is shockingly ordinary. Without thinking, I say it is actually beautiful in a way. He looks at me funny and walks on. I feel odd, using that word in this place. But it is, in a way. Or rather, stunning. It is orderly and ordinary and stunning in its simplicity.

Auschwitz does not bring you to your knees in the moment. There were no tears shed as I walked the long road that runs parallel to the railway track that leads from the entry gate of Birkenau to the memorial erected between the ruins of the gas chambers number two and three. Auschwitz sneaks up slowly – etching itself indelibly in your brain and cutting deep into your chest where it lives forever as a haunting memory of lives not lived.

Hail to the Snotty Chief

2010-11-06T06:53:00.000-07:00

I marvel at the brilliance that is seventeen. Seventeen means you can drive yourself, it means you can drive your siblings and your friends, it means you are old enough to self-regulate to a certain extent. Seventeen is accompanied by a fair amount of adult freedom and responsibility. It is also accompanied by a fair amount of insecurity and uncertainty and the emotional swings that come with adolescence.

Our seventeen year old, our Child One, has all of these things. She has lot of that adult freedom. She’s incredibly responsible and she comes and goes as she pleases. But she is not adult. She can’t vote. She can’t drink (not that she wants to). She is still, legally, a minor. Seventeen, I’m often reminded in spite of her poise and maturity, is still quite young. Take, as case in point, a moment with her earlier this week.

Child One had given a brilliant speech at a fancy Beverly Hills fundraiser a week prior. She was a little nervous. Her voice was maybe pitched a bit higher than normal. She held her head maybe a little more awkwardly than she might otherwise. But only those of us who know her best were aware of any of these flaws. The rest of the room saw her as brilliant and articulate and composed – a performance belying her few years – a performance worthy of a well-educated, secure adult. After her speech, several admirers approached – people who had never met her before – people impressed by her ability to speak with such command at so young an age. One man, a rather wealthy and powerful businessman, asked her where she intended to apply to college. And then he told her she could do anything – he told her she could be the next President of the United States.

This may seems silly – a grand statement from a complete stranger to such a young girl after hearing one speech on a Wednesday night in a ballroom in Beverly Hills. But the man meant it. And why not, really? Why shouldn’t Child One be anything she wants to be, even the President of the United States?

The excitement of her speech behind her, Child One re-engaged in the rigor of her daily life - she continued to obsess about schoolwork and SATs and college apps and internship and her senior project. Bedtime continued to come too late and mornings began too early and as anyone who lives a busy life can tell you, Child One started to break down. It started with a stuffy nose and deteriorated to a low grade coldy/flu bug. Our brilliant, strong, vibrant girl turned into a weak, sleepy, snotty little kitten.

And then last night, after anxious tossing and turning, after hours of organizing and re-organizing and sheep counting and white noise, Child One succumbed to the adolescent side of her seventeen year old self. Child One did, as she had when she was a tiny girl, what every small child does when they can’t self-soothe – when they can’t put themselves to sleep. Child One crept into our room at 3am and crawled into bed next to Sig Other. “I can’t sleep,” I heard her say. “Shhhh,” Sig Other soothed, patting her head, “stay here and I’ll put you to sleep.” Within three minutes, Child One was snoring soundly. So there we were – me, Sig Other, Beta Dog and Child One – all jammed into bed together. I knew that Sig Other wasn’t asleep – I knew he was trapped in an awkward twist, one arm under Child One, one around her back but neither moving so as not to wake the sweet girl. And I certainly wasn’t asleep, kept awake by the drone of the buzzsaw of Child One’s snotty snore. But neither of us would speak, lest we wake the sleeping child. And so I looked across the bed, past sleeping Beta Dog, past wakeful Sig Other and over at the now blissful Child One and I thought to myself, “oh look – there she is – the future President of the United States.”

Ground Control to Major Domo...

2010-11-03T22:57:00.000-07:00

I love rich people. I don’t mean people who are financially secure or people who don’t worry about paying for college or retirement or even people who have more than one home. I mean really rich people. The kind of people with staff. Not nanny or housekeeper staff. But full-time, round the clock, take care of everything staff. The kind of people who have a major domo. I met one of those people the other night at a dinner party meant as a social networking function for business women. I pulled into a fancy property through a fancy gate, handed my car off to a well-dressed valet and was met by a suited gentleman who introduced himself as “the Major Domo of the household” before whisking my coat and handbag away to a closet the size of my bedroom.

Major Domo. Sig Other’s fantasy – someone to organize the house, keep the pantry well-stocked, fix the little heres and theres that fall apart, stop working or otherwise fail to function at their highest capacity, someone to bathe and care for the beasts and finally, to bring Sig Other coffee and the paper in bed. The latter task we sorta figured out. The papers arrive via internet onto Sig Other’s bedside companion, the iPad. And most days (though I confess not EVERY day) coffee is delivered to him in bed by yours truly with a smile and a little dance. In fact, most tasks on the list of things that would be otherwise handled by the Major Domo are, in fact, handled by me. This is not to say I am without help. It would be ludicrous to suggest that I work full time AND manage to do every household task on my own. I have housekeepers and a gardener and pool man and even a part time assistant (though I desperately miss my last household assistant who doubled as a brilliant manny to Child Two – he was as good at Rock Band and Halo as running errands).

And yet I still consider it a great failing of my personal and professional life that I have no truly rich friends – no friends to offer up their vacation homes or whisk us away on the jet to their Mediteranean-moored yacht or private Italian villa. I’m not entirely sure how I’ve managed twenty plus years in a city full of rich people and have not one single stinking rich friend. Don’t get me wrong. I know some rich people. I’ve been invited to some rich peoples’ houses. But I don’t have any friends who are truly rich. Truly, sick money, filthy nasty full-time staff rich. Child One has failed us in this manner. She has lovely friends from her fancy private school. But none of them has fancy rich parents. None of them have vacation homes that they want to invite us to so we can all spend grand holidays together in exotic locales with delicious food and indulgent wines. Child Two has failed us as well on this front as he is simply not terribly social.

But lately, it doesn't seem to matter much. Lately, Sig Other and I have reasoned that we would be, in fact, very bad house guests. We’ve realized that being guests in someone else’s home, no matter how fancy, is not actually our idea of a good time. We like hotels where there is room service and maid service and a certain level of assumed privacy. And we like our own home where there is actual privacy. So the idea of really rich friends with fancy vacation homes may be a terrific fantasy, but in practice would serve us not at all. A major domo on the other hand…

Soldier of Fortune

2010-10-20T07:51:00.000-07:00

Child two is a killer. Well, not really. But he, like many boys his age, has a penchant for guns and martial arts and first person shooter video games and all things violent. He does karate three days a week. He’s a purple belt and works with a bowstaff. And every Sunday, Child Two plays a vicious day-long game of paintball at a place called “Field of Fire”. Field of Fire lives just off the I-5 near places like Magic Mountain and that horrid place the boy had his birthday party with bad pizza and worse ice cream and lots of video games and go-carts. But Field of Fire is not a place of kiddie parties and ice cream cones. Real men go there. Real men who drive real trucks and come to the game fully loaded with gear and guns and team t-shirts that say things like “Hitmen” and “Hellfire”. And Child Two loves its.

Child Two, in his Monday through Saturday life, is the same gentle, sweet boy he always was. Nothing has changed in his general persona. He is still kind. He is still thoughtful. He is still smarter than the average bear. And he is still a wee bit socially awkward. He’s a little shy really. And sort of dreamy. When he was a very small boy he would stand on the soccer field mid-game and sort of stare into the sky. Zoning out? Maybe. But Ex-Wife and I preferred to think he was thinking Deep Thoughts. Now that he’s older he spends his weekdays diligently attending to homework and engaging in his Hebrew studies.

But on Sundays he transforms. On Sundays, he becomes a well-armed, well-prepared soldier on the battlefield of paintball strategy. On Sundays, he becomes “Nate Dog.” I didn’t know about “Nate Dog” until I did drop off a few Sundays ago. Ex-Wife has bourne the burden of drop-off for the past few months but there was a day she was unavailable and so Child Two asked, albeit sheepishly, about whether I could take him. “I know you don’t approve,” he started, “but would you consider taking me to paintball this weekend?” SO sweet was the request, so innocent and wide eyed that I could do nothing but agree to ferry the sweet boy to his favorite weekend activity.

Sunday morning arrived, boy geared up and we hopped in the car and headed north. We arrived at the land of paint and honey bright and early. The theme from “Deliverance” popped into my head and involuntarily out of my mouth as we swung onto the dirt road leading to the parking lot. Child Two chided me and shook his head. “It isn’t a redneck sport,” he said, although I’m not sure he knows what that means. I pulled up between two rugged Ford trucks and Child Two hopped quickly out of the car, grabbed his bags of gear and ammo, and sauntered immediately off in the general direction of the slowly gathering crowd.

I noticed he wasn’t particularly interesting in me hanging around – in fact, he was sort of ignoring me. And I noticed that rather than place his bags of gear on the tables set up for gamers, he swung them onto the back of a bright yellow truck made dim by mud and gave a nod of greeting to the man – the grown man – who was clearly the truck’s owner and was, in that moment, seriously engaged in donning pads and protective gear and cleaning his guns and laying out ammo for the day’s battles. “Hey Nate-Dog,” the man nodded, “wassup?” Child Two – whom I had never heard referred to as “Nate” and is most certainly NOT a Nate-Dog in my book – merely nodded a “hey” and proceeded to join the man in his war prep efforts.

I walked over to the shack to sign waivers that release the battlefield purveyors of any liability and then went over to say goodbye. “Bye,” he said, barely looking up. He didn’t want me to stay. He didn’t really want to acknowledge that he’d been dropped off by a parent at all. He didn’t need me. My heart, in that moment, cracked a tiny bit and soared all at the same time. Child Two was growing up. Child Two would no longer be the boy who needed a parent around all the time. Child Two was becoming a young man who had figured out a place for himself in a world of men – a strange world of men but a world, nonetheless. I drove off, humming the tune from Deliverance and smiling to myself ever so slightly.

Last weekend I dropped the boy off again, this time with two of his friends. They’re teenagers, older than Child Two by a few grades and awkward in the way adolescent boys on the brink of manhood are. The teenagers were greeted by the burly crowd with a “look there, the girls are back in town.” But my boy got a nod of respect, a rub of the head and a “Hey Nate-Dog, wassup?”

We tease Child Two that he's in training to become a soldier of fortune. That paintball and karate will combine to provide a skillset most useful to a mercenary. Not a bad business, perhaps, in this modern world. The irony, of course, is that his sister is thinking of majoring in human rights. Sig Other and I fantasize about a future where brother and sister meet on the battlefield – Child Two the strategic leader of men fighting to protect an oppressed people, and Child One as an aide worker or war correspondent covering the event. They will reunite and hug and laugh as they did as small children, and then go on to continue the fight – each in their own way.

Sing Like You Really Mean It...

2010-10-14T20:51:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I never really understood why people went to church although everyone I knew did. I thought it was perhaps because they felt guilty. I grew up in a neighborhood of Catholics and Mormons and Born Again Christians. So I assumed they were all going to church on Sunday to confess, to take communion and to be absolved of the guilt of their bad behavior from the previous week. And this may have been true. For some of them. But it may also have been true that some of them went to church for reasons having nothing to do with guilt or bad behavior or obligation. Maybe some of them went to church because they just liked it.

Lately I’ve been going to temple every week. It started because Child Two has Hebrew school on Saturdays. In the beginning, Sig Other would drop the boy off and go for his morning ride. But every now and then, Sig Other would have a conflict and I would do the drop off. Child Two is just a little boy (though he’s almost as tall and certainly outweighs me by now) and I so felt it right to walk him in. And once in a while, I felt compelled to stay a while.

Week after week I’d go for drop off. And once in a while turned into more often than not. And I’d end up staying. At first it was just an hour. Then it was two and then longer and then time and time again I’d find myself staying for the whole service. Temple on a Saturday morning can be fun. It’s terribly social. There’s tea and sometimes snacks and often a group of folks sitting around outside chatting and avoiding the services entirely. And sometimes I’ll join them. Sometimes I’ll mill back and forth between the inner and outer worlds. But lately, more often than not, I find myself hunkering down. Lately, more often than not, I find myself really engaging – following along and yes, even singing like I really mean it.

For most of my life, I made fun of people who sing like they mean it. It was a joke to me. “Oh,” I’d say when being told about someone earnest, “does she close her eyes when she sings? Does she sing like she really means it?” To me, singing like you mean it indicated a kind of weakness. Singing like you really mean it was for people whose hearts bled, who were evil do-gooders, who looked right in your eyes when they spoke and pledged sincerity at all times. Those people, I was convinced, lacked irony. They didn’t share my innate cynicism. They were, I decided, simple.

But here’s where it gets kind of messy. Here’s where inherent cynicism clashes with conventional action. Standing in synagogue, joining a congregation with voices lifted in song can be moving – can transport me to a place of deep emotion – to a place some people could call – even I would perhaps call “spiritual”.

I hate to admit – I hesitate to bend to definition I would find abhorrent, but the truth is there are times I find standing in temple, singing with a group of people sort of spiritual. I sing in Hebrew – I don’t really know the words or what they mean – but I’ve heard them so often now I can sing a transliterated version of prayers and understand they all basically say the same thing – God is great, God is fabulous, God should be held in awe. And I sing and I know I don’t hold these beliefs in the literal sense of the word but I do feel something – I feel transported, I feel elevated and moved and deeply emotional. I feel like I’m praying.

Praying. What does that mean. Here’s what Wikipedia says about prayer:

Prayer is a form of religious practice that seeks to activate a volitional connection to a god or spirit through deliberate practice. Prayer may be either individual or communal and take place in public or in private. It may involve the use of words or song. When language is used, prayer may take the form of a hymn, incantation, formal creedal statement, or a spontaneous utterance in the praying person. There are different forms of prayer such as petitionary prayer, prayers of supplication, thanksgiving, and worship/praise. Prayer may be directed towards a deity, spirit, deceased person, or lofty idea, for the purpose of worshipping, requesting guidance, requesting assistance, confessing sins or to express one's thoughts and emotions. Thus, people pray for many reasons such as personal benefit or for the sake of others.

AH HAH!!! That’s it. I stand in shul and close my eyes and sing like I really mean it because I’m PRAYING. And it’s ok to pray even though I can’t say for sure that I believe in God. It’s ok to pray even though I may not be praying to God at all. Maybe I'm praying to connect to a lofty idea. Maybe I'm praying to confess or to express a thought or emotion. Maybe it doesn't matter at all why i'm there as long as I know that it really is ok to sing with my eyes closed – to sing like I really mean it.

Last Tango in... Auschwitz?

2010-10-11T22:51:00.000-07:00

Sig Other and I like to travel abroad on Thanksgiving. Very few Americans are willing to give up their turkey and football and stuffing and pie and leave the country over the Thanksgiving holiday. Americans are definitely traveling then. But they’re flying to Detroit or Atlanta or Peewaukie or Portland. No one expects Americans to leave the country during the four blessed days of patriotic celebration. We’re meant to be stateside, snug in our fireplace-fueled homes stuffing our faces with dry bird, constipating stuffing and oversweet tubers topped with sticky sweet sugars. We’re not expected to be in Marrakesh or Paris or Rome. But those are the places Sig Other and I have gone for the past several years. No ten-day minimum, no black out days, no holiday premiums. Because Thanksgiving isn’t a holiday anywhere else in the world.

So this year, we thought “Argentina”. Where better to head than South? What more enticing than the land of Tango and Dulce du Leche? We spun fantasies of warm wind brushing over bare skin as we shopped for leather and planned our late night dinners in the lively city of Buenos Ares. But plans are not always easy and logistics conspired to make the notion of traveling such a long way for such a short time entirely unattractive and seemingly untenable. Our ever-efficient travel agent had, however, already done some early legwork and we were committed to a particular airline. Thus our trip would be restricted to the destinations on that particular airline’s hub. Tahiti was sold out. So were Paris and Amsterdan. London reminded me of work and Hawaii was just.. Hawaii. And then there was Prague. We could get to Prague pretty easily, Sig Other had never been there and was, after all, of Czech descent. He wanted to take the children to Prague to show them the Jewish ghetto with its famous cemetery and I thought how long it had been since I’d last visited the beautiful city and got excited about seeing how it had changed over the last decade. And so we decided. And so Prague it is. Tickets are booked and we’ll soon be on our way.

Prague, it turns out, is quite is near Brno, the birthplace of Sig Other’s father. And as Sig Other has never been to his father’s hometown, we’ve added that as a destination as well. And Brno is not terribly far from Auschwitz where Sig Other’s grandmother and great aunt perished during the war. And so that is a destination now as well. I tried to throw my grandparents hometown in as well but was told that, in addition to the town being in the opposite direction, my grandparents hadn't perished in the holocaust and therefore did not get a place on the itinerary. This, Sig Other pointed out, was a trip about his dead family members. His family perished in the war. Mine did not. Therefore his family history would take precedence.

So somehow, due to inconvenient layovers and ill-fated mileage transfer, our sunny, sexy sojourn to the South has become a chilly trek through Holocaust history. We’ll end our trip in Vienna where no one we know died and I have promised Child Two a trip to the Hotel Sacher Wien for a taste of its famous Sacher Torte (mit schlag of course!). But I’m still trying to figure out how my trip to learn tango turned into a tour of the dead Jews of Eastern Europe…

Damn you, Daisy Buchanan

2010-10-10T17:43:00.000-07:00

"All right...I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool."

The Great Gatsby

Chapter 1, Daisy on her newborn girl.

Child One is melting down. SAT prep, college essays, regular homework, honors homework, the speech she has to write for a fundraiser, the horse she doesn’t have time to ride, the boyfriend who disappointed, the best girlfriend who disappointed more – all these things are taking their toll and the morning began with great heaving sobs and a snotty mess. “I’m not going to get into a top school” caterwauled into “I’m disappointing”, snuffled past a few other indecipherable exclamations and ended finally at utter despair and a muffled, “I’m not extraordinary.”

I think of myself as being rather solid in my ability to deal with Child One’s teenage meltdowns. I recognize when they result from exhaustion, hormones or a particular incident. But this one sort of stumped me. This one moved past glistening tears of woe and built to a good hour of full body-wracking sobs. I soothed her through the college anxiety – of course, I assured her, you will get into a great school. I worked to unwind the myth of disappointment and assure her that is the last thing anyone in her life feels. But the final statement proved harder to debunk. The final statement gave me pause. Because the final statement – I am not extraordinary – is one that haunts me daily and has for most of my life.

This question of being extraordinary – of living an extraordinary life – may be unanswerable. It may be that even those most of us would consider extraordinary suffer from feeling not quite good enough from time to time. The genius who makes a scientific breakthrough, the mother who devotes herself daily to the needs of her handicapped child, the scholar, the day laborer, the teacher, the doctor - who gets to decide which is extraordinary and how did we, each of us, get the idea that our self worth is somehow defined by that which is so ethereal?

To me, Child One is absolutely extraordinary. She is at the top of her class. She is adored by her teachers, she is an amazing writer and was chosen to be the single student speaker in all of Southern California at a charity event in a few weeks. And through it all, she remains a lovely human – a good friend, a concerned sister, an engaged and attentive daughter. That combination of intelligence and caring, of presence and poise, of big heart with a dash of cynicism add up to a sum total of something truly out of the ordinary. Particularly when embodied in a seventeen year old girl. But Child One is also smart enough, and aware enough, to know that she is not the absolute best at everything. Her equestrian skills are solid. But she is not the best rider in the ring. She is an excellent student, but it doesn’t all come easily. She works hard, she’s intensely disciplined and wildly diligent.

And so here is where I start to think about Daisy Buchanan and what she said of her daughter. Here is where I start to wonder if Daisy was right. A little fool – a beautiful little fool – might not worry so much about raising her SAT score from very, very good to excellent. A little fool might re-write her speech one less time or go more quickly over her studies before a test. A little fool might not notice that her friend who she thought was smart and loyal is really just an insecure girl with an obsessive crush. And a little fool might not think, ever once in her whole life, about whether or not she is extraordinary.

The point is this – sometimes being smart, being good at things and excelling is a lot harder than being mediocre. That feeling that nothing is ever good enough – nothing is ever as good as it could be – will follow my sweet Child One around wherever she goes for the rest of her life. Her father has it. I have it. Most people I know have it. And we all wear it like heavy armor.

So I understand Daisy. I know why she would wish her daughter “a little fool.” But I’m awfully glad Child One is not – I’m awfully glad my little girl is burdened with the complexity of intelligence and ambition and that she lives with the double-edged sword of self-awareness.

Porch light?

2010-10-06T22:55:00.000-07:00

Child One and her first boyfriend broke up a few weeks ago. To Sig Other, it’s been a lifetime. To Child One, it was long enough ago that heartache is past but too soon to move on. Her porch light, as they say, is not yet back on. Sig Other would like her to move on already. Fatherly instinct compels him to suggest that one of her close friends might be a perfect mate. She believes it is too soon to move on, too soon to focus her affections elsewhere. But Sig Other persists. “Relationships,” he tells her, “heal in direct proportion to their length – one week for every year you’re together. You and the grocer’s son were together a few months. That means it should only take you a few days to get over him.” I balk at this, of course. “No,” I say, “that is not the formula at all. Healing time is half the total duration of the relationship.”

Even as the words escape my lips I realize what we have is a true example of boy time vs. girl time. In boy time, relationships are to be quickly moved past, pain to be brushed aside and life to be gotten on with. This is not to say that men grieve less than women, nor is it to suggest that the male psyche is incapable of feeling the depth of loss any less than women. It is, however, to argue that men have a harder time being alone – that their need for companionship is greater and therefore their time between relationships – appropriate or not – is significantly shorter. A widower is likely to marry within a year of the death of his wife. But a widow is likely to stay a widow after the loss of her husband.

Sig Other doesn’t like to be alone. He will say that is wrong. He will tell you he is a strong, independent male who calls his own shots, runs free with the wolves and is perfectly happy alone. But the truth is, he doesn’t like it at all. The truth is, Sig Other likes being alone about as much as he likes flying coach across the country – as in, not at all. And the good news, for him anyway, is that he is alone about as frequently as he flies coach across the country – as in, not at all. Sig Other has staff, he has friends, he has children, he has dogs and he has me. Those of us not paid to be in his presence actually quite enjoy it. Sig Other has fostered an environment of cozy togetherness. The children, the dogs, and I all like to be in close proximity whenever possible. And so alone is not something he must experience but for those rare moments he chooses to.

Child One doesn’t care to be alone either. She likes to be cozy and will choose company over solitude at all times. But Child One is also particular. She has good girlfriends and good guy friends and more than enough parents and dogs to fill whatever void is left by the absence of one inattentive young man. And so, Child One feels no need to move on, no need to feel the space left by her first boyfriend with her next boyfriend just because there IS a space to fill. She will wait for the RIGHT boyfriend, for the right moment for the right boyfriend and then slowly, carefully, turn the porch light back on to let the boy know its time to come calling…

Fall...

2010-10-04T22:28:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago it was 83 degrees at almost midnight. Tonite its 53 and drizzly and I’m suddenly realizing how much I missed this summer. It was never hot this summer. Not really. Never officially sweltering in the way the San Fernando Valley can get at the height of the long summer days. The concrete never got so hot that you could lay yourself out on it in the chilly night air to warm your bones. The hills never got so tinderbox dry that looking at them sent chills down my spine. The house never got so hot from days on end of triple digit temperatures that our air conditioning shut down in fatigue and sheer humiliation.

And now it is officially fall. Summer, lost in a chilly fog that shrouded much of Southern California, is technically over. The grey misty air that dominated the long days and robbed us of the joy of a late night swim sealed the fate of the memory of those months. Only last week’s few sweltering nights of Indian Summer – Harvest Moon hanging heavy in thick hot air – reminded me of what I love so much about the summer – what I love so much about summer in the valley – in the undignified “818”. That thick valley night heat hung heavy and sexy and dangerous for five whole days and nights. It was sad and romantic and thrilling. And it reminded me of younger days and of different times - not better but perhaps more vibrant.

Pardon me for sounding morose – I’m not really. It’s just that Sig Other is away as he was most of the summer, working like a man driven by unseen demons riding him to success. And I worked harder in my 44^th year than I have in any prior. So summer passed in a foggy haze, too quick and not particularly memorable. There were milestones along the way – births and divorces and deaths – too many deaths. It was neither hot nor cold. Neither wildly fun nor terribly miserable. It was just a few months of no school for the kids that flowed quickly into shorter days with busy schedules. Summer 2010 was a quick blip on the calendar of our lives.

Going out in style...

2010-09-25T14:08:00.000-07:00

When I die, Sig Other will buy a Rolls Royce with the money left him by my life insurance. We’ve discussed it at length. It will be a convertible. It might be vintage and it might be chocolate brown and shadow gray with tan interior. He will, of course, be sad that I’m gone. He will, of course miss me. Surely, he will be downright inconsolable as he drives his shiny new car. But he will also be able to finally afford it and so will experience his grief in style. That is, of course, before he takes his next wife.

These are the sorts of conversations we have about the future. I will die first and he will get the car of his dreams. It all seems very simple. We don’t talk about what would happen if he should die first. We used to. He used to tell me that it was my responsibility to arrange his funeral – a grand affair at the Hollywood Bowl where the Philharmonic (guest conducted by Zubin Mehta) would play Beethoven’s 9^th Symphony as his body burned on a pyre center stage (Sig Other’s body, that is. Not Zubin Mehta’s). But now we just talk about the Rolls Royce.

We’re lucky, Sig Other and I. So far (and I write this knocking superstitiously on all things wooden around me), we have our health. As do most of our friends. But we’re getting older and at some point, time and fate will step in and do what they do. I hope we handle it all rather elegantly. I hope we manage to sail through with little pain and a modicum of dignity. But mostly I hope my sweetheart gets his Rolls Royce much, much later in life…

Whozzat?

2010-09-23T23:28:00.000-07:00

Best Friend B has a glorious female offspring with bouncy blonde curls and an extraordinarily sunshiny personality. Baby N is funny and sweet and curious and unabashedly friendly. And Baby N is also slightly self-centric as is fitting a girl of her age. At twenty months, she is thoroughly convinced that the world, quite rightly, revolves around her. And so whenever we take walks together or venture out into the world or even sit quietly in a restaurant, she will point to any nearby stranger and asks, “who’s that?”

“Ask” may be too gentle a word in most cases, for in truth, Baby N is truly demanding an answer. If ignored, “who’s that” may be repeated several times and in fact, may even be shouted directly into the offender’s face until an answer is proffered. Sometimes the stranger is entertained. After all, Baby N is truly adorable. And sometimes the stranger is simply taken aback. Baby N’s demands can be jarring. Its not often one sees a child so young who is also so adamant.

But Baby N is a determined young lady. Pity the fool who takes her kindly nature for granted, for she is an indomitable force when pushed beyond her limits. Sure, Baby N is charming and sweet and largely good-natured. But force her to walk one way when she prefers another, or pick her up when all she wants is down, and God help you. Likewise, refuse to respond to her little-girl need to know exactly who is entering her bubble, and suffer an endless string of “whozzat” until she gets a satisfactory answer.

Mostly, Baby N is an endless source of entertainment and fascination for me. She is pure, unadulterated narcissism. The world is her domain and anyone in it must be explained – nay – justified. I’m not sure at what point pure narcissism transforms – at what point she will become aware of other people in her looking glass. I’m delighted to watch her grow but sad to know that someday she will know the world was not made only for her.

The bitter and the sweet...

2010-09-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

Its an odd thing to say, but I love Yom Kippur. It is, in fact, my favorite day of the year. Its strange really – the idea that the day of atonement, a day of fasting and prayer that most people think of as a chore or as penance – the idea that this day could be my favorite among so many (notwithstanding my birthday which is still one of my favorite days of the year despite the march of time). But I do love it. I love its solemnity and its quietude. I love a forced shutdown and I love the ritual of it all. I love the time spent learning and talking about stories from the Torah.

I did the 10Q this year. The 10Q is a sort of hippy-dippy Reboot questionnaire – one question each night between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur – one question to answer about something in your life, something personal, something intimate. The answers can be anonymous and they are locked away in the 10Q vault. One year from now, an email will arrive as a reminder of the questions and our answers. One year from now we get the opportunity to see how right we were in our predictions, how far we ventured from our imagined paths, how little we accomplished of our stated goals. Its very Jewish, actually, this idea of recording these things and locking them away.

I fear I don’t have great expectations for the year ahead on a macro level. I predicted the housing market would not recover. I predicted war in Israel. I predicted a distressing amount of damage to the Democratic party and a lack of recovery for the California education system. On a sunnier note, I predicted that Child One would get into a wonderful university and that Sig Other’s business would continue to thrive.

What I cannot predict, and what I dare not think about, is what will happen in the minutae of the forward movements of the days – today, tomorrow, the day after. I cannot predict who Child Two will be one year from now any more than I could have told you a year ago that he would be the marvelous young man he is today. I cannot predict the little things that make seemingly insignificant moments carry such weight.

Child One broke up with her boyfriend tonight. Her tears and sadness were assuaged first by coffee ice cream, and next by an email announcing that she would be the invited speaker at a fundraising event for a major philanthropic organization in one month’s time. Her tears of sorrow over the boy were replaced instantly by tears of joy at her success. A beat later came acknowledgement – if she could be made happy so easily by this achievement, then perhaps the boy had not been so important to her after all. Indeed. All things worth considering as we begin 5771 and hope that we have been written in the book for one more year. ..

Please sir, may I have another key?

2010-09-06T17:18:00.000-07:00

Sig Other and I never took a honeymoon. Its not that we didn’t want to. But life takes over (or as Best Friend B says, “Man plans and God laughs”) and we just never found the time. We’ve tried a few times to take a couples vacation, but just haven’t been able to swing it. There was the time we planned a romantic trip for two to Rome. But then Child One asked to come along. And when your teenage daughter ASKS to spend time with you, “No” is a thought that never enters your head. But the summer has been a long one and time off scarce, so I finally managed to plan a few days off, alone with Sig Other on a weekend when the children were scheduled to be with BioMom.

Cut to Fancy Adult Camp – a luxurious, adults only resort high on an idyllic cliff top overlook fog (er, um, I mean spectacular ocean – somewhere down there). Fancy Adult Camp is a no car zone. Guests go from room to spa to dining area to meditation pond via a meandering road shaded by canopies of cedar and redwood trees. Fancy Adult Camp smells good. And when you check in to Fancy Adult Camp, they give you one key.

The one key thing didn’t really occur to me as I breathed in the clean Pacific air. It didn’t occur to me as I marveled at the blissful view and listened to the sound of utter relaxation. The one key thing didn’t really strike me until about twenty minutes after settling in, when I wanted to go one way and Sig Other wanted to go another.

One key assumes you and your partner will be spending all your time together. One key assumes you book side-by-side activities and presupposes a sort of 100% romantic symbiosis that I hadn’t planned. One key does NOT assume that you will want to go to the pool while your Sig Other naps, it does NOT assume that you will want to hike around the property while your Sig Other downloads a document from the one corner of the hotel with decent Wi-Fi. It does not assume any alone time factored into romantic couple time.

The one key policy made me realize I may not be so good at this whole relaxing vacation thing. Padding down the path alone to the meditation tub in my green robe and fuzzy slippers, I felt a little self-conscious. It felt somehow wrong to be solo on a path in a couple’s retreat headed to the meditation pool. I realized I wouldn’t be doing any meditating. I would be reading. On my iPad. A lot. Sort of the opposite of meditating really. I wasn't looking inward at all. I was planning to look outward. A great deal.

But then I got to the meditation tub and saw there was only one other person there. Another woman. Alone. No Sig Other in sight. And she was reading TATLER. I felt better and settled in for a read, a lot less worried about the napping Sig Other and our one key.

#FF

2010-08-14T17:29:00.000-07:00

Twitter introduced the “#FF” and we tweeters know that stands for “Follow Fridays”. In Twitter world, #FF is a way to recommend new friends to like-minded followers and discover new and exciting people to follow. But in my world, FF stands for something else. In my world, FF stands for Filter Free (or “FFF”, as in Filter Free Fridays).

The term “filter free” was originated by Child One and is oft-times accompanied by an emphatic gesture – her hand waving up and down in front of her mouth as she looks at her father and says, “Daddy! Filter!!!” Because sometimes, Sig Other says something out loud that perhaps he should not. Sometimes, Sig Other says things that we may all think but only he gives voice to. Sometimes, Sig Other struggles to adhere to the constraints of polite society.

It isn’t that he’s impolite, exactly. It’s just that he mostly says what he means. And mostly he manages to do so in a way that is not terribly offensive. Mostly. To be specific, Sig Other’s filter – the one that thoughts usually pass through before coming out his mouth – is more porous than some. He was raised, the son of a diplomat, in embassies all over the world, and so the filter engages fully at cocktail parties and in boardrooms and in ways which allow him to function most days quite successfully.

But something happens on Fridays. Some diabolical demon of destruction comes and lays waste to whatever thin membrane exists between every waking thought in that big brain and the impulse to express them. The breakdown begins at sunset and often carries through the weekend. And hence we dubbed these lapses “Filter Free Fridays”.

As Filter Free Fridays coincide with the Sabbath, witnesses are most often family and closest friends. Sig Other lets loose at the dinner table and, depending on mood and amount of sleep, can continue his Filter Free state through an entire weekend. There is Filter Free Frankness, known to most as inappropriately naked candor. And Filter Free Fun, which is often a song, a limerick, or loud scatological freestyling. Filter Free Fridays can manifest in public as well as in private. This can be as slight as a naughty joke or as massive as a loud outburst in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Mostly, Filter Free Fridays are entertaining. At worst they are embarrassing. Very rarely they are offensive.

On the rare occasion that the triple F manifests at the outward edge of acceptable, I consider becoming a Monday through Thursday wife. Why, I wonder, must I accept my role as wife of a part-time victim of temporary Tourettes? But along with the pain brought by lack of filter, there is also and quite often, great joy. Hilarious, uproarious hijinx are born of the filter free zone. And laughter accompanies Friday nights in as great measure as pain. On the rare occasion that I miss the filter, I remind myself that my vows were not “in politeness and in health”, they were not “until unbridled truth do you part”. And I knew about the Triple F long before we married. So I carry on and wait for the adventure ahead.

Brother, can you spare a dime?

2010-08-10T22:26:00.001-07:00

Sig Other is diligent about the Jewish custom of “tzedakah”. He gives generously to organizations both religious and political. He’s sort of a softy for someone who presents so tough and he can be moved to tears (though he would deny it) by the plight of the oppressed. And he will always, always give money to those in need on the street. There is always an extra dollar in his pocket, always an extra few in the car.

But recently, Sig Other has decided that isn’t quite enough. Recently, Sig Other has been moved by something else: bad messaging. It all started when we saw a young man sitting at the freeway entrance holding a sign reading: ILL – PLEASE HELP. “That’s bad branding,” said Sig Other, spritzing with Purell after handing the young man some cash. “I could help that guy. If he just changed his brand, he’d do a lot better. No one wants to get close to a guy who is sick.” Admittedly, not everyone processes tzedakah through the lens of a self-professed germaphobe, but I had to admit, I could see his point.

Later that same day we saw an older gentleman with two signs. One said: HUNGRY. The other: MEG WHITMAN DEVIL GOLDMAN SACHS EVIL DESTROYERERS OF THE WORLD. With the first sign, Sig Other could find no flaw. Simple, to the point. The second sign? Bad messaging. Meg Whitman might be the devil and Goldman Sachs may be responsible for the end of the world but that doesn’t make the sign a good fundraising tool. California, as Sig Other pointed out, is the state that vetoed gay marriage the first time around and voted the Terminator into office. So there’s a damn good chance at least half the hungry guy’s audience who may have been sympathetic to his digestive plight was just turned off by his political dogma and rolled their stuffy windows back up.

And then came the last straw. Then came the day that Sig Other walked down a street in Vancouver, Canada and saw a man holding a sign that said, “Hungry???” The man was eating a sandwich. This was, without question, a clear case of poor advertising. Sig Other could stop himself no longer. He offered a dollar. And then he offered more. “This,” he said to the sandwich-eater, “is a bad sign. I’m confused by your messaging. Are you asking if I’m hungry? Or are you suggesting that being hungry is something to question? And if you are trying to sell your hunger in order to get money, don’t you think it’s a bad idea to be eating a sandwich at the same time that you are holding the sign? Is it that you are offering ME the sandwich? Do you see what I’m saying?” Of course the man did not see, and in that moment possibly wondered how he had attracted someone so intense and passionate (or perhaps someone so crazy). He continued to eat his sandwich, looked down at the dollar and said, “American?”

In spite of (or perhaps because of) this response, Sig Other has made a new pledge. In addition to giving money to anyone in need, he also now pledges to help build their brand. He will, for instance, explain to the sick guy that perhaps that “ill” may not be the message to lead with. Or he may say to the Meg Whitman Hater that he would be better served keeping his political agenda to himself. In this way, Sig Other feels he is bringing more than just cash to the transaction. Or, in his words, “I’m giving away my intellectual property. And that is the most valuable thing I have.” So now, in addition to checks written and donations logged, Sig Other has found an even better way to fulfilling the mandate of tzedakah – a couple of bucks and a bit of advice.

LOST: One Clitoris. Not mine.

2010-08-05T22:40:00.000-07:00

Child Two loves the movies. He loves war movies and sci-fi movies and action movies. But mostly, he loves comedy. He’s seen Talledega Nights so many times he can recite Will Farrell’s entire grace monologue on command. He watches as many comedies as we’ll take him to and I knew he was dying to see “Dinner with Schmucks.” So what better way to flex my stepmom muscle than to offer him a mid-day movie excursion. Opening day. Just the two of us.

Comedy has always proved elusive to me. What one person may find hilarious, another can find deeply dull or downright stupid. And often, Child Two finds uproarious 11-year old boy humor in things I find utterly disdainful. But we were both completely in sync when it came to the brand of humor in this particular movie. Minute after unfunny minute passed and we hung in there, thinking surely this must pass and surely the comedy would kick in any second.

Finally, we got to the “dinner” of the “Dinner with Schmucks” and the Schmuck explains why his wife left him. He lost her clitoris, he explains to a roomful of guests. He didn’t know what it was and so he didn’t know WHERE it was. At one point he thought maybe it was under the couch but that turned out to be just a piece of gum. On and on he goes about the lost bit of anatomy and deeper and deeper I sink into my seat, stealing sideways glances at Child Two and praying that he is not stealing sideways glances at me. “Please,” I pray silently, “please don’t let him lean over and ask me what a clitoris is.”

The moment passed and I sat rigid through the remainder of the movie hoping he wouldn’t remember this particular bit of unfunny to bring up as we discussed the myriad unfunny moments throughout the unfunny film. Thankfully, Child Two let slide this wildly uncomfortable PG-13 moment. Perhaps he knows what a clitoris is and doesn’t need to ask. Perhaps he doesn’t know what it is but knows enough to know that asking would yield a wildly uncomfortable conversation better had with his father than his stepmother. Or perhaps he doesn’t know, didn’t recognize my discomfort and just brushed it off as yet another unfunny moment he didn’t quite get. Whatever the reason, I escaped unquestioned and deeply grateful.

Two nights later, I was talking to a friend who sat through the same movie with his nine-year old son. My friend brought up the same scene, the same twinge of discomfort, the same lack of little boy response. We laughed about it and I walked away feeling slightly better about what I had assumed to be my failing as a stepmother – my inability to confront questions of sexuality with my stepson. I had assumed that stepmotherness inhibited my ability to speak frankly with Child Two about the female anatomy. But it turns out my failing was entirely unrelated to my step-status. My failing is simply that of the typical adult.

Sig Other, I’m sure, would scoff at my prudishness and declare it uniquely American. He would most likely have used the opportunity to launch into a technical discussion of labia and its surrounds that would have mortified Child Two in the moment but fascinated him in the long run. And I would have simply ducked for cover. But Sig Other was not at the movie and so Child Two suffers no such embarrassment. I, however, am left wondering when (if not already) the boy will know that a clitoris is truly not something that looks like a piece of gum under a couch…

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall...

2010-08-03T22:33:00.000-07:00

Our cable isn’t working properly. If all systems were go, I would have scanned the cable guide and landed on some fabulously mindless reality tv – a lullaby by which to sleep. But the cable isn’t working so I played roulette with the remote control and landed by pure accident on a movie channel playing a film a worked on early in my career. It’s sort of famous, really, and though I almost never reference my work in this blog it would be hard to convey the shock of my night without at least pointing out that this particular film was wildly successful and much referenced.

What was most fascinating was not watching the film for the first time in almost fifteen years – although it has certainly been at least that long since I last saw it in full. Nor was the most fascinating thing how well the film held up – the technique and story are superior. Nope. What was most fascinating was how young the actors looked. I turned to Sig Other at one point and said, “my God, look how young they are!” And it occurred to me in that moment that if they looked young – if those men who spent thousands – maybe tens of thousands – on doctors and facialists and treatments and creams to stay young – if those men looked wildly different to me today than they did then, what must I look like? How old do I look? Oh my god – am I a hag? Cuz those guys on the screen, those lovely, smooth skinned men now look really, really old and wrinkly to me.

Sig Other, in his infinite wisdom, assured me that looking the same as I looked fifteen years ago was not necessarily a good thing and in fact, some things look better with age. And I suppose that is true. I do stare longingly at my lemon trees wishing they had the stocky trunks and sturdy structure of those more mature. But I’m hard pressed to think of other great examples of things that are young that I wish to grow old. Ok, so my lemon trees. And a bottle or two of wine in my closet. Sig Other grows more handsome by the day. But not my dogs, not my children and not me. Younger is better. Almost all of the time.

Say what???

2010-07-30T23:00:00.000-07:00

Child One got a 99% on her UCLA Philosophy of Religion mid-term. I told her she was brilliant. And that her genetic briliance must come from me. That, and her slightly Jewy nose. She finds this terribly funny, as do I, because of course Child One is not related to me by blood.

Child One’s Philosophy of Religion course has generated a lot of conversation in our house. Conversation and, sometimes, controversy. Controversy generated by stupidity and insecurity. My own, of course. The conversation went awry the other night, as we were discussing belief in God. We talked about believers and non-believers. Here’s what Sig Other said of me, “You don’t know what you believe. You just have lots of questions.” And here’s what I heard, “You’re an idiot.” This is, to be clear, not remotely what he meant. In fact, he would describe himself as someone asking questions. And, in fact, Judaism is a religion that is all about a relationship of questions. And yet I took offense, I heard something else, something Sig Other did not mean.

So I spent the next day thinking about why I would leap to such a place – why I would default to insecurity. Sig Other had touched a nerve. But the nerve he touched wasn’t about believing or not believing. The nerve he touched wasn’t about asking questions. The nerve he touched was about not having spent enough time or energy searching for the answers to those questions.

“Do whatever you want in life but be the best at whatever it is you choose.” That’s what we were taught, my sisters and me. And it’s a great message for the most part. The flip side is a quest for perfectionism that is often left unfulfilled. I am not a perfectionist. Not by a longshot. And the years spent not dedicating myself 100% to the pursuit of knowledge is coming home to roost in ways I find unbearable. I yearn for more hours to read, to study, to learn. And yet I know that if the pursuit of knowledge were truly a priority, I would rearrange my life to make it so. Work would remain unchanged, but I would let someone else buy the groceries, make the gourmet meals, entertain at their house. Time spent creating a particular environment for my family would be redirected toward the expansion of my own intellect.

But I’m not really that girl. I’m the girl who wants to work for the bacon, buy the bacon and fry the bacon. So I will admit that I’m incredibly jealous of Child One’s experience in this class. Jealous that she gets to sit in a college class surrounded by interested others and engage as her mind is pried wide open to new ideas and engaging thoughts. I long to have the time to discover what I don’t know. I long to have the time to engage in discourse about things I may never grasp but still nonetheless find fascinating. And someday I will. Someday the children will be grown and my job will be less intense and I will make the time to find answers to at least a few of the questions I know its ok to ask. And until then, I’ll long for more time and try to hear the words being said and not the words I imagine.

Bad Ems

2010-07-24T21:31:00.000-07:00

In a tiny town, next to the Rhine River, sits what was once a famous spa town. Famous for its water. Famous for its facilities. Famous for those who come to heal there. What it isn’t famous for is my family tree. What it isn’t well known for is the history that went before and is long since erased –a history of people whose sterling silver at breakfast lifestyle was transformed by politics and ignorance. And it isn’t well known for a woman fearing the actual (her husband impending death) and the theoretical (the threat of a Nazi future which seemed, at the time, a complete impossibility). I know very little about my great grandmother other than the fact that she wouldn’t leave her husband, the Rabbi, when the rest of the family was told it was best for Jews to get out of Germany. And I know that she didn’t approve of the marriage of her son, Rudolph, to the orphan, Eva.

Eva Kutchinsky came to Laser Weingarten’s orphanage when she was 8 years old. She was one of four children I think. Or maybe it was five. There was an older sister, long since moved to America. And a hunchbacked brother. And a much younger sister who would follow Eva around like a lost puppy her whole life (“I married one and got two,” my grandfather used to say). She was too young to be out in the world on her own and too old to start over with new parents. Too uneducated to be considered part of acceptable high German society and too pretty to be ignored. And even at that young age, even as an orphan from a different country – a girl with no home and no one to claim her – she caught my grandfather’s eye. My grandfather was fancy. He had cars and dogs and horses and a good education and a rich full life. He was older than she, though not by much. And he could have had any girl in town he wanted. But he wanted her.

There’s a story about Grandpa going away to America as a young man, and a story about a box of candy he gave her before he left – a box of candy with an enameled watch that still exists somewhere in jewelry box in my sister’s house. And the story of how he came back. How against his mother’s wishes (after all, Eva wasn’t “fine” enough for him), he returned to profess his love and court her (with her little sister following everywhere they went) and finally marry her. There’s the story of the veil that caught fire during the religious ceremony (which was not the same as the civil ceremony which took place months before). And the story of someone telling them, just at the right time though my grandmother was nine months pregnant with my mother, that it was time to leave Germany.

All of these stories are worth telling. And all of them are stories I wish I knew in greater detail – stories that lead to questions unasked and moments I’ll never know about. But mostly, tonite, I miss my grandma. I miss how soft the skin on her forearm was – how warm the pudge of her upper arm. I miss the image of her driving her hot rod two tone orange and black Matador through the valley and the way she fluttered around meals as though each time was her first in the kitchen. Sometimes, I forget that she’s gone and I fantasize about sitting at her dining table with a glass of tea and chocolate coffeecake ring from Weby’s. We’d talk and I’d ask her the questions I wish I’d asked her when I had the chance. I’d ask her what my mother was like when she was little and what it was really like coming to a country where she knew no one. I’d ask about losing her parents and what she remembered of her mother. And I’d ask, once again, how to make those big heavy matzo balls she made at pesach – not the ones for the soup but the ones she’d slice and fry that sat in my stomach for days on end but were too delicious to pass up.

The World Gone Mad.

2010-07-06T20:13:00.000-07:00

Every now and then we face the things that put our trivial workaday complaints into perspective. More than every now and then, really. These things do not happen often, but neither are they rare. “Periodically” makes these things sound trivial. They’re not.

Today, in a hospital not far from here, a man says goodbye to a wife as another man waits for his wife to give birth to their second son. I’m not sure these two men even know about the plight of the other. And yet they know each other, call one another “friend” and both couples have shared dinners and momentous occasions together – each was at the other’s wedding. At this moment, they are separated by a few hundred feet. And yet in the space of a few feet and a few hours their lives travel down divergent and irreversible paths. One because of an untimely death. One because of a much-awaited birth.

I know them both. Was at both weddings. Have shared joy and disappointment with both. And am thinking of them both now as I sit at home, alone, knowing I can help neither. It’s a terrible feeling really. Helplessness. And I sometimes wonder how much of this feeling is driven by charity and how much by ego. How much of me – of any of us – wants to reach out because it’s the right thing to do and how much is it driven by wanting to be a part of whatever thing – joyous or tragic – is going on. The truth is, there is nothing I can do. The truth is that the only thing to do is call my husband and tell him I love him, go home and hug my dogs, make sure the children are safe and happy, cuddle up on the couch.

Its been a strange summer so far – not hot enough or slow enough to feel lazy and liberating. I don’t feel like skipping out early or taking a few hours to head to the beach. There is too much drama afoot. Too many marriages hanging in the balance, too many people out of work, too many decisions unmade. There are, of course, babies being born. Sig Other is healthy and working hard, the children are busy and happy. But unrest and unhappiness creeping in from all sides makes me simultaneously incredibly grateful and deeply anxious. I cannot rest – I must be diligent and stay the course lest I tempt fate. I must keep my head down – quietly barrel ahead and draw no attention from the evil eye. I am oddly superstitious for a cynical person and oddly Protestant for a Jew. And so I sit tonite and wait, and hope and I suppose in my own way I pray. I mutter the kaddish under my breath for a sweet woman gone too soon and sit by my email waiting for news of the birth of a baby.

We hold these truths to be self evident...

2010-07-02T22:20:00.000-07:00

When I was very little, the 4^th of July was celebrated on aluminum foldaway lawn chairs in the front yard of our house at the end of a cul-de-sac in Bakersfield. Neighbors gathered to watch distant explosions light up the sky from the state college a few miles away. I don’t remember barbecues (although I’m sure there were some). But I do remember VanDeKamp’s molasses cookies which is what the cocker spaniel belonging to the neighbors two doors down liked to eat. There were sparklers which I was afraid of and games like “kick the can” – games I couldn’t play because I was too little and had to go to bed while the other big kids on the block, including my sisters, got to stay up late and run around in the hot dry desert night air.

I honestly don’t remember any 4^th of Julys after that until I was in my late 20s and my friend, Gary, took me on my first trip to East Hampton. We took a train from the city and arrived, rumpled and sweaty, at the station where we bummed a ride to the rinky-dink airport and rented a car before heading to the beach. I’d never experienced the beaches of the East Coast and didn’t expect the miles and miles of unspoiled beaches butting up against grassy dunes. The water was bracing and the waves rough, but the air was soft and downy and the light was heavenly. We stayed until sunset and then headed to the summer share of a friend of his where I was a little surprised to find there was no bedroom for us. But ever undaunted and more familiar in the ways of young hungry weekends in the Hamptons, Gary acted as if it was perfectly normal and we hunkered down on the living room floor with sheets and scroungy blankets and no pillows and slept like babies after a long day at the beach and a brilliant cookout in the backyard with a revolving-door crowd of friends and acquaintances.

The next morning, we drove to Southampton to watch the 4^th of July parade – a real old fashioned, all-American, flag-waving parade replete with vintage cars, 4-H kids and church floats. It never occurred to me before that day that people other than Republicans waved the American flag. But here I was, surrounded by some Republicans but also a lot of Democrats and gays and young and old and we were all waving flags and celebrating the day. I was swept up in the Americana of it all – it was foreign and new and utterly thrilling to me.

For the next decade or so, I did whatever I could to make sure that I could recreate that feeling. There were 4^ths spend on Martha’s Vineyard and 4ths in the Hamptons – parades and fireworks and barbecues galore. Hours on end were spent making buckets of potato salad and shucking dozens of ears of corn for an annual party that became a grand tradition. I learned from my friend Ben the great tradition of reading aloud from the Declaration of Independence – an amazing document and one you should review if you haven’t of late. Every one of those holidays was glorious – even the one spent hunkered inside the pool house fashioning slickers from garbage bags as rain bucketed down from the early July sky.

But times change and our lives change. Circumstance moved me from east back west and though my life is far superior in every other aspect now, I must confess I miss those 4ths. Somehow, a trip to overcrowded Malibu in horrendous traffic doesn’t hold a candle to any version of the 4^th on the east coast. And watching fireworks from the parking lot of the yogurt store down the block is ok, but not really my fantasy of the celebration of Americana. One year we tried Ojai – which does come replete with quaint town parade and pokey local fireworks. It was pretty good actually. I adored the vision of a pack of children running like wild banshees across the golf course against the darkening sky, and loved being surrounded by friends I know I’ll have forever. But still, it wasn’t quite the same. The air was different against my skin, there were no fireflies or June bugs, no drippy wet humidity.

The truth is, whether sitting on the beach wrapped in a blanket watching fireworks explode over the water or watching from an outdoor table in Little Italy as sparks fly out over Chinatown, New York will always have a corner on the 4^th of July market in my mind.

Thumbs up!

2010-06-25T23:03:00.000-07:00

YOU AND 23 OTHERS LIKE THIS!

Child One is now officially “in a relationship.” How do I know this? Facebook tells me so. There is a little heart after the declaration, a bunch of comments and at least twenty-three thumbs up. A Facebook relationship status update is sort of like the thrice-folded note passed from the back of class to the front – highschool secrets written in pencil and smudged from one hand to the next, from desk to desk under the not-so-careful eye of a too-tired teacher who probably knew but could care less about boyfriends and girlfriends and going steady. The difference is that “in a relationship” is a public statement where others comment for all to see. And the difference is that rather than the twenty-eight students passing a crumpled paper around class, this status statement is relayed instantaneously to the almost five hundred online “friends” of Child One. Living Out Loud. If this ain’t it, I’m not sure what is…

Decorating your rut.

2010-06-21T22:28:00.000-07:00

In between husbands one and two, I had a bit of a crisis (for those of you who don’t know/remember, Sig Other is husband number three). The crisis was an obvious one of identity and lasted for about ten years. During that time, I sought counsel from a wonderful therapist who was neither analyst nor medical doctor but was enormously helpful just the same. I’ve not seen her in years now, having ditched her some time ago and graduated to a nice woman with “Dr.” in front of her name. The Good Doctor and I are just getting to know each other and I’m not entirely sure it’s an enduring relationship and as we chart our course I think often of my old therapist.

My old therapist’s specialty was addiction – patients who suffer addiction as well as those drawn to those who suffer from them. I was in the latter category. I loved me an addict. Alcoholics, drug addicts, sober or still suffering – I was drawn to them all like a moth to flame. Husband #1 was in the midst of his downward spiral and husband #2 was sober but without program. One was certainly more civilized than the other but each was a train wreck in his own self-absorbed way. It took me fifteen years, two disastrous marriages and a decade or more of therapy to burn out on what I now realize is the MOST boring story of all time – that of an addict. Because no addict’s story is as interesting to anyone else as it is to him or herself.

I spent a good deal of time with my old therapist talking about WHY I was a person drawn to addicts. We’d discuss my childhood, my memories, my feelings. And sometimes, we’d just talk about life. I loved just talking about life, and so did my old therapist. She had a million funny phrases and anecdotes about the state of love and life and femininity and growing up. And I remember a phrase she had – a phrase that stuck with me and which I found amusing and depressing and apropos. “Life,” she said, “sucks. Its hard being alive. And often its boring. And mostly what we find ourselves in is a rut. And the challenge, as an adult, is to decorate your rut – dress it up in a way that makes it feel fresh and new and exciting and not old and stale and boring.”

“Decorate your rut.” That was the phrase echoing in my gut as I approached the redesign of The 43^rd Year on the eve of my 44^th. I can’t blame alcohol – I’d had none. I can’t blame advice – I asked no one. I simply felt that one year of the same design was enough and boldly pressed the “design” button on Blogger. My gentle dove grey background became boldly blue and words popped off the page in neon hot pink. The 43^rd Year was suddenly the blog equivalent of a virtual Woman on the Brink – dressed up in platinum wig, frosty white lipstick and a too-short mini, she took herself out for a 48 hour spin on the town. Those of you who experienced my aesthetic misstep can now thank Miss Whistle, who chided me gently about my poor choice of colors both on Facebook, on the site itself and in person. So I return now to my original format – albeit slightly updated. I acknowledge that I am a person more comfortable in earthy greys and browns – I am not a person who wears color or lives in color and therefore am surely not a person who should have a colorful blog. I accept the design of my rut and, in fact, quite love it. I apologize, dear bloggettes, and return you now to the comforting shades of black and white and grey of the original 43^rd Year…

Happy Birthday To Me!!!

2010-06-20T19:07:00.000-07:00

So here it is folks. The last day of Spring, the end of my 43^rd year and the beginning of my 44^th. The weekend began with a cozy and delightful surprise Friday dinner planned superbly by sly Sig Other and my sneaky, lovely friends, and rolled through to a Sunday filled with flowers and delicious food and perfect gifts. Sig Other and the children have feted and fed me to my heart’s content and I will spend the evening obsessing over which apps to download for my new iPad and how best to utilize the fancy Panini press from the children. What I won’t obsess about, at least this evening, is my blog, though I’ve certainly had questions about its survival as the year came to a close. Sig Other thinks I should shut it down and start anew under a different title. Various others have suggested I continue on as the 43^rd was the year of inspiration. The truth is, I don’t think it much matters. I don’t think anyone reading cares whether it’s the 43^rd year or the 49^th. And I’ve no particular inspiration on this day suggesting a new title or subject matter. So for now, the 43^rd year will continue as is – perhaps with an amendment to color palette or font. Happy birthday to me!

Titanium, titanium, titanium...

2010-06-15T22:27:00.000-07:00

Sig Other’s mother is mean. She isn’t mean to everyone. She isn’t mean all the time. But she’s mean to him in ways that are unacceptable. For years, Sig Other and Mean Mommy maintained an air of civility and spoke daily, mostly about the health of Sig Other’s father and the well being of the children. The conversations were entirely foreign to someone like me – someone who grew up in a house where people were mostly nice to each other. It was jarring to me to hear a dialogue that began with “Hi mommy” and ping-ponged through harsh criticism, pointed accusation, ribald humor, gentle questioning and back again. It left me exhausted and confused and entertained and anxious. But to Sig Other and Mean Mommy, it was just a regular check in call, just daily routine chitchat. That is, until Sig Other’s father died. I realized then that the calls made to Mean Mommy were really calls made by Sig Other to connect with his father who had long since grown weak and mostly incapable of regular phone chatter. Once he was gone, so too was any shred of connection no matter how schizophrenic.

Thus, the approach of a weekend family wedding to be attended by Mean Mommy loomed large and dark for those of us less skilled at navigating the tumultuous waters of this particular brand of mother/son interaction. The thought of spending three days in close proximity to Mean Mommy – or more specifically, Mean Mommy interacting with Sig Other – was enough to make me want to stay in bed with the covers pulled over my head for the duration of the holiday weekend. Even if the covers were the shoddy polyblend paisley of our mid-level nonluxury hotel room.

And so I went out on a limb. I made an offer to Sig Other – a bribe really – in order to assure some familial peace (and really in order that I should spare myself a stomach ache or two). “Hold your tongue,” I said, “just bite back whatever you might want to say, no matter the provocation, no matter how nasty or vile or difficult your mother gets, and I will buy you the titanium travel bike of your dreams.”

It might have been prudent, I suppose, to do a little research on titanium travel road bikes BEFORE I made such an offer. I realize that now. I realize now, and probably realized the moment Sig Other accepted my bribe with great gusto and little hesitation, that titanium travel road bikes are enormously expensive luxury items – that the cost of my own comfort for three short days would be an item so pricey that in its stead we could have taken a lovely vacation or booked multiple therapy sessions to ease whatever pain I would have suffered during the course of the cruel three days. But I wasn’t prudent. I did no research. And in great desperation I threw out the offer.

And yet I feared that even a man as determined and disciplined and single minded as Sig Other could not survive the provocation of relentless Mean Mommy. Even Sig Other would fail, I thought, in rising above the underhanded remarks, the sly jabs, and the ever-constant criticisms of Mean Mommy. Surely there would be no way he could sustain a Zen posture in the face of such extreme circumstance.

And yet he did. Rude comment after rude comment, provocation after provocation, sly sneer after sly sneer, Sig Other held it together. He would chant his mantra silently at first. And then, when pushed to the edge, a little more obviously but still under his breath, “titanium, titanium, titanium.” And Mean Mommy would say, in her best entitled Polish Princess voice, “what is this titanium? What is he talking about?” and then continue on whatever narcissistic rant he had rudely interrupted.

The truth is, the only person who lost her cool the whole weekend was me. I couldn’t take Mean Mommy. I couldn’t take the fake niceties that permeated tense, chilly air. I wanted to punch her in the nose twenty minutes in. How dare she faun over Child One as though she had a real relationship with her? How dare she lay claim to a grandchild she barely knows? How dare she insist we drive her and invite her and include her in things? She has no right, she hasn’t earned a place, she isn’t…

Hang on – what she isn’t is my mother. What she isn’t is my problem. What she isn’t is MY mean mommy. So what am I so angry about? I’m angry she wasn’t kinder to Sig Other as a child. I’m angry that he didn’t get the kind of mother who supported him, believed in him, loved him unconditionally and enjoyed him for all of who he is. I'm angry that she makes no effort to reach out, get to know or stay in touch with her grandchildren and yet she acts as if they are very close and meaningful to her.

But the truth is, and this may sound strange, the fact that Mean Mommy is a mean mommy paved the way for me to love Sig Other all the more. The fact that Sig Other grew up with a Mean Mommy makes him the easiest person in the world to love. Because all he requires is kindness. All he requires is a person who sees him, accepts him and loves him for who he is, all of who he is at any given moment.

So I thank Mean Mommy and I feel no guilt about the bribe I offered or the bike I will buy. If all it takes to keep a little peace is to reward good behavior with a truly fabulous bike, I’m in. I will keep bribing and buying and loving and making up for all the years of damage Mean Mommy did because she didn’t understand that sometimes a little bribe goes a long way and sometimes the most delightful surprise is who people are and not who we think we want them to be.

iGoogle

2010-06-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

ExWife and Sig Other don’t communicate so well. This may, in fact, be one reason they are no longer married. There is something about the chemistry in the air that floats between them that makes each combustible when in close proximity to the other. Strident and shrill are the words I would use if asked to describe the bulk of their interaction. They go zero to sixty faster than any Grand Prix racecar.

Enter Google Calendar, the panacea of divorced households, the whiteboard of peace and a true godsend for busy multi-home families where communication is challenged at best. Because it isn’t just ExWife and Sig Other in this world – there are children that need to be shuttled around, schedules to be made, arrangements to be dealt with.

There wasn’t always a schedule. When the kids were really little, there was a loosey goosey kind of free-floating vibe with regard to custody. The children slept where they felt most comfortable (ExWife’s house) and Sig Other had free access whenever he could see them – an open door policy that allowed nightly tuck-ins and help with homework. This seemed to work fine for Sig Other, Ex Wife and the children. It drove me bananas – I like a schedule. I like things to be tidy and organized and thought out. Spontaneity is not one of my strong suits. I like a plan. And as the children grew, it proved that they did too. Children like a schedule. They may say they enjoy the free-floating devil may care arrangements we lived under in those first few years. But the truth is it created anxiety. For them. And for us.

And so a schedule was born - one schedule that applied to both children and we stuck to it as best we could. But then Child One started to grow up. And with age came friends, and more homework, and more extracurricular activities, and more bags to schlep. And with all of that came a reticence to go back and forth from one house to another. And so we decided – we all decided – that her schedule would shift – that she would divide her time equally between the households and would have some version of one week in each home.

But schedules are tricky in the real world. Sig Other travels and Child One ends up back at ExWife’s house. Or I travel and Sig Other asks Child One to stay with him so he won’t be alone. Or Child One just gets overwhelmed or tired or busy and doesn’t want to switch and so ends up staying in one place or another longer than the suggested week. And that’s when emotions start to swing, that’s when voices start to rise and tempers get hot. And that’s when I get stuck in the middle. Because I see both sides really – or in this case, all three. I get why ExWife is upset if Child One spends what seems like more time with us. I get why Sig Other feels that after all the years of imbalance, its time for both children to divide their time more equally. And I get why neither child wants to be torn between squabbling parents

So where does that leave all of us? With Google calendar of course. Check it out. Because this, hopefully, will be our saviour. I am now in charge of the family calendar – an application we can all access to add, delete or examine any and all activities in the lives of the children and each other. And so far, its working. As summer starts, as schedules get busier, I hope I remember to record and erase with each shift and plan but at least this is a start. Any other brilliant ideas?

44th Year!!!

2010-05-29T20:08:00.000-07:00

It seems that the 43^rd year is coming to an end. I approach my 44^th birthday and Sig Other and I are at odds about how to celebrate. I insist I was terribly happy to celebrate my 43^rd with my immediate family – Sig Other and the Steps and I had a delicious meal at my favorite Italian restaurant and, notwithstanding a minor teenage meltdown, it was a lovely evening. Sig Other insists that wasn’t the case at all – he insists that rather than the bucolic evening I recall, I was in fact rather unhappy about the intimate celebration and longed for something more social. Therefore, he insists, this year we must have a party. I am quite sure I was happy last year (and if I wasn’t, why sully my faulty memory) and would be content to once again dine en famille.

But how to celebrate 44 is less an issue these days than something else – something that weighs heavier on my mind than weather to dine a deux, en famille or in a crowd. And its this – what to do about the “43^rd Year”. I have loved my year of blogging, have taken great comfort in finding an outlet for my insanity, my frustration and my fleeting and wildly periodic creativity. I’ve loved the friends I’ve made in the blogosphere, loved adding to the list of who I follow and loved checking to see who is following me. I’ve no idea if I’ve five readers or fifty (and in truth, no idea how I would even find out), but I know I would miss my page if I gave it up but feel like an imposter if I continue to call it my “43^rd Year” knowing I’m well into my 44^th.

And so I turn to you, dear readers (or perhaps reader), and asked your assistance. What is this Luddite to do now that the name of the blog is more curse than blessing? Am I to rename it 44^th Year? Will my 37 followers (and whoever you are thank you so much) follow me into my aging future? And how would they find me? Is there a magical link? An automatic re-direct? Help blogospherites! Help me navigate my age, the internet and the wonderful world of blogging!!!

Shavuot 2010: Shalom, Salaam, Peace

2010-05-20T22:38:00.000-07:00

Sig Other’s hold music is broken. Whenever I call his office and am placed on hold I hear the same song. In a loop. I can be on hold for two seconds or two minutes and its always the same: “Shalom Salaam Peace” by HaDag Nahash, Sig Other’s favorite Israeli rap group. I like hearing that song. I listen to it and hear Sig Other singing in the car. I listen to it and think of Sig Other in the hot Israeli sun sweating as we walk through the Old City looking for the perfect falafel. And I listen to it and think of the deep inexplicable connection I felt with Sig Other from the moment I met him – as though we knew each other our whole lives and shared a deep history that few relate to. The shared history is that of European Jewry – the memory of which we both fear will be lost when our generation is no longer around to tell the stories of our parents and grandparents. This is the history of old world Jews who set the table with fine silver for breakfast, whose forefathers argued Torah for hours on end and whose futures were written in flesh in places like Theresienstadt and Auschwitz and Buchenwald.

Lately there has been a lot of talk of Israel in my house – talk of Israel and talk of the Jews. We talk of the particular and the universal – do we focus our tzedakah on the Jews or do we focus on the world? What does it mean to stand by Israel? Do we support Israel right or wrong or Israel only with a two-state solution? Do we support Israel at all? What does Zionism mean? Modern Zionism? And where do we fit into all of this? These are passionate discussions. No conversation about Israel or Judaism is had in which the philosophical is not tinged with the wildly emotional. Emotional topics. Emotional times. No political issue can evoke so much passion as that hinged on religion. Consider the state of Israel. Consider the issue of abortion. If you can name two more polarizing issues – two issues that inspire more passion, wrath, contempt, ire or volume – I would love to know what they are. What do the issues have in common? GOD! Where does God enter? Where do we leave God at the door? And what does any of this have to do with being a Jew in 2010?

To begin to answer this question, I have to dig into the past. And I must begin the most recent past – my own. In this past, the path of least resistance was laid out for me by parents who provided limited exposure to Jews and Judaism. My father’s business led us from one small conservative town to the next. Bakersfield to Edmond, Oklahoma and finally to a suburb in Northern California which, while seemingly in the heart of the liberal Bay Area, still managed to be a bastion of Reagan-backing Bible thumpers. From one city to the next, we were always the only horn-headed, big-nosed, curly-haired devils for miles around. The problem is we had neither curly hair nor big noses nor horns growing out of our heads. We were just the weird neighbors down the street. And we were probably considered weird more for our political views and self-isolation than for our religion, which was hidden from view both in practice and in name.

“Harris” is not a typically Jewish last name. It is, of course, a name adopted at Ellis Island – swapped out for something more Polish and unpronounceable. The point is not whether my paternal great-grandparents had a desire to deny their religious or cultural roots. The point is not whether they wanted to blend. The point is that they left a generation of children undefined by name or history. We cannot point back to generation upon generation of Harrises who have left their mark on American or even Eastern European society. We cannot sketch a family tree with branches of well-known ancestors who left namesakes to carry on their legacy. We begin and we end in some ways as immigrants – people determined to marry a cultural past to a bright shiny future – we bear the burden of those whose forefathers wanted to be unfettered by religious history and yet left a legacy that must be honored.

Here’s the problem: Dead Father was an atheist – and a strict one at that. Mom is agnostic although she identifies as Jewish but also bristles at religious conformity. And I grew up in a neighborhood of ardent Catholics, Mormons and born-agains. “You don’t look Jewish” was a phrase heard often (mostly on Monday mornings when I gave to my standard “I’m Jewish” answer to the question “why didn’t we see you in church on Sunday?”). So I grew up identifying as a Jew but I knew very little about actually being a Jew. I didn’t learn to read Torah or speak Hebrew. I knew little about holidays but for what kind of food was served on Passover (my favorite holiday) and how to hum the tune to Mo’az Tzur on Chanukah.

So if the first part of my life was spent surrounded by non-Jews, it stands to reason that I would find myself utterly bewildered to be in the second part of my life surrounded by mostly Jews. How did this happen? How did I find myself at Shabbat services surrounded by davening, singing Jews? How did I find myself with several rabbis in my rolodex, a closet full of menorahs and haggadahs and a shofar any temple would envy? How did I find myself on the board of a temple I call my own?

Mostly my new Judaism (which is an odd phrase given my ambivalence about the whole God issue) leaves me frustrated and angry that I spent so many years with so little knowledge. I mourn the education I don’t have, the stories I don’t know, the hours not spent studying. Mostly I think its sad that I didn't know the meaning of Shavuot until a year ago. Shavuos was a punchline in a joke, not a day to be honored. I don’t go to shul to look for God. I don’t expect to find her there. Or anywhere really. I go to shul to look for peace, I go to shul to learn the history of the Jewish people, to be inspired by song, by a sermon, by those around me who close their eyes and sing like they really mean it. And I go to shul to keep hold of a tradition that skipped a generation (or maybe even two) but that feels somehow like home.

Sweatpant Thursdays.

2010-05-20T09:04:00.001-07:00

Truly one of the only things I dislike about being a working woman is getting dressed in the morning. Is it a dress day or a pants day? And if pants, can I fit in the skinny pants or do I have to figure out what goes with the fat pants? The fat pants usually require a heel so then which one and how far do I have to walk today? If a dress, is it long enough that I can go with bare legs or do I have to wear a tight to cover up the now jiggly skin on the front of my thigh just above the knee? Jacket or no jacket? Sweater or no sweater? Which jewelry? Am I going for accessible and artistic or businesslike and tough? Argh! I can lose up to twenty minutes a day to paralytic fear in my closet.

Here’s what I love about “casual Friday”: jeans. I can wear skinny jeans or baggy jeans, black jeans or blue jeans or even the occasional white jean. Either with flats or with high heels, I can always make a jean look chic. Jeans and a blazer, jeans and a sweater, skinny jeans disappearing into high heeled platinum Chanel boot – its all good.

So here’s what I propose: Sweatpant Thursdays. Perhaps preceded by Comfy Wednesday and CozyChic Tuesday. Monday could be a free day – wear a suit, go business chic, knock yourself out. But five days a week is really just too much to ask.

Men don’t have this problem. Men just put on a suit. And a shirt. And they’re done. My male colleagues could wear the same suit every day of the week with a different shirt and I would never notice the repeat. Women can’t do that. We have to create a unique look every day. Elegant but not too sexy. Businesslike but not too threatening. I’m exhausted before I walk out of the house.

I tried the uniform thing – simple pants, shirt and a chic accessory every day. It was lame. I looked like a stewardess. Or a waitress. I realize now that one of the things I actually loved about being a waitress is that I always knew what to wear. Black pants, white shirt, little green apron. I could vary my earrings. That was about it. So maybe that’s the solution: uniforms for the corporate world! Motion picture studio team shirts that mix and match with a black or navy blue pant. I like it! Maybe that will be my great contribution to studio history. Take the guess work out of the morning. Knock twenty minutes off the day. Uh oh – gotta go figure out what to wear now…

Ex-cess...

2010-05-17T22:11:00.000-07:00

Ex-wife got some lovely bath products this Mother’s Day. I know this because I picked them out, supervised the wrapping and delivered them to Child Two to give to his mother at the appropriate moment. I quite like her gift. I hope she did as well. Ex-wife bought me something too. She got me flowers. But Child Two told her not to give them to me – that I’d be mad because I don’t like Mother’s Day. He’s right actually. Not that I’d have been mad. But that I don’t like Mother’s Day. It seems silly. Like Father’s Day or Valentine’s Day or Secretary’s Day or any holiday made up by Hallmark. Consumer conspiracy – that’s what it smacks of.

But I do like being a mom – even a stepmom. And I like it so much I even tag along at events where really barely one parent is required much less two or three. The other night I went to “College Night” with Child One and Ex-Wife. Sig Other was out of town so I stepped in on his behalf. It was fun actually. Child One got to live her fantasy life as the daughter of lesbian moms for a few hours. Ex-Wife and I played along. We shouldered through the crowds together, milled through the bustling gymnasium as partners and picked up information from Child One’s of prospective universities. We're rather successful as and Ex and Current wife team. Its what I call "ex-cess".

At one point during College Night, Ex-Wife stopped to chat while Child One and I wandered. At the Pitzer table was a gentleman I’d met earlier. “Oh,” he said, “lovely to see you. Is this your daughter?” “Yes,” I replied. We started to chat about the Claremont colleges when Ex-Wife approached and I introduced her as Child One’s other mother. “Oh,” said Pitzer Guy with the great enthusiasm of a man who’d just made an important discovery. Suddenly, Pitzer Guy became just a little more attentive, just a little more interested, just a little more soliticous. Because suddenly, Pitzer Guy was interviewing a girl who might be just a little bit more exotic than her fellow applicants – she was girl with two moms. Ex-Wife and I played our roles flawlessly, providing Child One great joy, if only for a moment, before she remembered the stress of the college application process.

And tonite, quite out of the blue, Child One asked me if I like having an ex-wife. I gave her the most honest answer I could. “Yes,” I said, “because if I didn’t have an ex-wife, I wouldn’t have children.” And that’s the way I feel. “Besides,” I continued, “as ex-wives go, she’s the best version possible.” Child One seemed satisfied with this answer and moved on to a deep discussion about prom dresses and high heeled shoes.

OM-dating-G!!!

2010-05-09T00:08:00.000-07:00

OMG!!!

There’s a boy in my house. A real life, teenaged, red-blooded American boy. Except he’s English. And talks with a funny accent. But still, he’s a boy. And he’s here for Child One. He’s here courting Child One. It’s so awkward and weird and uncomfortable and I wish he would just go away. I want Child One to be happy. I want her to have a normal, happy, hormonal teenage-hood. And at the same time I want this interloper out of my house.

Don’t get me wrong – he’s a perfectly nice boy. And as boys go – as suitors go – he’s probably about as unthreatening as it gets. He’s sweet. He’s smart-ish. He’s shy enough to still be polite but brave enough that he doesn’t head for the door the minute Sig Other and I come home. But he’s a boy. And he’s in my house. And he likes MY Child One.

Is it wrong that I want him to leave? Is it wrong that I want to keep her all to myself? Is it weird that I don’t mind the idea of her dating but hate the reality of it? I doubt they’ve kissed. I’m not even sure they’ve held hands. But Child Two caught them almost snuggling on the couch and called us twice in the middle of our dinner party to give us the full report as only a good little spy can. Child Two is quite pleased with his role as lead spy and interrogator. He’s not particularly articulate in his descriptions, but we feel sure that he is reporting the headlines as they happen. And there is, so far at least, precious little to report.

OMG – is this what my mother felt like when I was a teenaged girl with an inappropriate boyfriend? Am I finally getting a taste of what she must have experienced when my tow-headed, pot smoking English beau came around? Is there nothing I can do to liberate myself from emotions I know are old-fashioned and concerns that are unfounded? Maybe. But I still want that boy out of my house. I still want Child One to revert to her plump, curly-haired little ten-year-old self. I still wish I didn’t have to deal with the sexualized, sensualized, romantic future of my glorious, girly, gifted and perpetually gorgeous Child One.

A little inspired...

2010-05-08T09:05:00.000-07:00

Last night, Sig Other and I went to Friday night services with the children. We don’t go every Friday. The temple isn’t close and services are early. But we try to attend when we can. I usually make the plan early in the week and then regret my choice as Friday evening approaches and I’m still in the midst of my work day and feel hassled and overwhelmed. I always wonder what I was thinking. I always wonder what possessed me to make a plan to attend Shabbat services .

I didn’t grow up going to temple. I don’t speak or read Hebrew, don’t know most of the prayers, am not entirely sure what comes next most of the time. But I love it. I love the music, the sense of community, the sermons from my brilliant rabbi. And at least once, every Friday night, I am moved to tears. Maybe its because it’s the end of the week and I’m tired. Maybe its because I’m a sap. Or maybe because there is something about a room filled with passionate voices raised in song that gets me going. But it happens, no matter what, every single time, and it always erases whatever hesitation I had about attending in the first place.

This is not to suggest that the experience of going to shul is one which makes me entirely comfortable. Often I look around the room and feel wildly uncomfortable. Everyone else, it seems, does speak or read Hebrew. Everyone else, it seems, does know most of the prayers. They know when to sit and when to stand, when to bend at the waist and when to be silent. They are at home in a place that is entirely foreign to me. And yet I love it and have from the moment I started attending. I’m just not sure why. It isn’t God I’m looking for in that room. Mostly because I don’t consider myself someone looking for God (or at least not by any traditional definition). It isn’t even faith I’m looking for (because oddly though the concept of God eludes me entirely I do consider myself someone with a great deal of faith). But clearly, I am looking for something.

My rabbi’s services attract other rabbis. And fine ones at that. One of these rabbis is a brilliant speaker and a lovely man. I’ve heard him speak a few times – he is always thought-provoking and passionate. This man has an autistic son – a severely autistic son who comes to shul on occasion and has spoken to Child Two’s class about his experience of being autistic. Last night, there was a moment of wild raucous joy as my rabbi announced the engagement of two congregants. A dozen people surrounded the couple and sang and danced in celebration. And the boy suddenly came up the aisle toward the revelers, fingers in his ears, clearly disturbed by the din and terribly upset. The boy is not young. He is a young man and not small. And his father tried, at first, to stop him gently. “No,” I could see him say to his son, “Come back this way – we’ll go outside away from the noise.” But the boy was too strong for him and pulled away. The father had to grab his son in a semi-tackle and pull him away down the aisle. The boy relented finally, and the two went outside for a few minutes until the noise subsided. It happened quickly and was over before most people noticed. But I noticed - a private moment in a public space - a father who saw only his boy and the pain he was in - a brilliant scholar forced to tackle his autistic son in order to protect him.

This was the moment that stuck with me this week. This was the moment that moved me to tears. It isn’t that I feel sad for the man or even for the boy. Quite the opposite actually. What I felt in the moment, and what has stuck with me since, is the power of the bond between these two souls – the power of the love that leads a father to stay consistent, to stay present and to stay dedicated to a son who seems unreachable to most. He isn’t unreachable, of course. When you read the writings of this young man or hear him speak, you understand the brilliant mind and soul trapped in a frustrating cage. But not every parent would have the patience to remain dedicated. Not every parent would have the faith to sustain this relationship moment after moment, day after day.

So it was not a sermon that moved me to tears this week, though it was a damned good one. It was not the songs or prayers. It was this moment, this moment of pure love and dedication, this moment of perseverance in the face of challenge, which became a moment of extraordinary inspiration for me on this Shabbat. Maybe that’s all I'm looking for. Maybe it isn’t about knowing the order of the prayers or the exact moment to bend at the waist or when to sing and when to be silent. Maybe its just about finding a moment of pure inspiration in the sanctity of a room that is outside of my daily life.

Sleep when you're dead...

2010-05-07T22:57:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I say to Sig Other, “ugh, I’m so tired – I have to sleep.” And to this he says, “Sleep? I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” I never knew what he meant until I heard a rabbi tell the story of man with a bank account. In that account, he received a credit of $84,000 every morning. And by the end of every day that $84,000 was gone whether he spent it or not. He never knew if more money would come the next day and so he worried about spending any of the $84,000 lest it not come again the next day. But the money didn’t stay in his account. Whatever was deposited in the morning disappeared by the end of the day. And each day he got another $84,000. He realized, over time, that the money would not accrue. And the money would always disappear. And so he came to understand that he should spend whatever was in his account and enjoy it while he had it. It’s sort of like being in the desert with a jug of water. The jug has a slow leak. Every day it might get filled but there is no point in rationing as the water will have dried up by day’s end anyway. So we should look at the hours of our day. We get 24 fresh shiny new hours every single day of our lives. Those hours do not accrue. They do not carry over. If we don’t squeeze every minute of possibility and life out of every single minute we have, then what is the point?

Shabbat shalom.

It must be love, love, love...

2010-05-06T21:24:00.000-07:00

Child Two has a crush. A genuine, 11-year old boy, blushing-with-embarrassment crush. We were all taken by surprise. He’s just a little boy, after all. Isn’t he? I suppose by “all” I mean we grownups who still look at him as the tiny little flaxen haired boy that he was and not at all as the strapping young man he is becoming. And if ever we thought we’d have to face the crushing blows of romance to young hearts, we felt surely it would be with Child One who is nearly in her seventeenth year. But no – it turns out that even though Child One does have periodic friend drama and a date for prom – the bigger deal, the more curious turn, is Child Two’s crush on the girl from Hebrew school.

The object of Child Two’s crush is fabulous. She’s a precocious girl with glasses and long brown hair and an adorable smile. She’s from a great family, she’s smart as a whip and she’s exactly the sort of girl that Sig Other would pick for him given the chance. But we weren’t given the chance. Child Two’s baby-boy heart grew an adolescent beat of its own and he went off and picked for himself. How about that?

We don’t mention Child Two’s crush around the house. Even Child One is respectful of the delicate glass box Child Two keeps his heart in. We tiptoe around the issue – periodically suggesting outings or dinners that could include Miss Crush and her family so that the two might spend time together. I don’t know if Miss Crush knows that she is the object of such ardent affection. And I certainly don’t know if she reciprocates. But I do know that the crush makes me love Child Two that much more. I find myself in awe of who he is today and who is becoming. He is changing so fast. Every day I am fascinated to see the young man who wakes up in place of the little boy who went to sleep the night before. And I am always pleased with who I see.

A Little Retarded

2010-05-01T17:24:00.000-07:00

I’m a little retarded. There, I’ve said it. And surely dozens of readers will gasp in horror. I’ve used the most politically incorrect phrase of the decade. We shouldn’t use the word “retarded”. Apparently, whenever we use the word “retarded” it is assumed we are referring to someone with special needs, say Down’s Syndrome or autism. It couldn’t be that I am using the word correctly. It couldn’t be that when I say, “I’m retarded” what I mean is just that. But it is. And I do. The simple truth is, I’m a little retarded. The simple truth is that I am employing the world properly.

The Webster’s dictionary definition of the word “retarded” is as follows: slow or limited in intellectual or emotional development or academic progress. That’s me!!! I am slow to respond to things. It takes me longer to figure stuff out than it does most people. When my father died, it took me six months to absorb the information and another decade to figure out how to mourn him. I come up with clever retorts only AFTER I hang up the phone or leave a room. And certain issues that might strike me as acceptable in the moment, sometimes stew and come to light in different ways once I’ve had a chance to consider them.

The problem is I don’t present as retarded. I present as facile and quick and highly opinionated. But the truth is, it takes me a while to formulate an opinion. Often, I am too ill informed to come to a real conclusion about things requiring more information and rumination. The opinions about which I am most passionate don’t come to me in a flash – they don’t grow organically in the fertile soil of my brain and belly. And they don’t grow – in part – because the ground is far less fertile than I’d like.

Lately, I find myself in the midst of controversy – people I care about sit passionately on either side of a political fence and I find myself floating over the middle – observing both but siding with neither. I feel somehow entirely ill-equipped to choose a side. Rarely in my life have I felt this uneducated, this uninformed, this insubstantial. Notwithstanding a day job and a sense that balance must be maintained, I fantasize about diving headlong into research that would land me in a more educated, more knowledgeable place from which I could articulate (nay = perhaps even pontificate) my point of view. When able, I grab moments here and there to scour the internet for information which I try to absorb with a critical eye. But mostly I find myself angry and frustrated that I didn’t take more responsibility for my own education as a child – that I squandered good brain cells on less important issues. And then angry again that those thoughts take up time better spent.

So if I fall short of blogspectations or go missing from the blogiverse for spells at a time, you’ll know I’m out there somewhere – searching for information to fill the gaps in my education and trying to rev up the retarded motor of my brain to a faster cycle.

Thinner than water.

2010-04-17T22:22:00.000-07:00

I lost a friend the other day. And by “lost” I don’t mean misplaced. There is no need to plaster posters all over telephone poles or create milk cartons with her picture on the side. I know exactly where she is. So she isn't "lost" exactly. It’s just that we’re not friends anymore.

This doesn’t happen to me often. My good friends have been my good friends for many years. So it’s weird to have lost a good friend. It makes me sad. It makes me angry. But mostly it makes me wonder about the nature of friendships.

I will admit, I am not an easy friend. I’m demanding. I put a lot into my friendships and expect a fair amount in return. As time goes by, I understand that most people do not approach friendships in this way and that some might think I’m a pain in the ass. But as time goes by, I have also grown more flexible, more accommodating, more accepting. People get busy. We have husbands, jobs, children, parents, dogs – all of whom take our time and energy and attention. But I have found a fair number of extraordinary people who are extraordinary friends. And I consider myself incredibly lucky. So losing a friend is, to me, a pretty big deal.

I think back now, and I’m trying to figure out the moment this happened. I’m pretty sure, if I asked my friend, she’d say the rift occurred several months ago on a particular day because of a particular incident. And I’m pretty sure I disagree. I’m pretty sure that if you asked me, I’d say it happened months and maybe years before the inciting incident. Its possible that the real connective tissue of our relationship – the warp that held the weft together – began to unravel long before the moment the axe fell. I’m pretty sure that we began drifting apart years ago and that this moment, this misunderstanding, was the nail in the coffin of a body that was long diseased.

I love my friends. I’m loyal. I look past tiny slights and bumps in the road most people would trip over. These are my friends, after all, and if they are flawed then I love them all the more. But I’m not stupid. And at a certain point I do understand that loyalty has its limits – that people grow apart and that the circumstances of marriage and children and proximity all conspire to make true and deep friendships near impossible at times. I recognize that we are all always moving and not always in the same direction. I acknowledge that life throws curveballs at us, time and time again, and that the tiniest shift in response can sending us hurling down a path divergent from those around us. People change. Friends grow apart. Shit, as they say, happens.

But this was different. There was a moment in this particular schism where I suppose I could have made it all okay. I could have gone, on bended knee, with deep apology. I could have sent flowers, left messages, begged forgiveness. But what I realized, what made me most sad, is that all of that would have gotten us back on track. But “on track” was not particularly anywhere at all. The train had derailed long ago and neither of us had the balls to admit it. We had grown apart, and my breach – my mistake – my indiscretion – was the excuse she needed to get out. It turns out that our friendship is finally, exactly, where it belongs. She can shroud herself in defiant indignance – she was wronged and is justified in her icy silence. And I can be sad that I hurt my friend’s feelings but angry that her reaction was so dramatic.

That’s ok. Actually, I understand. But it still bums me out. It still makes me sad. And it still makes me miss my friend and that bond we had however long ago.

iWidow

2010-04-13T22:32:00.000-07:00

Sig Other has an iPad. He got it on Day 3 of release. He would have had it Day 1 had I not been a Bad Wife. Bad Wife did not cancel her Saturday activities in order to stay home and wait for the UPS man to come and deliver the iPad on the day of release. Instead, Bad Wife ran errands - went to the nursery so there would be plants in the yard, went to the grocery store so there would be food in the house. Bad Wife didn't realize that by attending to such mundane tasks she was, in fact, delaying the deeply satisfying and highly anticipated arrival of the iPad. And so, Bad Wife was shunned for nearly 48 hours - the amount of time it took for the weekend to pass and for the UPS man to show up at the door in his innocent brown shirt and slacks, looking for the signature he needed in order to deliver the Baby Jesus - I mean, um, er, the new iPad to Sig Other.

Sig Other loves his iPad. He loves it so much, in fact, that I fear he may have forgotten that he also, sort of, loves his wife. Or at least he used to. His wife, unfortunately, does not come with a program that allows him to play air traffic controller until the wee hours. His wife does not have an app that invites him to play piano with random strangers all over the world. His wife does not act as computer, television, movie theater, library, house remote, video game arcade and best friend all at the same time. His wife, alas, is but flesh and bone.

If I had an iPad, perhaps I would know how to reach Steve Jobs. And perhaps if I could reach Steve Jobs, I would tell him that his device is poorly named. Not because the name immediately brings to mind feminine hygiene products for those of us raised with Beavis & Butthead (uh, huh huh - you said "pad"). But because in fact the iPad is more than just a super computer. It is more than just an entertainment center. It is, truly, the number one way to avoid human interaction. And so I hereby bestow upon the iPad its new and proper name, the "ignoreyourwifePad" or more simply, the "iDivorce" - one stop shopping for those interested in obliterating whatever ties that bind. And so if you see Steve Jobs, please give a message from me - wish him a happy life and tell him I hope that he sleeps well at night while the rest of us drift off to the irritating sound of iPlanes landing on an iRunway.

Who's That Girl?

2010-04-11T07:55:00.000-07:00

Post 101 finds me reflective. At a party last night, a guy I don't know heard my name and asked me if I was "that writer." And I took a beat. After a moment, I realized he was asking either about the dead, African-American male novelist who shared my name or the East Coast comedienne whose life is oddly similar to mine. She's not me for many reasons - not the least of which including the facts that she is shorter, younger, and from Boston. She is married to a rabbi and has young children. But she, my East Coast namesake, actually makes a living as a writer. She has a website and has published books. She's a guest columnist for various publications and is known for her wit and wordsmithery. I have no such following and squeeze in a blog post or two between hectic days and restless job anxiety.

I thought about what it would be like if I could answer, "YES!" And then I fantasized for a split second about the conversations that could have followed. In one version, the stranger compliments me and quotes a life-changing passage from one of my books. In another, he berates me for sloppy syntax or half-baked declarations. But neither of those moments were going to come to pass. And so, after taking a beat I answered, “no, that’s someone else.” But I really wanted it to be me. I really wanted to be the writer that matched my name and not the girl at the party that people know because of the desk she sits behind...

My 100th Post!

2010-04-07T22:19:00.000-07:00

(I did not set out this evening to compose my one hundredth post. I had no idea, in fact, that I reached such a number. But once I logged in and realized, it seemed fitting that I should note the milestone. And so consider it noted. And consider I would have titled this post: THE EX-WIFE KIBBUTZ or THE COMPOUND or some such thing).

Child Two was in the pool when I got home from work. He was swimming with his cousin and after two waterlogged hours, both children were pruney and shivering and thrilled with the freedom that only spring break can bring. Ex-Wife was their escort. Sig Other is out of town and I was working late. But the pool was heated and the day was toasty and so I’d texted Ex-Wife and encouraged her to bring the kids if they wanted to swim. The dogs, Alpha and Beta, were thrilled to have the youthful company. And I loved walking into a full house at 8:30 on a Wednesday night.

This is not a nightly occurrence but neither is it highly unusual in our home. It might seem strange to some – the idea that Ex-Wife would be hanging out with the kids at our house with neither Sig Other nor me present. But it isn’t strange to me at all. In fact, to me, it’s as normal as butter on white toast. And in fact, I encourage it. I liked coming home to Ex-Wife and the kids.

Its here that I should probably confess that I am a firm believer in The Compound. I support the notion that it takes a village. I would love nothing more than to live in close proximity to my nearest and dearest on a commune or kibbutz (albeit a deluxe one with fancy sheets and a high end kitchen). In my Fantasy Compound, there are individual homes with private living spaces and complete seclusion facing the back of the property. The homes are laid in a circle with the front doors facing toward the middle where there is a large communal space featuring a spectacular industrial kitchen, an open living room with a huge fireplace and a long, spacious dining table. Most nights in the fantasy compound would be spent in the private space. But once or twice a week, residents of the commune would come together for meals and games and hanging out. Children would roam free from house to house on the compound and there would always be someone to talk to or play with. Is that so wrong?

I do acknowledge that the compound is a fantasy. And I acknowledge that group life is not always so easy. Issues as mundane as “what’s for dinner” become magnified in a large group. And the complications of divorce make the compound even less ideal. But still the fantasy persists.

There are moments, though few and far between, when fantasy has intersected with reality: a summer not so many years ago when several families met in Ojai, or this past Christmas with four families in Palm Springs. And in these moments the greatest joy has been sitting back by a pool or at a dinner table watching a gaggle of kids, aged six to sixteen, laughing and playing and running together. We adults sit back, eat too much, drink too much and try to capture the magic of the moment.

Tonight, when I walked into a house filled with children and laughter, I had a a different kind of moment. Tonight, for just a few minutes, I was in an alternate version of the fantasy compound – but this version was real. Ex-Wife and I formed our own strange village and in it there are laughing children and unconventional situations. And everyone is happy. At least in this moment.

Secret Society

2010-04-06T03:27:00.001-07:00

There is a secret society that meets under cover of darkness. Not the darkness of lively jazz clubs and busy city streets, but the darkness of 3am. There is nothing romantic about 3am. 3am could, I suppose, be considered the “wee small hours” which always sounded so romantic. But the truth is that the romance of the wee small hours is lost if you come to them from the other side. 3am is sexy if you get there because you’ve been up since daylight and are heading to the end of the day. 3am is sexy if it arrives as a surprise after dinner and a long romantic night out or at the tail end of a creative jag. 3am is NOT sexy if it comes after a fitful few hours of sleep and is accompanied by restless anxiety and an eerily still house.

The truth is, normally 3am would not be a problem for me. Normally, I would just roll over and burrow into Sig Other and drift back off to sleep. But Sig Other is out of town and Alpha Dog is too deep in her happy slumber to disturb for a quick snuggle. And Beta Dog… Beta Dog is ignoring me.

This is a highly unusual occurrence. Generally speaking, I have always found comfort in the unconditional love of dogs – mine being no exception. It’s true that Beta Dog is unique in that his is a hard love. He is not like other dogs. He does not love no matter what. He is true to his breed and the love of a Weim is hard won and entirely singular. Weims do not bond with just anyone. They are one man (or one woman) dogs. And I worked hard to earn the love of Beta Dog. But once earned, I felt sure that love was a constant and that Beta Dog would remain steadfast and true in his rangy devotion. Alas, I have come to discover that Beta Dog’s emotions run hot and cold. And tonite, they are cold.

Maybe it’s that Sig Other is out of town and Beta Dog feels abandoned. Maybe its that his leg hurts – he’s been limping on and off for weeks now. Maybe he’s just comfy on his perch and doesn’t want to move. Or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t love me anymore. Whatever the reason, Beta Dog is refusing to come to bed and I am thusly left to confront 3am alone – no man or beast to cuddle up to lest I force beast, against his stubborn four-legged will, to the bedroom.

And so I turn to my good friend, Apple. Apple is always loyal, always available and always happy to spend time with me (provided I have thought to plug her in and keep her charged). And Apple connects me to a whole world of people who are awake on the wrong side of the wee hours. Apple and I check email, go to twitter and cruise quickly through Facebook. And there we see evidence – time-stamped evidence of anxiety-ridden souls who are up in the middle of the dark, dark hours, reaching out to try to connect with other equally anxious, restless souls. Bless you, internet. And goodnite.

One more thing to love about LA:

2010-03-27T21:40:00.000-07:00

A trip to the LA Flower Mart is NEVER a bad idea...

Meet Ryan Hanks

2010-03-27T08:38:00.000-07:00

Ryan Hanks rings our bell at 6:05pm. He’s a UCLA student and the son of Dr. Hanks, our neighbor around the corner. He’s collecting money for his baseball team (or maybe books for underprivileged kids – Sig Other heard one thing and I thought I heard another). He speaks quickly but with great ease. He’s a little embarrassed about the solicitation. And appropriately polite and gracious in his manner. The product of divorce, Ryan splits his time between his mother who lives in Orange County and his father, a specialist in orthopaedics at Children’s Hospital, who lives around the corner. After twenty minutes of conversation, Ryan learns that Sig Other has his own marketing company. He expresses interest in a summer job. And he walks away with $100 in cash for his cause. A few moments before, while standing at the front of our next-door neighbor’s house, Ryan discussed his 5 under par average and set up a golf game with the neighbor’s son. But only after getting a check for $200.

Ryan Hanks stands about 6 feet tall. He has blonde hair, parted down the middle. It hangs, rock-star-cool, just below his chin. He’s lean and lanky like an athlete, well-spoken and charming. The specifics of his life roll off his tongue so easily they couldn’t possibly be a simple recitation of a well-memorized and much-rehearsed fake dossier. But they are. There is no Dr. Hanks at the address he gave as his father’s. No Dr. Hanks at Children’s Hospital. And likely there is no Ryan Hanks enrolled at UCLA. Ryan Hanks, it turns out, is a fabrication.

And we fell for it. The smile, the embarrassed shuffle, the golly gee whiz of it all. This polite, blonde, well-educated white boy came to our door and we fell prey to our own gullibility. We WANTED to believe his story – we liked the idea that this well-groomed young man was doing something good in the world. Would we have fallen for the same story had the boy been black? Or Hispanic? Would Sig Other have engaged in thirty minutes of conversation if “Ryan Hanks” had not presented as a white, well-off, well-educated, well-meaning young man? Who knows? But that isn’t what fascinates me.

What fascinates me is that this degree of trickery – this mastery of social engineering – still exists in its analog form. The trouble this young man went to – the time he took – to make up such an elaborate story in order to swindle a few hundred bucks is incredibly old fashioned and almost quaint. He’s clearly quite bright. He’s clearly a gifted scam artist. He could make thousands, maybe even millions on the internet or by creating some social network scam. A kid like this would normally be sitting in front of a computer somewhere, hacking into my bank account or duplicating my credit card numbers. And I’d be making frustrated calls about the thousands mysteriously gone missing from my net worth overnight.

The modern world is so suspicious, so cynical, isn’t going door-to-door the HARDEST way to scam a buck? Wouldn’t almost anything be easier? Sit on a street corner with a sign and a hat, hang out by the ATM hoping some old lady forgets to grab her cash, play guitar badly on the 3^rd Street Promenade. But don’t go door to door. People don’t open their doors anymore. No one wants to hear a sob story. Much easier to make up a story on line – easier to become someone else via Facebook or Twitter or MySpace. Ryan Hanks could make up any story on the internet and scam his way to riches in anonymity. He would never have to lie to anyone’s face. He would never have to shuffle his feet with false humility.

As crazy as this sounds, I am oddly impressed that in the era of social networking – in the era of texting and sexting and clicking our way to relationships – this young man bothered to spend the time to think up a story, learn it, rehearse it and perform it with ease. “Ryan Hanks”, budding scammer, is walking around, somewhere in LA, with an envelope full of cash earned from his rather stellar performance. I suppose our hundred bucks could be considered the price of admission to his one man show - for surely he got off just as much on his acting gig as he is on the money he’s scamming. And somehow, so did we.

Step Math

2010-03-20T16:58:00.001-07:00

When I was 12, I discovered The Who. My cousin played me his TOMMY album on the record player in his room. My cousin was cool. He knew about bands like The Who, The Rolling Stones and The Clash. He knew about Dr. Dimento’s radio show and knew all the words to the “Fish heads” song. He was cool and I was a dork. I knew the words to every John Denver song and a whole bunch of musicals. I knew a tiny bit about classical music because that’s what my parents listened to on our hi-fi system in the living room on the weekends. But I didn’t know about cool bands and subversive artists. I was a dork.

But I was a dork who loved The Who. I loved The Who so much that I convinced my rather strict mother to drive me to a Bill Graham’s Day on the Green concert when I was 15. T Bone Burnett opened for The Clash who opened for The Who. A guy in a jean jacket and sunglasses offered me mushrooms and I wondered why he was selling fungi in the Oakland Coliseum. I loved The Who so much that even now I can forgive their terribly embarrassing 2010 performance at the Super Bowl.

And in a moment of sheer dorkiness and nostalgia this evening, I couldn’t help but find myself humming one of my favorite Who lyrics. It goes like this: In life, one and one don’t make two. One and one make one. And I’m looking for that free ride to me. I’m looking for you.

In high school, I might have used that quote beneath the super dorky yearbook photo I took (you know, the one where you’re posed against a dark gray scrim in a white or pink or pale blue fuzzy fauz mink off the shoulder poof). Or it could have been a phrase I copied in the middle of an awkward and overly earnest love letter written on lined 8 ½ x 11 binder paper with my 2 ¾ Dixon Ticonderoga pencil to an undeserving and probably equally dorky young man. But tonight, it was none of those things. Tonight, I was thinking about my Beloved Steps.

I was thinking about how lucky I am, how rich my life has become, how fascinating it is that my life is more than just me plus Sig Other. It is me and Sig Other and Child One and Child Two and even Ex-Wife. And that we four (and sometimes five) are significantly more than the sum of our parts. I know it sounds dopey and vaguely hippy-dippy or overly sentimental. But it’s true. We, this collective of vastly different individuals residing in two separate homes and with many different pets, make up ONE thing. And I suppose the word for that ONE is family.

So there you have it blog friends and Who fans – In life, one and one don’t make two, one and one and one and one and one make Family.