I have exactly 90 minutes to write this blog.

That’s a lot less time than I usually set aside to create a new post (believe it or not), so please forgive if the end result is wobbly like a three-legged stool with a tender hamstring.

I am sitting at Starbucks in Chicago with my handsome husband who, unaware of the sand pouring through an imaginary hourglass in my head, wants to talk to me about a ticker tape of deep issues while I write (i.e., how comfortable his new shoes are, how much fun we had at breakfast with Joan, Dave, and Marilyn, did Dave realize how loud he was singing that Leonard Cohen song, and what time is the architectural boat tour again, etc.).

We are here for the long July 4^th weekend to visit all of those listed above and then some. And I can safely say it’s both wonderful and weird to be here—in Starbucks, across from the Chicago Tribune building, watching the tourists (of which I am and am not) through the window scale Michigan Ave. with their bags and their smiles and their requisite curiosity.

Being here makes me feel so many things: Like I’ve both come home and been rudely estranged. It’s a duality that makes me thoughtful and even sad–and makes for a strange kind of “independence day” (and happy July 4th, by the way). I’m not sure what to do with all the things that have changed since I’ve been gone. Like when did that statue go up, that restaurant go out, that store expand?

But then again, what did I think would happen once I left: That I would move away and my life would progress but the streets and sensibilities of one of my oldest and dearest friends would remain frozen in time?

Well, that’s just silly. 

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And yet, despite this dissonance, there is something so fun about sharing a prized possession—in my case, an entire urban landscape—with someone you love. In my case, again, that would be my husband.

I cannot describe how I feel watching the glee in his eyes as he marvels at the beauty of my old stomping grounds. “Oh well, Chicago is a fantastic place, hon, there’s just so much it does well,” I say, pointing out the route I used to walk to and from work on the days I took the El to the Merchandise Mart. As if I designed and constructed the sidewalks myself, set them to a grid, and then was the first to really know and promote the city’s potential.

As if I birthed everything from the river to the lake to the bioswales out in the suburbs from my very anatomy.

With every day that I’m here (four in total), I can feel for myself an assured kind of swagger I don’t have quite mastered back in Bucks County. Especially as I show off and validate for Dan what I’ve been doing for all these years, while he was off marrying and having children: Sure, I may not have done that or work the same job for 25 years or build a 401(k) or host my fair share of family cookouts and barbeques or essentially do what was expected of me.

But while “you” were there doing that, I am saying, I was here. Doing this.

And that’s something after all.

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 And so we have shopped and we have eaten and we have walked. And we have driven through the old neighborhoods and the new ones. And I talked about intersections big and small with the know-it-allness of a tour guide who’d been though a 20-year orientation. (Here’s where I used to live on the third floor of an old walk up, buy the clothes that hug my curves like expensive cellophane, beat the meters and park for free, walk my precious Sophie after a long hard day of work, deep breath during the intermezzos of my daily routine …) .

All the while, gauging the expression on my husband’s face for signs of interest. Even though, it’s become almost incidental at this point. I just keep talking, bragging if you will, wondering why I left and then remembering.

I love my husband and our life together. It is as wonderful as any urban coterie—any Pulitzer-prize winning people show—could ever be.

But I sure do miss the city.

(Until next time–back to reality!)

Hello to all of my loyal and devoted readers. After several weeks of experiencing technical difficulties, she’s ba-ack… (Did you miss me?)

And I want you all to know that I had the best of intentions in terms of writing you a blow-by-blow, step-by-step, graphic, and even animated description of how my job is going (perhaps even with an interactive flash portion)—how week two, three, and now, a wrap on four, has offered the glimpses of clarity I lacked in week one, how I got to know more of my (very cool) colleagues, and how I took a step forward in terms of confidence and knowing I can truly not only do it, but excel in this role.

(Yes, there’s a “but” coming, wait for it…)

BUT, this is all I can offer right now. And here’s why:

I’m pooped. I’m “been-on-a-redeye, just-back-from-four-weeks-at-overnight-camp, finally-finals-week-is-over, oh-my-gosh-I’ve-been-up-all-night, will-moving-day-ever-end” pooped.

I know, welcome to the real world Jill. Listen, hey, no. It’s not like that. I know the real world. We’ve been friends now for 20 some, oh, 40 years. It’s just that this is the first day in about a month now that I’ve had to freely and unapologetically just collapse.

Drop like a penny off a 35-story building. Slow at first, and then hard and ugly into teeny tiny little pieces.

That’s because we had our friends in the first weekend after I started my out-of-the-house job, which was delightful, but didn’t allow for much downtime. And then, it was another busy work week—up at the ass-crack of dawn to exercise, turnpike drive, spend nine hours pouring information like pixie dust from a straw straight into my brain, turnpike drive, arrive home by 7, dream of being in bed by 7:01, make dinner, and then lay like a malfunctioning-robot on the sofa while my saintly husband cleans up and eventually me “let’s go up, hon, c’mon, you poor thing…”

(I said he was saintly, didn’t I? Now get off me.)

And then it was another few weekends with Steppy in town, which included Father’s Day weekend, which came chock-full of family duties and obligations (which involved their usual drama, but that’s another post for another time or maybe never big sigh), and then it was, oh dear, I don’t know. Something.

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In any event, in the midst of there being no time for the most crucial things anymore, I did find some time at least to address the things that have been weighing heavily on me since the start of “day one” like a wheelbarrow full of misplaced cow dung.

Like a leisurely game of tennis with my husband (never poopy)—and not a harried one at 5:30 a.m.

Like enjoying a relaxing iced Grande soy latte while actually sitting as if I had all the time in the world in the coffee shop (instead of running from the store like it was on fire so I could get to work on time).

Like moseying over to my favorite salon in Lambertville to have my nails done and my natural red hair (praise be Zanya!) restored after a record-breaking two months of treating those dark roots like an out-of-state parking ticket.

Like getting a lower arm wax after Steppy not-so-graciously pointed out on her last visit that I was starting to channel one of Diane Fossey’s primates.

Funny story on that one: When I met with the aesthetician to get waxed (mind you, I’d never gone to her before), she instructed me to lay on the table and “go ahead and put the small cotton pad she’d laid on the table over my gigi so as to not get any wax on my you-know-whats” and then offered to come back in a few minutes after I’d gotten in el boffo.

Not exactly a confidence booster.

“Sure,” I said. “No problem. But you do know I’m here for an arm wax, right?”

Although, honestly, I would have stripped down in a heartbeat – showed this confused skinny precious child what the 21^st-century version of a Peter Paul Rubens painting looks like up close. (Then again, given her line of work, I suspect she’s seen it and then some.)

Oh, I could laugh just thinking about it. Good times, I tell ya.

Good times.

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Anyway, it all worked out and there is a moral to that last story that transfers: If you’re going to going to be in the people business, know what the people want. Usually, it ain’t scorching-piping-hot-molten wax, like lava out of a rabid volcano, poured on their privates—especially if their privates have nothing to do with the fact.

It’s a good lesson and one I’m proud to take back to week five of my new job. WEEK FIVE.

Oh, and one last thing. I would be remiss to mention, of course. I am so sad to hear about Ed McMahon and Gary Papa (a local sportscaster) and Michael Jackson, but for some reason, really sad to hear about my sister Farrah. I don’t know if it’s because I have been copycatting her hairdo for almost four decades (I know, change is good Jill) or if she reminds me of how much I hated my body when I was a teenager (which of course brings back such fond memories) and she was on Charlie’s Angels, or that infernal poster which made me crazy since I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in h-e-doublehockeysticks of ever looking that good, or if her passing reminds me of my own mortality.

Oh yes, that one.

In any event, a moment. Cliched as it is, may she (and the others) rest in peace. After too much suffering, a real angel now. Finally.

Until next time…!

First of all, let me thank all the wonderful friends and family who checked in to see how I survived the first week of my new job (and who I have not had 12 seconds to respond to). The sheer fact of this post should let you know that I did, indeed, survive. And now that I’m past the first five days, I am no longer (thankfully) brand spanking new like a fresh pair of white sneakers just begging to be soiled. There is a dull film of new-job dust on me and, frankly, I like it.

After all, I started the work week in an absolute panic, squeaky clean like I’d just been ripped from the Converse box, unsure of where to step, and thanks to unusually heavy traffic (which turned a 45-minute trip into 90), utterly convinced I’d be late for my first day of full-time work outside of 10 Avalon Court.

Fortunately, I am characteristically early for all things, which makes me a special brand of social outcast. So knowing I needed so long to get there by 9, I left two hours early, which gave me just enough time to endure the pace of the turnpike, spend 20 minutes walking in circles in the office parking lot (looking for the way out), AND make the early appointment I had scheduled with the HR folks to go over some necessary paperwork.

Finally at the lobby, the receptionist who I’d met before ushered me to my new office with a gracious smile. It had no window, but was delightfully removed from the “action” in a slightly hidden corridor (giving me time to get my bearings without an audience), close to both the coffee room and the bathroom. (Of course, that would change by the end of the week, when I was moved to the thick of things in a window office…)

From there, I enjoyed a long garden-variety first week of a new job–lunching with my boss and new colleagues, participating in hours of meetings, looking and listening. It was five straight days of acquiring and processing facts and figures, operating on overload, vascillating between fear and sheer exhilaration, and wishing that learning–about the company, the culture, the office protocols, the way up, down, and around this particular corporate ladder–was simply a matter of pouring information into a glass and drinking it.

Because being new on the job is one of the few times in life when the wisdom of being old(when you’re not) looks sooooo good.

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With that said, I think that if I can do this job (which of course, I can, please pass the potato chips now…)–this daunting job for which much needs to be done and quickly (or maybe I’d rather have that last piece of pizza or the ultimate in comfort food, some macaroni and meatloaf, now doesn’t that sound yummy)–I think it will be awesome.

In fact, there were several points throughout the week where I couldn’t help but smile to myself and think, “This job is fun. FUN FUN FUN.”

Of course, my enthusiasm was quickly and cautiously tempered by reality in front of me (kind of like how you feel when you’re standing in front of the Egyptian pyramids and somebody with an AK47 comes up behind you and in a deep mean blood-hungry voice with an accent you don’t recognize commands you to start climbin’): There are several mountains worth of work that need to be tackled and I am low low LOW on sherpas.

But hopefully, not for long.

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Finally, in addition to getting my footing on the job, I also needed to get it outside of the job which meant putting into place a few new routines at home. For example, no more starting dinner at 5 p.m. in the company of my beloved Dr. Phil. Now, I have to move quickly, plan ahead, and get good at throwing whatever together and fast. (’Cause my hubby and I are starving…)

I’ve also spent the week making peace with certain realities, the hardest being this: I can no longer go to my beloved Wellness Center (where my version of homies have been keeping me on the healthy bandwagon for just short of two years). It is, now, simply too far out of the way of my new office to be any kind of convenient.

And yet, while I may never lose another pound in my life (I’m starting to make peace), I will eat the 563 pairs of the fabulous shoes in my closet before I get any fatter.

So, I also spent the first week on the job getting up at 5 a.m. to (stare at the clothes in my closet with pure disgust and…) either go to my new gym or bribe my husband (with the promise of, well, you know) to get up at the ass-crack of dawn and join me on the tennis courts.

So far so good.  I’m getting it all in - even had some clean underwear left at the end of the week and enough energy to host friends from out of town for the weekend. Although I must say, they just left and now, on this fine Sunday evening, I’m ready to slow down. And prepare for week two.

WEEK TWO.

I will try to sneak in a quick post mid-week to let you know how things are going…

Until then!

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Here’s a short post as I am tired - more tired than I planned on being on the Sunday night before my first day of work at a new job (thanks to working on the deck all day, a long-albeit-interesting-sustainable-green house tour yesterday, and playing with Steppy through all of it, who’s been absolutely loving and delightful two weekends in a row, and no complaints there!).

Despite my having last week off (during which it rained every single day, thank you very much You Mutha Nature, do you hate me?), I am in no way ready for the work week, which promises to be both exciting and challenging, given the fact I’ve been working on my own from home for the past five years.

Deep breath.

Of course, I got absolutely nothing done last week - it was as if I was a slug laying in the tall wet grass without a care in the world–as if people and dogs and deer and rabbits weren’t my problem, despite their just waiting to squash me like a long thin slimy bucket full of mini-grapes at a California vineyard. As if I had all the time in the world to just squirm in the dirt and numb out.

And you know what I did with that finite period? Squandered it on daytime television and the afterthought of one lone eyebrow wax. Did I sit outside on a newly stained deck (which just happened yesterday), on new patio furniture (which I spent all day on Friday waiting to have delivered), drinking coffee and then wine, reading the stack of books I haven’t had a chance to get to for months, writing the great American novel already, and catching up with old friends…as planned?

Well NO. NO I DID NOT. THANKS FOR ASKING. SHEESH. (And, aw snap, do I regret it. Snap snap snap.)

Instead, I spent the week watching approximately 35 hours of Regis and Kelly, Rachel Ray, Tyra, the View, Ellen, Oprah, and Dr. Phil–and they were reruns no less.

Deep deep breath. Deeper than the last one. And the one before that.

As a result, my monkey mind on “vacation” freaked out and went way too far to the other side (yes, the dead zone) and I spent the better part of my only week off since Clinton was in office anesthetized like a character out of a Stephen King novel.

And now, tonight, just a mere 15 hours from when I need to show up for “work”, I’m paying the price. I’m scrambling: To write this blog. To gather all the paperwork I need for human resources to prove I’m not a) a convicted felon and b) an illegal alien and c) an imposter who’s stolen somebody else’s identity and d) incapable of following directions. To retouch up the polish on my nails (since I failed miserably in getting a manicure or an arm wax for that matter, which I desperately need, which means I’ll be wearing long sleeves until I can make that happen because watching your own arm hair whip in the wind does not bode well for business). To meditate and beg the universe for mercy. To prepare for being the “new girl”.

Oh God. Forget the deep breath. Time to hyperventilate.

Not only do I have to manage the logistics of all this newness, but I have to figure out what to wear on my very first day, which again starts in 15 hours (or maybe it’s less than that now). That will surely involve three hours of trying on everything in my closet (meaning 36 pairs of new black work pants), a good cry, a lashing out at my husband for simply breathing, and the realization that I’ve got NOTHING to wear and I’ll never be a size four. Ever. That I’ve been biologically and physiologically robbed.

Sucks.

Oh my GOD, deep breath.

Why is it so stressful to start a new job? I mean, what could possibly happen to me in the eight-hour time span of Monday? (If nothing else, I surely hope my new colleagues have an appreciation for my roots and flecks of gray since I also didn’t have time to get the dye job I desperately need - ugh, this red hair is a BITCH in upkeep).

Although, come to think of it, I answered my own question just the other day, when talking to my friend Lisa who started a new job herself almost two weeks ago: it just sucks to be new. I could feel her nodding her head in agreement through the telephone. That “who are you?” look that you get from other people. That deer-in-the-headlights bulged-eye panicked-glaze sort of expression when you’re out of your office looking for a water fountain, vending machine, restroom, or heck, anything. That “I know how to use Microsoft Office, but tell me again how to turn this thing on?” That “who does what” and “how do I get this” and “um, excuse me, but I think there’s something wrong with the copier” (which naturally will have a paper jam the first time you go to use it).

That ugly co-dependence for which there are no suitable number of steps or open meetings.

Deep breath, Will Robinson, go DEEP.

It’s as if everywhere you go, you’re suddenly standing on a raised stage and being followed by a hot pink spotlight–and not in a good way.

Good grief, I wish I’d gotten that arm wax. Let’s hope nobody notices or, if they do, they admire the hirsute.

By the way, did I mention today is my husband’s birthday? So on top of everything else, I’ve had to cater to his birthday wishes and provide him with gifts and a cake. Good lord, the nerve. His timing could not have been any worse. And, of course, true to form: He had 1/18^th of a piece of chocolate cake with green candles and I had the rest (big cake, huge, seriously). Frankly, the candles were lucky to get out alive. So now, the room is spinning, my heart is palpitating, and I’m just about ready to upchuck. (Sorry, that’s not very attractive, is it?)

Of course, it doesn’t help that my new boss sent me an utterly lovely bouquet of flowers yesterday welcoming me to the new company’s “family”. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? How unbelievably gracious! I near fell off my feet, I was so impressed with the gesture. What a great guy and company, right? Then again, talk about pressure.  I know one thing at this age, they don’t send you peonies and whatevers unless they want something very big out of ya. (And by the way, thank you so much! I mean, goodness, that’s class.)

Ten seconds inhale, 20 seconds exhale. Do it again, woman. DO IT AGAIN.

Then there is all the waiting and wondering about the big issues: Where is my office? What is the view? How long will it take me to get to the office? Who will be happy to see me? Who might be unsure? What kind of technological equipment will I have to master? Is it okay if, when I’m around computers and such, I have a tendency towards colorful expletives? Will the people be nice? Will there be any understanding and empathy for the “new girl”. And how steep a learning curve will I have to master–are we talking the three steps up onto our deck or the intermediate trails in Aspen?

DEEPER, DEEPER. EXHALE LOUD.

Okay, well, this is what the night before a new job looks like. (Can you say Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?) Not pretty, is it? I’m okay. No really. I am. I am, in fact, thrilled to have gotten such a fantastic job especially these days and the chance to leave the house simultaneously. I will not miss the imaginary colleagues I’ve been conjuring up in my head for, say, the past several months. (You know, I haven’t said that out loud to anybody else, so can you please keep it under your hat? Shudder to think what my new colleagues would think if they knew just how vivid, well, never mind…)

Oh, and one last ugly anticipatory element: Pretty sure the dogs are going to have some deep psychotic separation anxiety. Well, Winnie will be fine — she really just tolerates me. But lil’ King Elvis (that’s his street name), he’ll probably find a way to poop on the ceiling as a statement for his disapproval of my being gone. (He’s very sensitive and resourceful, a real chip off the old block?) So if anybody knows how to really scrub at ceiling gunk in a way that sends a message, well, I’m all ears.

Okay, well, I think I feel better now. Yep, for sure. With all of this off my chest, let me raise my glass of tap water and toast myself in front of all of you good friends: I am going to start a new journey tomorrow. And it’s good.

It’s verrry good.

Or, as my dear friend Frank would say in his signature alto voice with a hard Canadian accent: “Oooh, yeah…”

Until next time!

(Not such a short post after all, huh?)

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Gone fishing…will return with a new post shortly!

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So my lovely tall, thin, blonde editor, who wears all the fabulous clothes I would wear if I were about 1,000 pounds thinner and several feet taller (think blue jeans and anything with an empire waist), sent me an email yesterday alerting me to the fact that a new issue of the Wild River would be going out. And it was time for me to put up a new post. (I guess she didn’t see my neurotic Jewish pizza rap as having much of a shelf life. Go figure.)

In her request, she mentioned a new book (she couldn’t remember the name) offering practical advice to stepmothers about the experience. “Perhaps you can give one piece of advice for stepmothers yourself,” she suggested.

Well, Joy, my tall drink of water, at the risk of being subordinate, I would be delighted to share my emerald insight. Here it is:

To all you new stepmothers out there, old stepmothers, people preparing to be a stepmother, dating a man with children and hoping to be a stepmother, hating a stepmother, loving a stepmother, wishing to be a stepmother in a next life, recovering from being a stepmother in a past life, trying to have empathy for a stepmother, or just plain curious about what it takes to be a stepmother and why they tend to have addiction issues (uh, like food), listen up.

When it comes to step-parenting, the best thing you can do for yourself is detach from your new spouse’s children. Early. As early as possible–perhaps after the first date or email, if you’re online dating–if even at least in your mind.

Step away from the little buggers. Treat them like nuclear canisters with arms and legs and heads–similar to the kind Tony Almeda, the little cockroach traitor, stole in an attempt to blow up stuff on my favorite show 24 (sans the limbs and cranium).

Unless you’re the kind of person who can’t resist temptation or needs to have what you know you can’t. In that case, go ahead and pat them carefully on the noggin every once in a while (just light enough so the canister doesn’t go off) or let them put a spoon under your nose from time to time so they know you’re breathing. But don’t overdo it. Trust me. This is good advice.

In fact, it’s the very kind a dear friend of mine, a spurned stepparent herself, tried to give me when Dan and I first started out. And I was overzealous in embracing his kids–naïve enough to think that they would be a delightful new addition to my family. That I might get to bond with children after all, since I hadn’t had any of my own. (Notice I didn’t say parent, I said bond. Big difference.)

She said, “I know you’re excited to have C and Heidi (at that time) in your life. I hope it works out well for you, Jill. “

“Why wouldn’t it? I think it’ll be really nice to have them around. They are, after all, Dan’s kids. I love him. And they’re just terrific girls.”

“Just don’t expect much, that’s all I’m saying.” And, boy oh boy, give that girl a prize! She was RIGHT.

But sadly, I did expect much, too much. Still do sometimes, despite my better judgment.

Case in point: The other day I sent Steppy, who we haven’t seen in a few weeks, a fairly long text message (only the third ever) about how her dad was getting his hair cut that weekend (she was concerned he was starting to look like Miley Cyrus) and how I’d gotten her the “cutest two pairs of flip flops ever, you’re gonna love them!”

Truth be told, I was excited to send it and get her response (because idiots never learn by definition). But a response never came. So when my husband came home, I promptly accosted him with the facts: “I sent C a text today and never heard back from her. Have you talked to her lately? Is everything okay?” But I knew it was…in my gut. I’d seen that kid on a keypad–and how she hopped on a new message. She was just choosing to ignore me.

He looked empathetically perplexed and, in an attempt to see if she had her cell phone on (since her mother often confiscates it as punishment for bad behavior), sent her a text himself. She responded within two seconds.

I felt like crying.

Which brings me back full circle to my advice for new step-parents: If you enjoy having your heart broken, go way out of your way for your stepchild. Drop everything for them. Try hard to make them feel loved. Buy them stuff. Make it expensive. Be super duper generous. Offer to give them a steel rod and ask them, politely of course, if they wouldn’t mind shoving it up your favorite orifice. Draw them a map. (After all, they’re just kids, for goodness sakes, they may not know the most painful spot.)

But if you don’t enjoy having your heart broken, detach. Early and often. Make pretend they’re invisible. Oh sure, step around them (never ever on them as that may make things precarious from a legal perspective), but that’s as far as you should go in the acknowledgement department.

Trust me. And you’re welcome.

Until next time!

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Must. Have. Pizza. Now.

Must.  Ignore.  Today’s. E-mail. Solicitation. To.  Join. Senior.  Dating.  Network.

Not. Sure. Why.  I. Got. It.

But. If. I’m.  Old. Enough. To.  Date.  Seniors. Online.

I. Deserve. Pizza.

Now.

Make. Me. Stop.

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I got a job. Yes. I GOT A JOB. Jill is ready to leave the building. (Again.) And this time, I’m confident my new position will not be eliminated after 16 days. (Newbies, see posts dated mid-December.)

Now I know you’ve all been listening to me complain about how lonely it is to work from home day in and day out, so you must all be delighted that I will no longer be whining about how much I miss human interaction. I will warn you, however, in advance that I may begin complaining about the converse (not having enough alone time), so please feel free to remind me of the pages of ranting I’ve done about seeing dead people as a result of being left to my own imagination for far too long. I will not be offended or upset. To the contrary, a gentle nudge and a little perspective can go a long way. Especially for someone like me, with middle-aged memory loss, who can get stuck in the muck of my own quicksand all too fast.

So what will I be doing? What I have essentially been doing for myself, except for someone else: Starting a communications practice for a consulting firm specializing in employee benefits design and administration. See, I’ve already got the lingo down.

But never fear: I will never lose my own lingo–the kind that drives me to think outside of the lines and share with you what thrills and scares me most about life. The kind that reminds me that I am a creative being (one of the things I like most about the new gig which, although it sounds technical, allows for a lot of inspired pondering). And most importantly, the kind that feeds me most, no matter what my day job.

I will simply integrate it with the new language to put my own personal stamp on the challenge. And I’m up for it. In fact, I notice that I’m more up for it than I might have been in the past, when I believed the only route to happiness and success was to be a famous novelist.

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And yet, as the years pass, I realize that I no longer need to be a well-known brand on the virtual shelves of Amazon.com to enjoy my life. That I can be perfectly content writing anything, and using my right and left brain for a positive end–whatever that looks like. I’m totally open. As long as is offers me the chance to be creative and purposeful, I’m okay.

Because, at this stage of the game, I want to do good work that offers me the resources to be fully present in all aspects of whatever. From solving problems in the meeting room to spending a quiet Sunday morning at home with my husband, Charles Osgood, and a cup of French Roast. I’m looking for happy clients during the day and a good game of tennis after hours. The leisure time to read up on social networking for communicators and to cruise the gluten-free strip at the grocery store. I want growing time with colleagues, and down time with friends, family, and the people who matter most.

This is all new to me: The revelation that happiness no longer has to be about sitting a room alone creating a fictional reality–hoping it will lead me to a seat across from Oprah and an adoring audience. And it’s kinda cool. I no longer have the same fire in my belly for fame. I now know having lived for four decades that kind of thing doesn’t count for much. I also no longer need the validation.

Besides, when I’m jonesing to tell a story, I just do it here. (Thank you readers–and rest assured, I am not going anywhere!) And then, find the beauty in other pursuits - those I may not have imagined for myself once-upon-a-time. But do now. It feels good.

Freeing.

Which leads me to the new job: It’s a biggie and a goodie. If it were a pizza, it’d be a meat-lovers special. If it were a cookie, it’d be chocolate chip and macadamia nut. If it were a house, it’d be on a Northern beach–not too hot and not too cold–with a gentle breeze and lots of windows. If it were a new outfit, it’d be a blend of cotton and silk, black on the bottom and baby blue on the top, comfortable and hugging my curves in just the right ways simultaneously. And, of course, if it were a man, it’d be my husband.

Anyway, I start on June 1. So, sorry Oprah girl and, of course, my hero Dr. Phil. I’ll miss you. And to all of you imaginary folks I’ve made up in the spirit of survival, nothing personal.

Stay tuned for the preparations…until next time!

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It is hot as Hades here. Ninety-plus degrees. A veritable heat wave in April. To wit I say, what’s up with that? While my husband and Steppy skipped gaily about the house this weekend, delighting in the sweltering heat and the fact that the sides of paper were curling at their corners, I sat in front of a whirling fan and cursed Mother Nature.

I am just not ready for this stuff. I mean, you can’t do anything in the heat. You can’t walk, run, or cry without sweating like a Suma wrestler in a sauna. You certainly can’t get any relief from fresh tears since they tend to roll out like well water. And you can’t play tennis (my new favorite thing) or anything that requires intense exertion since there’s always the risk of extreme dehydration or heat stroke (which doesn’t do anything for your game).

Not to mention the fact it calls for the baring of skin way too early and, frankly, I am NEVER ready for that. (I’ve already warned my husband that I’ll be the only person on the tennis court in the dead of summer wearing black stretch pants.) Being forced to unveil my grandmother’s chubby arms or the small pockets of chub around my knees is never a welcome experience, let alone before the official start of the season.

I say, bring on winter. Again.  A pretty snowstorm, a cozy fire, a bright blue snuggly fresh out of the box from QVC. Doesn’t that sound comforting?

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Well, it seems the warm weather isn’t the only thing putting a big kink in my ability to lead the women’s division at the 2010 U.S. Open.  Seems I’ve got another problem.

On Saturday morning, just before spending the day browsing around in the trendy Manyunk with my mother, aunt, and cousin (who, all totaled, would have made great material for a Dove Real Beauty Commercial, at ages 29, 46, 61, and 73 respectively), Dan and I played tennis in the park for 45 minutes.

It was such great fun and, afterwards as we walked back to the house talking about how much we love our newfound hobby, I could feel the wheels of my metabolism spinning ever so gently. It was good.

Too good, apparently, since I came home from the day to find Dan and Steppy on the sofa watching a movie, Dan’s knee wrapped in ice.

And there, in one instant, went my tennis partner along with any hopes and dreams of becoming the first middle-aged perimenopausal Jewish woman to play pro tennis (or bond over a large bowl of pasta with my aging-partner-in-athletics and new best friend Dana Torres).

“WHAT HAPPENED?” I asked, ever so lovingly, dropping my shopping bags and placing my hands on my hips. After all, I fully expected to come home and find Dan and Steppy outside staining the back deck, as was the plan.

“I don’t know, I was fine when we left the court, but for some reason, my knee just started to hurt and then it got worse and so I thought it was best to stay off of it today. I’ll stain the deck next weekend.”

DECK SCHMECK! YOU CAN’T BE INJURED. I NEED YOU TO BE MY TENNIS PARTNER–TO HELP ME SHRINK MY DONKEY! CURSES! BLAST YOU UNIVERSE, YOU ARE DETERMINED TO IMPEDE MY THINNESS!

But I didn’t say it. Instead, I said, “Oh no, well, what can I get for you, hon?” (After all, his health is more important than my shrinking donkey, right? Yes? Somebody?) And then, I had a private little pity party for myself in my head.  After all, I’ve been psyched about finding an aerobic exercise that didn’t feel like the slow and never-relenting waterboardesque torture of running on the treadmill or climbing the Stairmaster.

In view of this new information, I am now left to wonder how to keep the great cardio momentum I had started with the help of my husband and his two well-functioning legs.

Hey, does anybody know anything about fencing?

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In the meantime, I’m not going to let my husband’s knees plunge me into the depths of depression. It’s the new me! I’m going to look on the bright side and stay focused on the positives. Like the fact that my husband’s knee isn’t getting worse and there is hope for tennis in the future, all is not lost yet!

Like the fact that I found a new cleaning person whose first question to me was whether we had a stepladder so she could clean the hard-to-reach ledges that are probably now home to a thousand dust mites. I already love her. (No seriously…)

That Steppy came this weekend and was a delight. She left her cell phone at home and, in lieu of texting, actually enjoyed spending time with us. It was a refreshing and pleasant change.

That while I have not lost an ounce, I have not gained an ounce either.

That while we shopped at Target on Sunday, I had the good sense to leave without the three area rugs and 17 earth-toned candles we didn’t need that I impulsively put in our cart when we arrived.

That the new sleep aid Alteril, which many people are complaining about on the Internet, actually works for me.  

That my deodorant is working just fine.

That I ate pizza two days in a row last week and only spent one half of that time feeling guilty about it. (Note to self: Never be left alone with pizza.)

That one of this year’s colors for Spring is baby blue and it just so happens to be my best shade.

That my new Adele CD rocks.

That my dogs think I’m Angelina Jolie every day, no matter what.

That my girlfriends still want to meet me for dinner.

That there’s plenty of work to be good work to be done out there.

And that’s it for now.  Until next time!

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