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January 9, 2012
A few weeks ago, I was out running errands when I came upon an older gentleman, perhaps in his 70s, out walking his dog. He looked a bit scruffy, with an overgrown white beard (think winter hedges) and tufts of hair that didn’t quite hide the pervasive baldness and sun spots that lay beneath. He appeared somewhat disheveled, but not disoriented, so I didn’t give it any undue attention. Instead, I focused on his legs. His long, lean almost chicken-like legs and wished to myself: Gosh, if I could have legs like that for just one day. It would be glorious…
Then I realized: That’s probably not normal—to covet an 80-year-old man’s bony legs. And yet, there I was—full throttle into my dysfunction.
Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to realize it.
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And so, that night I shared the story (and then some) with my husband, who bless his heart, tries so hard to empathize with how I feel about my body but struggles with it. “If only you could see what I see,” he says “a beautiful woman with a curvaceous body”.
Bless his lovestruck heart.
And so I use a particular description to help him understand my viewpoint of feeling, well, icky in my own skin despite what I can’t see and longing for the legs of an opposite-sexed octagenarian: Imagine—I say to the handsome and rugged man I live with (who lives mostly in blue jeans that always look fantastic on him)—you were stuck in a clown suit and couldn’t get out of it. After too many nights of costuming and bold self-expression, it seems you can’t get the darned thing off.
After trying everything—loosening the zipper, pushing the big buttons through the too-small holes, trying to pull the ruffles up and over your head, or down and off of your feet—it simply won’t budge. Not even the bulbous red nose is willing to compromise even an inch.
And so, there you are: Every day, in a clown suit. At work. On vacation. For family dinners and nights out with friends. To high school reunions, corporate meetings, and birthdays. You are big and red and puffy and polka dotted through it all, fabric stuck on you like a tenacious ex-boyfriend or double-sided tape.
Until finally, you can take it no more so you decide to research seamstresses – get referrals from trusted friends, tailors, and retail shops – and finally make the rounds. Seamstress number one tells you her scissors won’t work on your clown suit, but you can try a knife from your kitchen drawer – she’ll write down exactly the kind to get. When that doesn’t work, you go to another, who tells you that you need to meditate the problem away, that’s it all a figment of your imagination and if you’d just let thoughts of the clown suit go and relax, it would miraculously disappear. Still not satisfied, you go to another one who suggests you try a surgical approach with the appropriate tools. Still another recommends a beef rub and some quality time in a cage with a hungry tiger. She has connections at the zoo. Why that suit will be off before you know it!
And, if, they all agree, you don’t want to do any of it, the best course is just to embrace it. Accept that this is your particular clown suit and that, despite, you can still enjoy a happy and productive existence. Try to be content in the suit—make it your own, maybe spiff it up with the right jewelry or lipstick. And then, remember your good job, your loving friends, your family. Remember that how you look on the outside is really, in the scheme of things, not all that important. Nobody notices, cares, or wants to hear about it.
Seriously.
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So, the next day, after this deep conversation with my husband (who I love), I decided to call my friend Marilyn who despite having a great body, shares many of my screwed-up body issues (I love Marilyn too). I hadn’t talked to her in a few months, but that’s okay. That’s sort of the rhythm of our relationship, especially since we live in separate states. Although we do stay connected via email.
In any event, the urge was strong to get in touch. And sure enough, she answered the phone with a vigor I hadn’t heard in a while. What did she do? I asked. She lost 25 pounds. But when, how, why? Because, she said, losing weight was like rolling over the Titanic all by herself (I could relate), she decided the time had come to do something radical. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Like…
…the HCG diet (Google it).
As a person who hates to see anybody cry or do something radical alone, I hopped on the desperation train with her.
ALL ABOARD.
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So let me tell you a little about the HCG diet if you don’t already know. Turns out it’s been around since the 1950s. Essentially, it’s a medically supervised protocol that has you take a controlled amount of the hormonal supplement every morning for 23 or 40 days (by pill, injection, or drops) and eat a very specific 500-calorie-a-day diet to lose weight. Now before you go all Mehmet Oz on me, consider that while 500 calories a day is technically considered starving, the HCG pulls from your natural fat stores, allowing you to feed off of those additional calories (between 1,500 and 4,000 a day) and, as a result, shed pounds SAFELY at the same time.
To help you make the transition to 500 calories without wanting to hang yourself from hunger, nausea, and dizziness—and knowing it takes three days for the HCG to fully enter your system—you start the first two days by “loading” all the fats you can possibly consume over 48 hours to hold you through. Well, I’m not sure if the brochure reads precisely in that way, but at least that’s my interpretation. (Remember that old game show that had contestants climb upright into a plastic tube with flying money and they had 60 seconds to grab as much as they could? Yeah, like that.)
And so, I did. Most fun I’ve had in a while (sorry babe). Watched the eyeballs roll clear out of my shocked family’s collective heads when, upon meeting for breakfast on the first of my gorge days, they witnessed me eating an unprecedented chicken salad melt, cheesy fries, and a black-and-white milkshake. That was preceded by a bowl of General Chao’s Chicken and pork fried rice for breakfast and followed up with a large meat-lover’s pizza for dinner. And that was just day one! OH GLORY DAY!
Suffice to say, by the end of the second day, I was stuffed, three pounds heavier (which they say is normal), and ready for induced vomiting. Those 500 calories were starting to look like the Hope Diamond…which I suspect is part of the point.
So where am I now? Sixteen days in, 11 pounds down, bursting with energy and feeling great. And although I am my own science experiment, I am also the most hopeful I’ve been in three years that I will finally be able to retire this flesh-colored clown suit. And that maybe, just maybe, find my way into a pair of skinny jeans by Easter.
And I invite you to stay tuned for my progress. By all means…
Now onto you: Conducted any radical experiments of your own lately? What bull have you taken by the horns in 2012? Do share.
Until next time!
December 28, 2011
So my birthday was on the 22nd. You know, on Hanukah, just before Christmas, when people are immersed in the holidays and too busy for anything but picking up slippers and gloves and assorted electronics for those who are not having a birthday and who just happen to be family members or friends or colleagues they need to get stuff for – for really no good reason. Unlike, say, getting a present for somebody for their birthday—to celebrate their actual presence here on earth—and not penalizing them for happening to be born at a time when the whole world is obsessed with the holidays by giving them a combined gift, skimping out, or even worse, forgetting it… (December birthdays, help me out here…)
With that said, I’m okay, really. I no longer have any issues around it. But, sheesh, it’s taken me a while. I’ll admit that. Now that I’ve established how sucky it is to have a December birthday – or a birthday that’s uber-close to another event like Easter, July 4th or even a September 11th (how sad and depressing)—I must say: I think I’ve adjusted quite nicely to the fact. After all, I’ve had 49 straight years of celebrating in the shadow of Hana-mas (although my friend Marilyn has gently reminded me that I’m officially starting my 50th year – thanks a bunch Marilyn…)
What I haven’t adjusted to is turning another year older–one that brings me precariously close to the big one. (Officially, okay?) The age that qualifies me for membership into the American Association of Retired People (AARP). The half-decade mark that moves me into but another demographic category—the botox, hormone cream, and sensible shoe marketer’s dream. And quite frankly, none of it is sitting all too well with me.
(By the way, did I mention the first very lovely text of the day on my birthday was from my stepdaughter? I was so touched by it … and the fact that I did receive an impressive array of birthday greetings throughout the day…more than 42 friends, family, and colleagues [and yes, that includes our State Farm agent, Piperline, and our accountant, so what?]…but who’s counting…they called, emailed, or texted to wish me a happy birthday…even some I hadn’t spoken to in AGES… even friends from childhood, gosh I must’ve really drummed my birthday into their heads … seems funny now and probably slightly annoying to them huh?…to make such a big deal…)
In fact, I’m thinking this year will be the last overt b-day celebration, since I’m planning to spend my official 50th birthday (Marilyn) in bed, singing Christopher Cross and England Dan and John Ford Coley songs from the 80s, watching Season 1 and 2 of Hot in Cleveland, gorging on deep-dish veggie pizza and black and white milkshakes, humming minstrel hymns, and going through several boxes of Puffs (without the manipulative lotion that just makes you sneeze more, thank you very much).
This much I promise.
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One of the things I was heartened by on my birthday (okay, sorry, I’m almost done talking about it) was the number of people who actually CALLED me (versus texting or emailing) to sing me a birthday song or just give a birthday “hey”. I was beginning to wonder whether I would ever hear a live voice on the other end of a smart phone ever again. Sometimes—okay, most times—I feel as if the only way anybody communicates anymore is by text, where there’s so much lost in the translation. All the important things, if you ask me.
Now I’m sounding old, yes?
I guess that’s what happens when you start crawling up the ass of a big birthday. You start thinking about things differently. Looking more closely at the people who count – appreciating the sound of a friendly voice. Conversations live and in real time take on new meaning.
Besides, my thumbs hurt. Who’s with me?
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So now it’s December 28th. My birthday is well behind me – along with Christmas and even Hanukah. I’m home this week – enjoying a little R&R, writing a blog (obviously), sleeping until 10 a.m., and catching up on some yoga, The Doctors and too many old episodes of Friends.
It’s nice. I’m also doing a little cleaning, reorganizing my closet, and taking stock of all the holiday cards we got this year, wondering why they’re mostly pictures of people’s kids. Do you stop mattering once you go through puberty? Reach legal drinking age? Why aren’t there any adults on my holiday wishes? I’ve always wondered about this.
I’m also noticing some interesting trends: Like several seasonal cards from my various and sundry diet programs: PureFoodsFreshStart home delivery, Ultrawellness Center, Queens Health, Eight Weeks to Wellness, Weight Watchers, Jenny – they all wish me a healthy and happy. Oh, and by the way…
I guess you can learn a lot about a person by the cards they keep.
I’m just grateful that I’ve not gotten any from the AARP (and by the way, no thanks on the free insulated bag…), the folks who make the Hover-Round, Reverse Mortgagers, or the Senior People Meet website. Well, not in hard copy anyway. I don’t think I could handle seeing those cards on my sideboard. Not yet…
With that said, tell me about the cards on yours? Have any surprised you? Any missing? Any you want to frame? Burn? Do tell.
Oh, and Happy New Year! (I’ll reserve my resolutions post for January … :)) Until next time!
November 13, 2011
So I know I promised to write every week, and my bad. I don’t know, the weeks just fly by and before I know it, several weeks have passed, and I don’t know how that happens, but it does. So my deepest apologies. Although, I’m sure you can relate.
In any event, first things first, as promised, for those who care or may be interested, here’s my healthy living update: I can still go outside during severe wind gusts since I’m in no danger of getting swept away any time soon BUT I do think there have been some slight changes (if not massive weight loss) as a result of my newfound and profound commitment to health and wellness:
I feel better.
I no longer look like I lost the fight.
I have the occasional bursts of energy—just enough to swap out my closet, putting my sandals away for the winter, and organizing my shoes rack with my winter boots.
My cheekbones have started to emerge from a long period of hiding.
I’m sleeping like a normal person.
My cravings for white flour and sugar have subsided. In fact, the only thing I really crave is a vacation, the silver and crystal Chan Luu bracelet at Southmoonunder.com that’s now out of stock, and a pair of FABULOUS four-inch Tsubo black pumps that a) are way out of my shoe budget and b) would serve no real purpose in the spirit of my lifestyle. Getting rid of my food cravings is like being released from some digestive prison, some white dusty hell that gripped me without mercy, and almost resigned me to a life of distraction and preoccupation with things like chocolate layer cake, everything bagels, and Twix bars.
So thanks for my freedom, Dr. Mark Hyman, and thumbs up for your fantastical functional medicine. I think I’ll stick with it for a while and let’s see. Hey, anything can happen. Even thin knees…?
*Just in case you want to know what that commitment looks like, it includes eating mostly protein shakes, soy milk, brown rice, vegetables, and homemade broth; doing yoga every morning and about five days of cardiovascular interval conditioning. Sounds like hell, right? It’s not. In fact, I kinda like it.
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With that said, I’d like to switch gears and talk about Sunday football. I don’t get it. Okay. There, I said it. Go ahead and send your letters. I know people love their football. Personally, I’d rather watch A Millionaire Matchmaker marathon or Revenge reruns (that show is so JUICY).
And yet, I guess that’s what makes the world go around – we’re all different. But football is starting to monopolize Sundays in the Murray household. After about 1 o’clock each week, I lose my husband to the television and his iPhone alternatively, ear plugs firmly in place, monitoring the scores of several games simultaneously, shouting the occasional expletive. I don’t get it. I mean, wouldn’t he rather be watching a good Lifetime movie and rubbing my feet?
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Okay, so I’m avoiding the real subject here and that’s about this: I’ve got another birthday coming up quickly. And while it’s not the big one, it’s the prelude to the big one. Yep, I’m crawling quickly up the ass of 50 (December 2012) and I do NOT like it.
Frankly, I don’t think 50 is going to go well for me.
Now, it’s not like I’ve ever been all that hung up on my age. I still have no problem telling people how old I am. And I managed 30 and 40 well—like a big so what? I’m still young. I don’t take any prescription medications. And I do not qualify for membership in the AARP or need those really intense moisturizers that bill themselves as being for “mature skin”. I can still get a facial for pleasure instead of need.
But with the recent demographically charged barrage of media (e.g., advertisements for SeniorSingles.com, direct mailers for reverse mortgages and retirement planning, and ongoing AARP solicitations for membership, etc.), I’m not feeling so good about things. I’m getting old and there is no getting around it. (Well, there is, but let’s not even go there…)
After all, nobody ever looked at a 50-year-old woman and said, “Oh Dear (in a nice granny voice), you’re still just a kid.”
In fact, it’s starting to hit me that, with moving into the new decade comes with some serious ramifications that I have not yet had to deal with: Like not being able to wear my hair really long (which puts a serious dent in my desire for hair extensions), not being able to wear thigh-high boots, or sweater vests with fringe. Forget about glittery nail polish – not that I particularly like glittery nail polish, but I did enjoy the option of being able to wear it. Then there’s the having to be extremely judicious when going through the Free People catalogue, making sure any items of interest are first and foremost age appropriate. In fact, I find myself asking the very trendy 24-year-old who works in our department whether “this poncho is okay for me to wear at my age, this nail color works, this haircut isn’t too funky for somebody who’s riding over the crest of her 40s? ”
With the onset of age 50 also comes the first colonoscopy which puts the nail in the coffin of the concept that one’s youth now super officially officially behind them.
And then there’s something else that I’ve never even thought about: My worth as a professional in the job market. Why just this past week, my colleague and I went to a conference on social media in New York City (near the university which, with students everywhere, made me feel both exhilarated and ancient simultaneously). And during a conversation with the 50-something cab driver about the Occupy Wall Street protests, she said, “Well it’s about time. Because the fact is, if you’re over 50 and out of work, you can forget about it. You’re done for. You’ll never get hired again. You’re too oooollllddddd…..”
I heard that last part in slow motion. And as I nodded my head in foggy agreement (wondering if she could guess how old I was [I’ve been told I look mid to late 30s, but c’mon]), I couldn’t help but have a silent and all too thoughtful panic attack in response. What if it was true? I looked at my colleague, who I’m pretty sure is the same age (although she’s one of those people who’ll “never tell” which makes me crazy, like we need to hide it or apologize for it?), and she avoided my gaze. I was all on my own with that statement. And I’m still thinking of it, not sure whether to ignore it or take it to heart. (I’d much rather do the former…)
I mean, really?
What do you think? Once you turn 50, is it okay to dye your hair pink? Grow out your bob? Dare to send out a few resumes? What else lies in wait for this new decade? Help me out, people. Tell me something good about aging. And be quick about it …
Until next time!!
October 16, 2011
Well hello there! My, don’t you look great. Me, not so much. You can’t see me now, but I’m not looking so good. Just to give you an idea: My skin is blotchy, I’m a bit bloated (well, that’s a bit kind), and I have these delightful circles under my eyes that, granted, don’t make me look as if I’ve just lost a fight—but close.
You see, while I’ve NOT been keeping up on this blog (so sorry, really, sorry), I have been wrestling with ornery clients and deadlines…living in a 17-hour a day pressure cooker that could boil up a good turkey chili in a matter of seconds. Thankfully, this is the beginning of the tail end of our busy season (11-weeks of Open Enrollment requiring fully executed communications campaigns for too many clients simultaneously). And as a result, I am now here. Coming off the adrenaline rush that both exhilarates and exhausts me in the best and worst of ways.
Which brings me back to my lead: Me, the Hot Mess (kind of like You the Owners’ Manual, but admittedly different). A casualty of my own bad sense and good work ethic. I need to be saved. The Good Lord at Nordstrom’s knows. And who better to do it than, well, yours truly. Which is why I’ve devised my own 12-step program of sorts (eat your heart out, Alcoholics Anonymous). It involves:
Step 1: Reconnecting with friends, retail therapy, and loved ones (even those I don’t like very much…you know who you are).
Step 2: Stepping away from [my colleague Cindy’s] candy dish.
Step 3: Breaking the habit of pouring the white flour directly on my food for efficiency purposes. (You haven’t lived until you’ve tried sprinkling a little “Gold Medal” directly on your Turkey Panini? Okay, I’m kidding…but not entirely…)
Step 4: Saying goodbye to all my friends at the dairy and gluten festival (goodbye my precious veggie pizza with extra cheese; ciao my little quesadilla we had some good times, si?; how I’ll miss you my precocious little cupcake, I only hope it was as good for you…)
Step 5: Stepping away from [my colleague Larry's] candy dish.
Step 6: Regaining the hormonal fortitude to stop wanting to slash everybody’s tires or slap them in the ears.
Step 7: Hopping off the swinging mood vine for a little fresh ginger (to calm the nausea) and to feel my calloused feet in the dirt.
Step 8: Reconnecting with self (hello The Real Housewives…) and the aestheticians at KNK Nails.
Step 9: Sleeping and tweezing. (Don’t ask.)
Step 10: Stepping away from [my colleague Patti’s] candy dish.
Step 11: Reconnecting with all of you, here – my faithful readers (right, still there, hello?).
Step 12: Rewriting a new lead.
To that last point: It should come as no surprise to frankly anybody that I’m off the races with a new diet program or, rather, a new challenge. My latest greatest reconnaissance mission of wellness. It’s big and I’m excited about it. Goodbye bloat. Goodbye redness and that pesky dryness around the nostrils. Goodbye lil’ miss cranky pants. Hello two thirds of the clothes hanging in my closet with tags on them…
According to the people from the program, this one is all about feeling good with the byproduct of losing weight. Smart, huh? (Picture me pointing to my noggin’.) Finally takin’ a new tact to an old problem whereby I am no longer solely focused on shrinking my donkey; but, instead, working to expand my healthfulness. (Hey, is that a word?)
Because that’s more important. I know it. I do. To sleep well. Clean up that T-zone. Learn to love again (or, if nothing else, lose my cravings for carbohydrates – either/or).
I’m going to eat well, do lots of yoga (even though I’m about as flexible as a wooden ruler), journal, walk, take a hot bath and LOTS and LOTS of expensive supplements. And, at the end of the day, write a new beginning that does not include Eczema of any kind. (After all, it’s T-1.2 for my first ”recommended” colonoscopy [my personal way of counting down to the big 5-0], and I’m not going in looking or feeling like this.)
Don’t think I can do it? (Oh, God, really? YOU DON’T??) Well, just watch. In fact, come with me. Because I’m going to write to you EACH WEEK (do you hear that, my long-limbed, fair-haired editors?) to let you know how it goes. But you have to write back. Tell me about your own stealth mission to feel better. Is it a deal?
Hope so. I’ll stay tuned if you’ll stay tuned. Until next time!!
September 12, 2011
General random thoughts about September 11….
It’s September 11, 2011 and I can’t stop watching the rotation of programs dedicated to the 9/11 tragedy. So sad. Dan and Steppy, who’s with us for the weekend, keep begging me to turn it off—to put on something easier to watch, like Comedy Central or Lifetime or even a movie on demand—preferably a comedy. But I’m riveted. I can’t stop watching. I just can’t. And I’m sure I don’t have to explain why – you get it. After all, you were there.
On the same day, my computer’s not working…
So let’s move on to something happier. Like, the fact that I got an accidental day off. See, it’s Open Enrollment season and if you’ve been reading for any length of time, you know that from now through December, it’s my industry’s version of tax season. My team and I have been working round the clock and I was supposed to be working today as well. But I think the universe shined down on me by creating a computer malfunction that doesn’t allow me to access the files I need to make any headway. So it’ll all have to wait until tomorrow. And instead of freaking out about how 24 hours are going to set me way behind and throw my schedule off balance (I had plans to get several projects done today), I’m going to take the perspective that’s practically on every channel (9/11) and settle in.
I’m going to eat some of the chips I bought for Steppy. Put off cleaning my closet for just another week. I might not even finish the laundry. Today, I’m going to rest. And write to all of you, about how sad this day makes me. And then, I’m going to have a really good cry and move onto something else (preferably not the ice cream in the freezer we have solely on Steppy’s behalf…).
Hey, let’s talk about the weather…
Normally, it’s the stuff of small talk, but right now it feels worthy of conversation. What’s going on Mother Nature? Hurricanes, earthquakes, floods here. Fires, dust and drought in Austin, where my dear friend Dixie is hot and thirsty. (Dixie, I wish I could send you a cool beverage…) And where the luxurious palatial and Utopic Fort my friends and I meet every Martin Luther King weekend came precariously close to burning.
What’s going on here? What’s next? Swarms of locusts? Aliens? A parting of the Atlantic Ocean?
And now a word about the Pennsylvania Turnpike in the rain in keeping with the theme…
I don’t know, I don’t try to guess why or what, with all this weather craziness . I just know that, in between the excitement, it’s wreaking havoc with traffic and that affects me deeply. Why, it took me three hours to get into the office the other day—for what should’ve been a 60-minute drive, TOPS. In fact, it’s taken me an obnoxious amount of time to get anywhere over the past week. Now I know spending more of your life than you care to sitting in traffic is not being caught in the ravages of 9/11, but it’s still annoying nevertheless. (Just ask my sciatica…)
Which brings me to my readiness for the peaceful breezes of fall. Even though the season brings more work than I ever asked for, I still say: Bring them on.
Bring them on.
Now that I’m not driving, an update on the dog…
I know you didn’t’ ask for it, but here’s an update on one of our dogs. Winnie, the part Border Collie, part Golden who’s not making life any easier than the weather. Several weeks ago we had a very strange growth removed from one of her legs. We were NOT taking any chances given what happened to my precious cancer-ridden Sophie and her bumps and lumps and who we had to put down five years ago. (Still feels like yesterday…hold on, I need to grab a tissue…)
The good news is that the biopsy on this very strange growth (honestly, it looked like a small penis growing out of her leg – I’m not kidding {sorry mom}) came back negative. She’s going to be just fine. The bad news is she’s been driving us crazy because she won’t leave it alone. And even though she’s wearing a large plastic cone around her neck to prevent her from getting at it, she’s too smart for her own good.
And so, in her dedication to the cause and with great focus and diligence, she finds a way to pull her sutures and then staples and then bandages and then staples and then extra sutures and then some glue and then staples out again and again and again and again (still wearing the plastic cone) – requiring us to make several trips to the emergency veterinary hospital and then the regular vet who all chant, “JILL!” and “DAN!” like they did “NORM!” from the old TV show Cheers (do you remember?) because we’re there so much, although there is no exchange of beer (much to my husband’s chagrin).
Fortunately, since our vet can’t figure out what to do to stop Winnie’s relentless attack on her incision and since he’s never “seen anything like it” and since he’s not really being all that helpful anymore other than tending to her damages, he doesn’t charge us for the every night visit we make to address the daily redness that scares us into thinking our four-legged baby has not only ripped open the skin but given herself some flesh-eating infection that is not going to turn out well. Which is helpful because we are not rich and we’ve already shelled out enough, blah, blah, blah.
And so, we remain in problem-solving mode – and after several weeks of it, now leave the house to go to work every day (because it’s just not practical to stay home and watch her every minute) with her first in a muzzle, a plastic cone, an inflated plastic donut (around her neck to restrict her movement), a tee-shirt that says “Bad Dog” on it, and some bandages. Add to that a mild sedative and an occasional Benedryl and most days, that does it.
Although, it would be so much easier if we could just explain to her why she needs to leave it alone and work through it together. But alas, she’s a dog. No way around that. And she’s a good girl? Who’s a good girl? Winnie is? Yes she is, she is a good girl who loves her mommy…she does…”
Sometimes I wonder if locusts would be easier.
Okay, stay with me now because I’m backtracking a bit to the hurricane…
Because I did not give it it’s proper justice just several paragraphs up … this is my last thought or story or whatever you want to call it:
So two weekends ago, I left Winnie in this ill state with Dan (yes, it’s been two weeks and counting…) while I went off to Chicago to take a comedy-writing workshop.
Day one: Of course, I had trouble concentrating knowing that the dog was battling a fragile incision and a slight mental condition, but knew that Dan had it under control. (Too much practice with those ex-wives…but I digress…) So on…
Day two: when I had to write and then read my comedic monologue to the group (I wrote it about a very quirky colleague who loves the Flintstones and Wing Bowl and anything British Royals and proved to be great fodder as evidenced by my class’ reaction), I was able to perform with gusto. That was Friday. The weather reporters were preparing everybody in Philly for Hurricane Irene on Saturday, promising she was to roar in like an angry a peri-menopausal woman who’s hormones raged like feathers out of an old and dirty pillow (who doesn’t know about that?). Irene, it was predicted, would release her full wrath on the city.
Meanwhile in Chicago, they were saying if you needed to get back East, now was the time, because flights would be canceled over the weekend as a result of the coming onslaught. I toyed with the idea, but thought it best not to be in the center of the anxiety festival the Hurricane would present. My husband is much calmer than me; he would probably fare better with me elsewhere.
And yet, I’d begged him in the weeks prior to do something about our very temperamental sump pump, which had malfunctioned just a week earlier. My husband, who can fix everything—even an ailing pump—came to the rescue as usual, but I nagged over and over again that “if you were out of town for any reason, I’d be on the phone ordering a boat—preferably one that could fit through a standard Pulte doorway.”
And so he went to Home Depot and after examining the models on the shelves, decided to do some more investigating online before buying one. Maybe he could find something cheaper…All of a sudden, he was Mr. Bargain Shopper. And now, those words were now coming back to haunt us.
And so, a day before an unpredictable hurricane, I said, into the phone, while driving West on Foster in Chicago back to my friend Ellen’s house after a long day of class, “I hear the Hurrrican’s a comin’ – you got the new sump pump and backup battery whatchamajiggy in case our power goes out, yes? ”
To which he said: “Unfortunately, they’re all out. “
“Who’s all out?” I clutched the steering wheel.
“Home Depot, Lowes, Ace Hardware, Sears, man, you can’t believe how everybody’s cleaned those [sump pumps and battery backups] out because of the hurricane!” He chuckles nervously.
I choke back an “I told you so…” because I know that’s not going to help anybody at this point.
“Well, did you try online? Ordering online?”
“Not yet.”
And so all I could manage to get out, after an entire day of unnecessary silliness (since there was a hurricane to prep for), and thinking about the best way to set the environment for a good comedic sketch or sitcom, was this:
“Okay.”
And then, later, before sleep: “Oh God.”
Day 3: I call Dan in the morning and can hear the tension in his voice. He’s busy gathering provisions, while I write a comedy sketch about mine and Ellen’s drive to Lisa’s barbeque the night before that two “actors” will ultimately read in class. We hang up quickly. My anxiety makes me eat a scone from Starbucks, instead of a nice bowl of healthy oats, for breakfast. Damn you, Irene.
Mid-day I call Dan on a break. He informs me that not only is the hurricane coming—and the skies are dark and ominous—but there’s a killer on the loose in Doylestown and Warwick (where my parents live) and the police are instructing people to stay in their houses. This is surreal, I think. I’m suddenly living in an alternate universe with murderers and hurricanes and dogs who can perform medical procedures on themselves.
I called my parents. Are you home? My dad tells me yes, but I later learn my mother was out lunching and shopping with the ladies—very close to where the “killer” (an ex-military guy who picked off his ex-wife and her husband and son and then his mother-in-law in the area) wound up shooting himself. (Precariously close to my nail salon, really scary.)
And I’m in a comedy workshop trying to make shit up?
I want to go home. Badly. I make it through Day 3 and, after an evening with friends I hadn’t seen for a long while, went back to Ellen’s, where I did some work work, and woke up every hour on the hour wondering if the dog had chewed off her sutures, if Hurricane Irene was redecorating our basement, and if there were killers trying to figure out how to bust in through our garage.
Which brings me back to today…
It’s 9/11. Such a sad day. So much to worry about and yet it really doesn’t mean anything at all, does it? We didn’t get flooded, in case you were curious. The dog is getting better. My mother and her friends managed to evade the homicidal maniac whose post-traumatic stress syndrome manifested, well, badly. And who would have guessed it? But I have the day off!
I guess it all works out in the end. How’s your day going? Do tell.
Until next time!
August 7, 2011
We just got back from a week at the beach—me, Dan and Steppy. I must say, it was not our finest vacation. Weather aside, Steppy came to us off the heels of a cold and fever, which she promptly gave to me. So by day three, when I should have been slow cooking like a fine piece of prime rib at the beach and enjoying lemonade and Kohrs Brothers Ice Cream on the Ocean City Boardwalk, the salt air making my skin dewy and my nerves less frazzled, I was instead, stuck in the hotel, fighting a throbbing virus/pain in my neck and back, craving sleep, trying to swallow without wincing, and watching a day-long marathon of Millionaire Matchmaker on Bravo. I can now tell you firsthand, much as I love Patty Stenger (and she is ALWAYS right, trust me, if only those hard-headed millionaires would listen, they WOULD find love, I’m sure of it…), being sick on vacation sucks. It sucks BIG.
Of course, it’s not all kinds of fun to be spending a week with a miserable, sullen and uncooperative teenager, which would accurately describe Steppy these days (along with being tall, thin, blonde, tan, young, and beautiful, which she takes so for granted, which doesn’t help one bit…).
Add to that four nights in a row of watching Shark Week on television (programming that features various iterations of sharks in the water and the old wrinkly guys who study them) and there you have it. My vacation. (Of course, I did get to spend some time with my good friends Ben and Jerry and they never disappoint…)
The thing is: these precious five days were mine to deep breathe and relax between working hard to get away and working even harder to make up for the time off. Not to mention the fact that, in my business, we’re about to head into our version of tax season…and there you have it.
Sucky vacation. Not cool.
Now, I know there are people who have it a lot worse off than me. So I wouldn’t go so far as to call the vacation a dud—I wasn’t at work, after all, or getting a root canal or applying for food stamps, living in my car, addicted to heroin, diagnosed with a terminal disease, dealing with the death of a loved one, the aftereffects of a Bernie Madoff, or even locked in an elevator with my husband’s ex-wife—but still. It wasn’t award winning. A model for future vacations. Or even something I’ll look back at one day and laugh about.
Because when you have such limited amount of time off to play—and life is so hard, and busy, and high stakes and hectic—you take those precious few days seriously. So for me, now that they’re over and in my rear window, I’m bummed.
Supremely.
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Of course, the days leading up to the now mediocre vacation weren’t exactly a delight. Working hard, dieting hard, managing people and relationships hard, exercising hard, thinking hard, checking things vigorously off my list, scrambling for sleep, trying to negotiate hard realizations.
Like, for example, my boss’ so delicately reminding me that, while I was doing a good job at work, I was on the “downslide” when it came to my overall age and career trajectory. (I can’t remember how we got on the subject, but we got there, unfortunately.) He even drew me a diagram of a bell curve. I’m rounding the top, he says, at the ripe old age of 48.
“Are you gonna live to be 100?” he asks, while I watch him draw dotted lines on my downward spiral on the diagram.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” What’s next? A Gantt chart of my demise?
“Let’s just say for the sake of argument, you are. Even then, you’re just really getting over the hump here…” He runs his red pen over the top of the curve a few times for emphasis.
Now my boss and I have a very good relationship—we’re friends, practical jokers, and truth tellers. We are not sugar coaters, which I especially like for professional reasons. But the declarative notion that I am at my peak was—is—hard to take. Because frankly, I feel as if I’m just getting started.
And yet, the only consolation is that he’s a few years older even than me, so he’s willing to admit he’s blazing the trail, but still. I didn’t need to hear that. Who wants to hear that? Who?
Then, in preparation for a week away, I had several things to get done, one of which was to return these shoes I’d ordered from Zappos. I had to take them to Staples to be picked up by UPS. So after a very long hard day at the office, I stopped on the way home, figuring it would only take a few minutes. That’s until the guy behind the counter couldn’t figure out how to put the UPS label tape into the little machine, so he couldn’t print a label for my package. Fifteen minutes later, there are four Staples employees trying to figure it out while I stood there, fuming like an idiot, the ticker tape running through my head:
“Just leave. Why are you standing here?” I asked myself silently. “Because,” I answered myself, “I have already put in now 20 minutes. I am not leaving with this package.” It’s the exact same reason I spent 11 years with the wrong man. Too much time invested.
But then, much like it wound up with the boyfriend, at 30 minutes, the now five Staplettes informed me that they couldn’t fix it and, ergo, would NOT be able to mail my package. To which I stormed out, after first asking them very loudly, “WHAT DO YOU SELL HERE? ARE YOU OUT OF COPY PAPER TOO?”
Then, I heard from my dear friend Jill that her aunt, who she’s very close to and has been for as long as I’ve known her (25 years), was just diagnosed with bone and lung cancer and given months to live. Which just made me feel bad for feeling bad about the Staplettes not shipping my package and being on the downslide because at least I’ve got some—I’d say a pretty good chunk (boss)—of slide left.
I don’t know where I’m going with this. I guess to quote my friend Jill from the very same text in which she told me the bad news: “Middle age is so hard. So much to deal with.”
So well put. And so, as Dan and I and Steppy got into the car to leave our beach vacation—and I started to think about it all (Steppy’s bad behavior and how she’s mine for life, mom and dad, work, the dogs, my husband, my diet, my health, Dan’s health, my parents’ health, our finances, our next vacation, when I’ll see my Chicago friends next, how tired I am, how long it will take me to unpack, how much regular mail we have, the bills, the dead sea scroll of emails in all three of my inboxes, my first day back at work full of too many meetings, grocery shopping, laundry, returning shoes, getting my hair colored and my chipped nails fixed, figuring out the detox I got from the doctor, getting the dogs groomed and my husband a haircut along with a physical and those sunspots checked, why people don’t talk on the telephone anymore, how much texting is ruining the next generation since it’s so impersonal, the need to learn meditation, whether we need toilet paper, whether the debt ceiling debate will ruin Obama’s chances for re-election, why we can’t just unilaterally ditch all of Congress and start from scratch, who’s making dinner, and when I’ll get to relax if ever again, etc.)—I stopped for a minute to breathe and whisper in my husband’s ear:
“Aren’t you supposed to leave vacation less stressed than when you arrived?”
Alas, I fear another fallacy—and stark realization of mid life.
Oh well, how was your summer vacation? Did you have fun? Do share because, frankly, I could use the pick me up.
Until next time!
July 4, 2011
My mom had back surgery last week. It was a hard week – a week when I realized that my parents are getting older (and so am I) and how differently they deal with it and how I’m the person that will need to be there. (And just as a side note, I’m okay with that, I absolutely am.)
My mother gets very focused in the face of a medicine. She’s in charge and boastful about what a good patient she is. Things like needles or temporary pain of any sort, they don’t bother her. To the contrary, she’ll endure whatever is necessary to get rid of the synovial cyst that, now drained, is sure to fill up again without surgical intervention—and awaken the excruciating pain that, now dormant, had her bent over for the better part of six weeks.
My father, on the other hand, can’t stand any of this hospital/medical business. While he knows he needs to be there for my mother, he nevertheless can’t resist suggesting we “go get some coffee” on the way downtown to the hospital. “Hey,” he says to me, while parking the car, “I’ll show you where I take classes (at Temple University, for seniors in Center City). Gosh, they have an absolutely terrific Macy’s not too far from the hospital…”
“Owen!!,” my mother says, “I’ve not even been admitted yet!” He winks at me, as if to say, “We’ll go when she’s on the table.”
She looks at me as if to say, “Please don’t leave.”
We haven’t even gotten to the hospital entrance yet. Help me.
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And so, we get out of the car and walk over to hospital and within the hour, we’re taken to the hospital room where they’ll prep my mother for surgery. In his discomfort, my dad jokes with the nursing staff and asks them how they like the Phils, whether he can have a warm blanket too, and if they’re planning to wheel her down in this particular bed (which of course they are, says Nurse Ned, “that’s why it’s on wheels!”).
To which Mom keeps saying: “It’s my day, Owen.” And she whispers how his jokes and random conversation will soon become irritating.
To which he says, “I know.”
To which the nursing staff asks my dad not to sit on the other bed since they need it for somebody else, who will be coming at some point, soon.
To which I wish I had a pizza and a little privacy. And wonder, how, even though my mom’s the one going under the knife, I’m going to survive the day.
———————————————————————————————–
Once they take her down for surgery, my dad and I go to the hospital cafeteria where he has a yummy bagel and cream cheese and diet soda from the fountain and I eat some of the pre-made diet food (carrot and celery sticks and some radishes) I brought with me in my large purse because I’m a true masochist.
It’s not until five or so hours later, when they tell us the procedure is over and went well and she’s in recovery that I’m comfortable finally giving in and walking with my father over to the Starbucks a few blocks away. I leave my cell phone number with the nice lady in an interesting yellow dress who’s manning the family waiting area, so she can call when Mom is out of recovery and back in her room.
And sure enough, my dad has just enough time to tour me through some museum and park when the phone rings and we have to head back. We walk fast since I don’t want Mom to think we’re not there. After all, if ever there’s a time to be there for somebody, it’s when they’re being wheeled back up from surgery. Don’t you think?
I know Dad feels that way too, since he’s walking just a tiny bit faster than me.
———————————————————————————————–
Mom was okay. And once we knew it, and that she wanted to sleep, we went to Macy’s – a mere 14 blocks away (28 round trip). I knew that morning as I got dressed, that the three-inch platform heels I chose for the day might not serve me well. But I soldiered on anyway. We got Mom a new Fossil purse (and one for me as well), had dinner at Cosi’s, and then went back to check on her. She was awake but longing for sleep (who wouldn’t, after having the middle of their back carved like a Thanksgiving turkey?). Unfortunately, her 80-plus-year-old roommate’s VERY LOUD daughter was confused and thought my mother’s hospital room was really a garden party.
As I went over to ask them as politely as possible to shut the f*$% up, my mother just had surgery, I couldn’t help but notice my father on the return. He was gingerly placing a straw in Mom’s chicken broth, holding it ever so gently up to her lips and encouraging her to sip. He rubbed her head and got in real close to her eyes, red and moist from the operation. “Just take a little sip,” he encouraged her, “would you?”
And so she did.
I wanted to cry. I really did. People can be funny—especially when they’ve been married for 54 years. And they’re in a hospital.
But I didn’t cry. Not then. Later. I did later, admittedly. I’m a very sensitive and emotional person. So how could I not.
You would have too, if you were me.
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All in all, it was a mentally, physically and emotionally exhausting day. And listen, I know my parents are pretty good. They’re not as bad as some of the stories I hear from my friends—about their parents. I know I’m one of the lucky ones. Mom’s operation was fairly common and routine, thank goodness. But still. I don’t like seeing my mother under a sea of white blankets in a hospital bed. And it’s no fun watching my father’s discomfort. And I wonder how it is that I will survive anything worse – because, in the scheme of all living things, I suspect that too is eventually coming someday…
But let us not think about it. Not today.
Which leads me to this: I don’t want my parents to get any older. And I don’t want to get any older either. But how can we make it stop? (Anybody?)
If you know, please tell me. And if you don’t, well, okay.
Instead, tell me how are you parents? Your mother, your father, your brothers, sisters, in-laws, out-laws, friends, and neighbors. Your wounded soldiers. Your, well, you know…
Until next time!
June 12, 2011
So it’s been a while since I’ve written. And honestly, I don’t have anything earth-shattering to say other than the fact that I’m just living the regular life – just like all of you out there. Here’s a few slices for your reading pleasure.
Slice #1: I’m going to the hair salon.
So last week, I went to the hair salon to get my natural red color restored, which I do about every five weeks. I’ve been going to this one shop for several years now – since I moved back to Bucks County after spending almost 20 years in Chicago. My colorist, Jason, is a cute little 30-something gay man, part Jewish part whatever, who not only farms in his spare time and likes to drink, but is also beloved among his clientele for facilitating estrogen-inspired age-appropriate conversation. Why, I can’t count all the times on two hands that I’ve been in his chair talking with his last clients while they sit with heads full of hair dye or foils under saucer-shaped heat lamps—learning things I never dreamed possible about removing chin hair, say, and/or managing the perils of step-parenting. It’s better than the Encyclopedia Brittanica of how to be middle-aged.
With that in mind, it seemed only natural that, in the echo of an unusually quiet Friday afternoon, I would resort to asking: “So Jason, what’s new in the world of perimenopause?” After all, this is where I collect a lot of savory information.
To which he responded: “Why are you asking me? I’m a guy.”
To which I said, “Oh, c’mon, Jason, you know you know. Don’t be coy.”
To which he says, without even a breath, “Yam root. Supposed to be good for mood swings. You outta try it.”
I think I might.
Slice #2: I’m being dragged to the Verizon store.
With my husband, of course. Who else? He’s been researching smart phones since Bush was in office and now that I’ve traded in my Blackberry for an iPhone (white, courtesy of my work), he needs to have one too. Heaven forbid, I have a smart phone and he doesn’t.
Heaven forbid.
And so, he dragged me on a perfectly fine Saturday, during which there was a Real Housewives of New York marathon on (which I had to miss), to wait in line at the Verizon store at this strip mall near our house. Never mind it was 98 degrees in June. (I know, that is random, but still.)
After 15 minutes of looking at more phones than the Pilgrims could ever dream possible, they finally call our name, “Dan” and within 15 more minutes my husband is all set and ready to go with his new iPhone (black), a hard-shell cover for protection, and everything else but a bassinet. Because you’d think he delivered this thing out of the tip of the penis, the way he tends to it constantly. He’s always on it, riveted to a rotation of novel albeit useless apps like a radar that’s supposed to detect the presence of ghosts (but instead growls out random words like “bagel” and “frame” and “shortcut”) and talking animals.
For some reason, a cartoon shark that parrots back everything he says in a voice like James Earl Jones or a cat that talks like he’s just inhaled a sweet sixteen party’s worth of helium balloons, is more interesting than me. I could run around the house in nothing but a rotating set of edible pasties, and unless I could find my way into a cartoon mouse costume and speak back to him in a voice that sounds like Daffy Duck, he’s just not interested.
Hard to believe, yes?
Slice #3: I’m baking gluten-free brownies from a single package.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I don’t need brownies. (Hello? Fat, get off me.) But Steppy (my stepdaughter, for those of you who haven’t read for a while or who have short-term memory issues) insisted we bake together. And you know me, I’ll do almost anything to get brownie points—literally.
She’s almost 14 now and things are really changing. Suddenly, she gets me. And can connect with me on the important things—like shoes, and lip gloss, and pocketbooks. She wants to talk about getting her nails done and remind me of the brown boots she wants for her birthday (in October)—you know, “the kind that come of up to your mid-calf and look like Uggs?” She also gets very upset if I try to give her and Dan daddy/daughter time – no, no, she wants me around and I like it!
It’s taken me six long years to finally be in, and so if she wants to bake brownies, show me how to the pre-heat the oven. The nice thing is that the brownies we made together were the best gluten-free pastries I’ve had to date. So good, my husband was forced to utter this incredibly creative passage, “Gosh, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear these had gluten in them.” Isn’t he something?
The bad thing is I’m on a new diet, which means no more brownies—gluten-free or otherwise—for me. But again, another story for another day.
How are things in your neck of the woods? What does your slice of life look like? Do tell.
Until next time!
May 15, 2011
Last week, my husband and I met our friends Joan and Dave in San Francisco for a much needed vacation. We’d been planning for months and finally, the day was here. We got on a 7 a.m. flight and by 5 o’clock California time, we were at our destination—the InterContinental Hotel in Nob Hill, San Francisco. Once there, we were looking at six full days of glorious decompression time.
Time that would be filled with the usual suspects—a tour of Alcatraz, a meditative stroll and shopping along the scenic Fisherman’s Wharf, and the hiking up too many hills to count. There were the several Crab Louis salads. And who could forget a day spent traversing the streets of Haight Ashbury, ingesting the second-hand smoke with our fingers crossed.
I couldn’t help but notice, as the week passed, that by the end of our trip, we’d have been on every possible mode of transport known to man—with the exception of the space shuttle. (Although, had we chosen to indulge directly at Haight Ashbury, we might have been able to at least mimic the experience…)
After all, we took a plane to our destination, a boat to the “Rock”, a cable car to Union Square, a double-decker bus to get a flavor of the city’s neighborhoods. We took a taxi to our hotel, which was not easy to flag, after a big meal in Chinatown that put a dent in both our desire and ability to literally repel up the side of the city to our hotel.
But the most fun we had was on the pedicab and then the hot air balloon.
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We had just come out of a Michelin-rated restaurant, whose name currently escapes me. (I do, however, remember the Crab Louis, so bravo!) It was later on a Sunday night and the city was quiet. To walk back to our hotel, we’d have had to climb up approximately 10 city blocks—something we were reluctantly prepared to do in lieu of a taxi until we happened by a young guy pulling a pedicab: You know, a bicycle, pulling a little wagon with seats, kind of like a modern day rickshaw for peasants.
The cycler, who’s name is John, took one look at us—four middle-aged tourists pointing to buildings and trying to keep the wind from blowing up our map—and knew he’d found his next fare. Tired, stuffed, and confused about where we were, we were ripe for the picking.
So he stops his bike, using his feet as a kickstand and calls out to us. “Hey…” Intrigued and, early enough into our vacation to be open to anything, we walk over to him. “Want a ride?” he asks, nodding to the two-seater cab hitched to his bike shaking ever so slightly. We are interested, but concerned. The seat looks small.
“Oh, no worries,” he says. “I can easily get the four of you on here.” And promptly directs me and Joan to sit on our husband’s laps. Now just so you know, neither one of us are lightweights. Not that my friend is fat – to the contrary. But she’s tall and long limbed and I’m not sure I’d want her to sit on my lap while some strange guy on a 10-speed hauls us up the hills of San Fran.
With that, we collectively contemplate the pros and the cons. The pros: The large meal we just enjoyed had begun settling ever deeper into each of our stomachs, making the idea of walking in imaginary crampons up the cement terrain to our hotel seem like a drudge, to say the least. The cons: The seat looked uncomfortable. And the pedicab itself was anything but lush. Let’s just say the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge would have sent him on his way. But we decided, in the end, it was okay for us.
And so we climbed on and prepared ourselves for anything.
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So John starts pedaling, talking to us non-stop about the sites of the city and how long he’s been doing this and why, as we admire his strong calves and wonder why he isn’t out of breath. All I can think about is how dangerous this is (after all, we were sharing the street with cable cars and tour buses and confused drivers and tourists). And why did I eat so much? And will my leg muscles recover in time for a lot of walking tomorrow, since they were burning from my not wanting to put all my weight on poor Dan (think extended wall squat).
Then, we hear the bells getting louder and louder. And we realize that a cable car is gaining on us. In response, John pedals faster. My face begins to feel flush and my heart start to palpitate.
Oh dear. This is what lazy will get you: picked off by a cable car. I can read the news now: “Four unsuspecting middle-aged tourists mired down by too much rich cooking and too lazy to walk, look for vicarious exercise in the wrong place. After sharing a meal large enough for seven, they were innocently lured onto a dangerous pedicab that due to only 10 bicycle speeds and a chatty and distracted driver was crushed by an aberrant cable car. There are no survivors.”
Focused on the cable car behind us, I didn’t realize that we were finished climbing and now preparing to go straight down. This raises new concerns: Like how John is going to control the pedicab as we careen down a long incline…
“Don’t worry,” he says, again, reading my mind. “I have disc brakes.” And then, as we begin to drop, he hits them, and we go jolting ever so slightly forward. It’s like almost getting thrown off a horse and only mildly comforting in the face of flying down the block with a cable car up our a*^es. John suddenly and unexpectedly jerks the bike to right so he can get us on to the sidewalk.
I chant, nervously and uncontrollably, “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God…” My husband and our friends share a maniacal sort of “I’m going to die” laugh. And all the while, John continues to talk, about his near miss accidents and how he’s survived, and how we’ll all be just fine.
“I’m gonna get you to the end of the street, so you can guys can grab this cable car at the circle down there back up to your hotel,” he says. I pray he doesn’t take his hand off the handlebars to point. By the time we get to the end of the road, my adrenals are blasted. And to make it worse, I’ve said about 250 Hail Mary’s–and I’m Jewish.
Fortunately, we survived it just in time to get to our next vehicular adventure: The hot air balloon.
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Now keep in mind: I am terrified of heights. I used to have a client with offices on the second floor of their building and stairs you can see through. I always took the elevator. You know never when one of those cracks will suddenly open up and suck me through it.
Do you watch the SciFi channel? Ever seen a Twilight Zone? It could happen. It really could.
So imagine my getting on a hot air balloon. And yet, on another trip we’d taken to Taos, New Mexico, with the same friends, we’d contemplated the idea, enticed by the beautiful views and the prospect of landing in the lovely but shallow Taos gorge. So we decided to take an informal poll of the locals to see if they thought it’d be a good idea for people like Joan and I, who had a fear of high places.
“Uh, well, yeah, you’re in a basket in the air, so probably not so good.” This was the consensus. So we didn’t do it.
But this trip, well, I was determined. So when my friend Joan sent me a link to the BallonsAbovetheValley.com as a joke, I signed us up. Ha ha, I thought, joke’s on her. (And, well, uh, me.)
When the day came, we left San Francisco at 3 a.m. to drive to Napa, since the balloons lift off just before dawn. There were about 50 of us there to ride on three balloons. We were told that ours was the largest balloon in the country, holding as many as 24 people. I was glad – if I had to get into a wicker basket and go up into the air with an oversized swath of parachute material and four large tanks of propane, I’d need as many people as possible for morale support.
Now, let me just say, there’s no graceful way to get into the basket of a hot air balloon. It’s high – up to my chest and I’m 5” 3” (wink wink) – with just enough grooves for you to place your feet so you can throw one leg over the top and sit on it as if you were saddling up to a horse, before falling fully into the balloon’s cab. And once you’re in, you’re in and, in our case, quickly flanked by other people standing shoulder to shoulder, readying their cameras for the promise of something wonderful.
We wait as the first of the three balloons takes off, which just heightens the sense of excitement and drama, especially for those of us who are scared (and there are several). Finally, the people on the ground with walkie-talkie’s give our pilot the thumbs us. To which he begins fiddling with the tanks, yanking at ropes, and firing hot air into the now fully inflated parachute until we slowly come off the ground.
I’m okay at first. And after a few short minutes, feel the nervousness begin to exit my body like a puff of smoke. I’m good standing behind Dan, peeking over his shoulder at the panoramic views of the Napa vineyards, which truly are spectacular. And as we creep higher, the people around me continue to ask if I’m okay. And I was, as long as I didn’t have to move, remembered to breathe, and we didn’t go any higher.
But then, we got to 1,300 feet and I started to panic. Looked over at the pilot, at least 75 pounds overweight, sweating and grunting like a football player in preseason, and I was instantly lost in the thought of what would happen if he just stroked out. What if his heart gave way—he suddenly grabbed at his chest and dropped off the side like an angry bird.
What would happen to the 20 of us now so high up in the sky, we could barely see the vans that brought us to the launching field?
Now I was scared. Instead of admiring the views, I imagined all the many ways we could drop to our death. I could read the headline: In a cruel twist of fate, four innocent middle-aged tourists who were too lazy to walk and lucky enough to survive a crash with a cable car, fell to their untimely death during a routine balloon ride after the pilot has a heart attack and the balloon drops like a penny from a 12th story apartment building onto hard dirt.
It could happen.
Fortunately, it didn’t. We survived. The balloon came down more gently than I’d anticipated and I managed to climb out without seriously injuring any of my lady parts (although don’t take a picture). But you never know—it could have been a close one.
All in all, it was a great ride. The pedicab. The balloon. The whole vacation. Would I go on a hot air balloon again? You bet. I’d even go on a pedicab, but maybe just with my husband and someplace flat, like Indiana. Or the track by the high school, just a mile or so from our house.
How about you? What was the most death-defying thing you’ve ever done on vacation? And would you do it again? Do tell.
Until next time!
April 10, 2011
So in the middle of my adrenal nightmare, something unexpected:
A fully-loaded 2009 Audi 4 Quattro convertible. We bought it. It’s mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. A vehicular concubine. A “Sapphire Blue Knight”, in homage to its jewel-toned monochromatic shell and soft hood. That deep blue the color of rare sky that matches the changing shades of blue in my eyes and complements the coppery red in my sometimes curly locks. Even makes my thighs look thin due to the fact that, well duh, you can’t see them since, of course, I’m typically seated while driving. And even if you could—if, for some reason, I found myself role playing the opening scene of Footloose—I still don’t think anybody would notice because the car itself commands a certain kind of singular attention.
And when I drive it, I am momentarily transported. To a place of supreme hotness, where all my youthful fantasies come to life. To where I no longer feel violently middle-aged, peri-menopausal, and adrenally deprived.
Which is one reason—or maybe even two—why we got it.
I think it’s fair to say, we surely weren’t looking for it. We didn’t plan to leave the house on that sunny Saturday about a week and half ago with the intention of buying a sports car worthy of what I’m now calling my second official mid-life crisis. (The first being my leaving Chicago eight years ago to come here and [finally] get married, mother two rescue dogs, have a house in the suburb, and lay claim to an armoire full of black stretch pants.)
But it was the universe in action. A divine intervention if you will that delivered just the appropriate dose of healing for the incurable disease of feeling old and bored and like you just need a little something something…
You see, we went out with my mother and father for a fun day on the town. I had been thinking about trading in our Honda Element—planning to get something new in early 2012. It was just a fluke that some of the dealers in our area were having “March Madness” sales—and that my dad was also bored and up for a good time checking out their inventory.
I had no idea that we’d take one car—and one car only—for a casual test drive and then buy it. But who could resist that tan leather interior, the kindness of the Audi navigation system (her voice like a gentle therapist), the convenience of blue tooth. The ease with which the top opens to reveal endless possibility.
As I turned the wheel for the first time, I see Dan feeling the sides of the leather with the flat bottom of his palm from the corner of my eye. “Nice ride, huh?” the car sales guy in the back seat calls to us, noticing a little drool on the side of my husband’s mouth. He’s packed in to the rear of the car like 10 pounds of potatoes in a five-pound bag since the two-door Audi is really not designed for somebody who’s 6’ 5”.
But whatever. I was too busy feeling like I’d been dropped into a warm hot bath (seat warmers, can you hear the angels?) than to worry about what’s-his-name’s comfort. After all, there was water floating around me like liquid jello. It was my time to enjoy it…
…And a far cry from the bus-like sensation I’d come to know from driving the Element two hours a day for four year on the Pennsylvania turnpike—of course, a perfectly fine car, if you’re hauling freight or operating a mobile dog grooming business.
But not the Blue Knight.
Not a dream machine that makes me feel less like I’ve arrived and more like I’m riding in a well-worn-but-really-not Barcalounger sipping on calorie-free hot chocolate while my husband gives me a very focused foot rub.
Once the test drive was over and the sales guy reached his way out of the back of the seat as if he were practicing some extreme form of yoga, I looked at my husband and said this:
“Can we get it? I want it. Can we?”
“Sure, why not?” he said, casually, as if I’d just asked him if he wanted a piece of gum.
“Really?”
“Yep, really.”
“Can we afford it?” Because even though it was used, it was more than $1.
“Sure, why not?”
“If we get it, can I still get my hair done every six weeks?”
“No.”
“How about shoes–can I buy some new shoes?”
“No. Sure can’t.”
“How about the shellac manicure? Can I get that along with an occasional pedicure?”
“No, babe. You can’t.”
“But we can get the car, right?”
“Sure. Of course!”
And so, it’s ours—resting quietly in the garage as I write. And it’s glorious. And that’s what’s new, dear readers, since we last spoke. Oh sure, I’m still adrenally challenged, but now, I can “meditate” in style. In soft leather with satellite radio and just the right presets, a navigation system that tells me I’m a-okay, and blue tooth that makes hands-free calling as easy as a 90-minute massage.
If that doesn’t help those nasty glands simmer down, I don’t know what will. How about you? How do you like your car? Tell me all about it. And if you see me on the road, be sure to honk and smile.
And until next time!
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