I would be remiss if I didn’t post an entry with my New Year’s resolutions, you know, those things we either vow to do every year or not to make at all. This year, I’m going middle road. I’ll put them out there, but I’m not going to beat myself up if I don’t achieve them.
That’s because I’m looking for a no pressure year. In fact, that’s my first new year’s resolution:
1. Create no pressure.
I liken it to the “Do no harm” clause in the doctor’s handbook.
My second new year’s resolution is CLEARLY to write a book. I mean, c’mon. I am a “writer” in mid-life crisis. Not just your “average Joe” in mid-life crisis because, really, isn’t that how most writers see themselves? As not average? (Although, I’m not saying we see ourselves as necessarily better than average either.) Or maybe that’s just a human thing.
Whatever. (Goes to create no pressure, which includes not having to fully explain myself. At least not for the next 12 months.)
Okay, so we’ve got one and two:
1. Create no pressure.
2. Write a book.
Here’s number three: Floss.
Threw you off, didn’t I? You thought I was going to put something in there about losing weight. (It’s okay, I’m not offended. I know I’m chubby.) But I refuse to do it. No way. I’d rather repave all the potholes in Colorado than put a clause in my new year’s resolutions about losing weight. Because it never works. Never. If it works for you, tell me how. I’m serious. Write to me. Has anybody out there EVER resolved to lose weight and actually done it? Because I’ve seen you all at the gym, where I have to wait mercilessly for an elliptical machine in January and, come February, it’s all mine again. Whenever I want it. So don’t judge me. I’m you. (Remember?) AND I’M NOT RESOLVING TO LOSE WEIGHT. Forget it.
Again, create no pressure. Do no harm. Which brings me back to flossing.
Why do so many of us fail to do this? It’s what? A five-minute experience once a day? Not the most pleasant—surely not like having an egg nog latte or finding the perfect white tee shirt. On sale. But it’s better than gum surgery (sans the gas).
And so, I will add it to my evening ritual like having sex.
Which brings me to my next new year’s resolution (mom, cover your eyes): MORE SEX. Even if I don’t want it. Even if I’ve spent the entire day painting, doing sit ups, push ups, walking the dog, actually having gum surgery and then hauling large vats of cement up my neighbor’s long steps. Even if I throw out my back, dislodge an important knee joint, feel the full wrath of my peri-menopausal condition (night sweats, afternoon hot flashes) or fail to fit into my sweats. Even if I lose my biggest client and our Home Depot card is repossessed. Even if the cable goes out and Comcast can’t fix the problem for a week. Even if Dan slips into a coma. Or develops sudden amnesia and is found wandering the streets. I’ll find him. Make it happen. I’m that resolute. No matter what the physical, mental or emotional issues of the day, I vow to have MORE SEX. (After all, if the sexy grandma can do it — see fellow blogger.)
So let’s recap to this point:
1. Create no pressure.
2. Write a book.
3. Floss.
4. Sex it up.
Oh, ooh, take more pictures with our digital camera and actually develop them. Yep, that’s definitely my next one. First, though, I have to find the camera. I know it’s in this house somewhere. But where?
Number six: Stay out of Home Goods. Even though I can practically spit at it from my new house where I need just about EVERYTHING. Even though every time I drive by I hear it call me in a voice that resembles Linda Blair’s in the Exorcist. “Jill,” deep guttural growl. “You WILL come in. You WILL shop.” And then, there’s green spew everywhere. (Well, not really, but consider it for effect”¦)
Which leads me naturally into the next one: Remember that credit is real money. (I might have to delete this one, however, because it directly violates resolutions number one, three and four. Don’t ask.)
Number eight: Learn how to be a better trimmer. I’m talking all things ”“ bushes, eyebrows, upper lip hair, painting the bathroom, bangs, Winnie’s nails, the fat, just anything in general. I mean, we never really stop to think about how trimming impacts our every day lives. Aside from the obvious improvements, I think being a better trimmer would greatly improve the quality of my life (not to mention give me a better shot at heaven, in a non-secular way, if you know what I’m saying).
Nine: Moisturize. Seems self-explanatory.
Ten: Learn how to sell shit on eBay. I am so sick and tired of people saying to me, “You should sell that on ebay.” If I had a nickel … Like the box of Rolling Stone Magazines I have in the garage, my old eight tracks, and a half-closet full of size six clothes. (Contrary to the new agers, optimistic thinking doesn’t always work.)
And then I think, yeah, I should. I should do a lot of things, like get Tivo and program the VCR and change the oil in my car. Read up on the Intel Pentium chip because I know it’s more than just a ring tone and a logo with a nice collection of primary colors.
Number 11: Get the dog to love me. I mean, I know she does. Especially when it’s bodily function time (feed me, I have to poop, pee, run in circles in the park, mount strangers). But as soon as Dan comes home, I could be lying dead in the gas fireplace, toked to the max, and she’d be oblivious. So, this year, I’m upping the ante.
Better treats. Designer booties. Gold-plated chew toys. More one-on-one time doing things with other mommies and their collies and retrievers. A few more heart to hearts. Stuffed wildebeests, with easy open seams and access to fuzz stuffing. More table food. An extreme makeover of her crate. (I can hear Ty now, “Move that, uh, chair!”) More throw up time, with leniency to let go on the carpet. More productive begging. I’m optimistic here. After all, how do you think I landed my husband? (Single ladies, take note.)
Where we’re at:
1. Create no pressure.
2. Write a book.
3. Floss.
4. Sex it up.
5. Locate digital camera.
6. Shun Home Goods.
7. Credit is money. Really.
8. Improve trimming skills.
9. Lube a lot.
10. Master eBay.
11. Win over the dog.
Yep, sounds good. Okay, just a few more. Number 12: Get better at pretending to like football (baby, this one’s for you). I think this is really a patience issue, so let me reword (it’s all about rewriting): Develop more patience for football. Because I think it’s unrealistic to think that I’d ever be more patient in general. I am, after all, now 34. (Shut up, you.)
Thirteen: Drink more so I can cut back on my antidepressants. Frankly, I hardly ever remember to take the little pink pills anymore (and where are they anyway? probably with the camera) so I think it’d just be easier to keep a beer at the ready.
Which brings me to my next and final resolution:
Buy more beer.
To recap:
12. Dig football.
13. Take up drinking.
14. More Ying Ylueng.
Well, I think that does it. Sheesh, I had a lot more resolutions than I realized. Thank you! Writing is so cathartic. Well, I’d love to know about your resolutions. And if you don’t feel like sharing or fall into that category I mentioned way back when—“I don’t make resolutions”—well, have a happy new year anyway.
(Kill joy.)
Until 2007!
  Share

I would be remiss if I didn’t post an entry with my New Year’s resolutions, you know, those things we either vow to do every year or not to make at all. This year, I’m going middle road. I’ll put them out there, but I’m not going to beat myself up if I don’t achieve them.

That’s because I’m looking for a no pressure year. In fact, that’s my first new year’s resolution:

1. Create no pressure.

I liken it to the “Do no harm” clause in the doctor’s handbook.

My second new year’s resolution is CLEARLY to write a book. I mean, c’mon. I am a “writer” in mid-life crisis. Not just your “average Joe” in mid-life crisis because, really, isn’t that how most writers see themselves? As not average? (Although, I’m not saying we see ourselves as necessarily better than average either.) Or maybe that’s just a human thing.

Whatever. (Goes to create no pressure, which includes not having to fully explain myself. At least not for the next 12 months.)

Okay, so we’ve got one and two:

1. Create no pressure.
2. Write a book.

Here’s number three: Floss.

Threw you off, didn’t I? You thought I was going to put something in there about losing weight. (It’s okay, I’m not offended. I know I’m chubby.) But I refuse to do it. No way. I’d rather repave all the potholes in Colorado than put a clause in my new year’s resolutions about losing weight. Because it never works. Never. If it works for you, tell me how. I’m serious. Write to me. Has anybody out there EVER resolved to lose weight and actually done it? Because I’ve seen you all at the gym, where I have to wait mercilessly for an elliptical machine in January and, come February, it’s all mine again. Whenever I want it. So don’t judge me. I’m you. (Remember?) AND I’M NOT RESOLVING TO LOSE WEIGHT. Forget it.

Again, create no pressure. Do no harm. Which brings me back to flossing.

Why do so many of us fail to do this? It’s what? A five-minute experience once a day? Not the most pleasant—surely not like having an egg nog latte or finding the perfect white tee shirt. On sale. But it’s better than gum surgery (sans the gas).

And so, I will add it to my evening ritual like having sex.

Which brings me to my next new year’s resolution (mom, cover your eyes): MORE SEX. Even if I don’t want it. Even if I’ve spent the entire day painting, doing sit ups, push ups, walking the dog, actually having gum surgery and then hauling large vats of cement up my neighbor’s long steps. Even if I throw out my back, dislodge an important knee joint, feel the full wrath of my peri-menopausal condition (night sweats, afternoon hot flashes) or fail to fit into my sweats. Even if I lose my biggest client and our Home Depot card is repossessed. Even if the cable goes out and Comcast can’t fix the problem for a week. Even if Dan slips into a coma. Or develops sudden amnesia and is found wandering the streets. I’ll find him. Make it happen. I’m that resolute. No matter what the physical, mental or emotional issues of the day, I vow to have MORE SEX. (After all, if the sexy grandma can do it — see fellow blogger.)

So let’s recap to this point:

1. Create no pressure.
2. Write a book.
3. Floss.
4. Sex it up.

Oh, ooh, take more pictures with our digital camera and actually develop them. Yep, that’s definitely my next one. First, though, I have to find the camera. I know it’s in this house somewhere. But where?

Number six: Stay out of Home Goods. Even though I can practically spit at it from my new house where I need just about EVERYTHING. Even though every time I drive by I hear it call me in a voice that resembles Linda Blair’s in the Exorcist. “Jill,” deep guttural growl. “You WILL come in. You WILL shop.” And then, there’s green spew everywhere. (Well, not really, but consider it for effect”¦)

Which leads me naturally into the next one: Remember that credit is real money. (I might have to delete this one, however, because it directly violates resolutions number one, three and four. Don’t ask.)

Number eight: Learn how to be a better trimmer. I’m talking all things ”“ bushes, eyebrows, upper lip hair, painting the bathroom, bangs, Winnie’s nails, the fat, just anything in general. I mean, we never really stop to think about how trimming impacts our every day lives. Aside from the obvious improvements, I think being a better trimmer would greatly improve the quality of my life (not to mention give me a better shot at heaven, in a non-secular way, if you know what I’m saying).

Nine: Moisturize. Seems self-explanatory.

Ten: Learn how to sell shit on eBay. I am so sick and tired of people saying to me, “You should sell that on ebay.” If I had a nickel … Like the box of Rolling Stone Magazines I have in the garage, my old eight tracks, and a half-closet full of size six clothes. (Contrary to the new agers, optimistic thinking doesn’t always work.)

And then I think, yeah, I should. I should do a lot of things, like get Tivo and program the VCR and change the oil in my car. Read up on the Intel Pentium chip because I know it’s more than just a ring tone and a logo with a nice collection of primary colors.

Number 11: Get the dog to love me. I mean, I know she does. Especially when it’s bodily function time (feed me, I have to poop, pee, run in circles in the park, mount strangers). But as soon as Dan comes home, I could be lying dead in the gas fireplace, toked to the max, and she’d be oblivious. So, this year, I’m upping the ante.

Better treats. Designer booties. Gold-plated chew toys. More one-on-one time doing things with other mommies and their collies and retrievers. A few more heart to hearts. Stuffed wildebeests, with easy open seams and access to fuzz stuffing. More table food. An extreme makeover of her crate. (I can hear Ty now, “Move that, uh, chair!”) More throw up time, with leniency to let go on the carpet. More productive begging. I’m optimistic here. After all, how do you think I landed my husband? (Single ladies, take note.)

Where we’re at:

1. Create no pressure.
2. Write a book.
3. Floss.
4. Sex it up.
5. Locate digital camera.
6. Shun Home Goods.
7. Credit is money. Really.
8. Improve trimming skills.
9. Lube a lot.
10. Master eBay.
11. Win over the dog.

Yep, sounds good. Okay, just a few more. Number 12: Get better at pretending to like football (baby, this one’s for you). I think this is really a patience issue, so let me reword (it’s all about rewriting): Develop more patience for football. Because I think it’s unrealistic to think that I’d ever be more patient in general. I am, after all, now 34. (Shut up, you.)

Thirteen: Drink more so I can cut back on my antidepressants. Frankly, I hardly ever remember to take the little pink pills anymore (and where are they anyway? probably with the camera) so I think it’d just be easier to keep a beer at the ready.

Which brings me to my next and final resolution:

Buy more beer.

To recap:

12. Dig football.
13. Take up drinking.
14. More Ying Ylueng.

Well, I think that does it. Sheesh, I had a lot more resolutions than I realized. Thank you! Writing is so cathartic. Well, I’d love to know about your resolutions. And if you don’t feel like sharing or fall into that category I mentioned way back when—“I don’t make resolutions”—well, have a happy new year anyway.

(Kill joy.)

Until 2007!
  Share

Well, folks, this past month has TRULY taken the cake. My deepest apologies for taking so long to post, but I’ve had a lot of life over the past 30 days and simply had to prioritize. Not that you — or this blog — aren’t important, but the basics of living had to come first.
What’s been happening you ask? Well, we went on a honeymoon, cancelled buying a new house only to have a cash buyer on our old house come in at the last minute so we could recommit to the new house, which left us with two weeks to pack 1,500 square feet of space and move in to almost 3,000.
We went through two settlements (both of them nail biters), three moves (we had to put our stuff in storage and live with my folks for a week), several states (on vacation and otherwise), one bout of the flu (me, of course), countless numbers of Tums, several bottles of Nyquil, three vet visits (Winnie jumped out of a moving car and lived to tell, but that’s another blog), 10 six packs, and a credit crisis (to Pier 1: I am Jill Murray, REALLY).
But now, I’m back. A little world weary and road tested, with an ever deepening identity crisis, but back. In our new house, unpacked, and happy to have finally landed.
Aaah, rites of passages bring so many interest things. A new name, a new address, a new telephone number, a new dog, a new life. When I call Comcast to tell them that I still can’t get online even though they’ve been here 17 times, and they ask me for my name and address so they can access my account, I’m often stumped. I mean, where am I? Who am I? Really? Who is anybody?
This question comes to me almost every day anymore. Case in point, a few days after we moved in to what I now call “our final resting place” (because I’ll never move again), I had to vacuum. That’s because we have plush bland neutral vanilla carpets throughout the entire house and they attract dirt like Match.com attracts lonely singles at the end of their ropes.
With a heavy heart, and mourning the beautiful hard wood we had in the old house, I brush the dust off the Hoover WindTunnel I was forced to buy when I moved home (thanks mom) and spent a few minutes locating the “on” switch. After 15 minutes, I got down to work, pushing the toddler-sized appliance towards the kaleidoscope specks of fresh dirt and watching them disappear like old boyfriends. It was almost rewarding and that’s when I realized that I might need help.
I mean, there I stood, pushing the vacuum cleaner like a soccer mom pushes a baby carriage — with simultaneous fascination, boredom, and fortitude — wondering how Jill Sherer found her way to this very spot: Vacuuming in black stretch pants and an old pair of flip flops, with The View on the television in the background.
Talk about a seismic shift in image. If Jill Sherer and Jill Murray got in a boxing ring, Jill Sherer would likely win the fight, but Jill Murray would have the best remedy for getting the blood off of the floor without damaging the varnish.
Oh dear.
It dawns on me that the divide between Jill Murray and Jill Sherer is beginning to widen quickly, as time and circumstance march forward. One thing is for sure: It they were put to a Rorschach test, they would certainly respond much differently than ever before.
Three months ago:
JM: “Definitely a pair of Ugg boots. Mid-calf. Probably brown.”
JS: “Absolutely. Could even be tan.”
Today
JM: “Obviously a new screen door with cream-colored trim. Or, wait, some kind of newfangled filter for the air conditioner or a dining room table top? Did you say 13 months to pay with no interest?”
JS: “That Mackenzie Thorpe’s is a genius. Why, look at the new shape of his canvas. I can only imagine the brushstrokes. Love it. Do you take a personal check?”
Jill Murray and Jill Sherer are the modern day middle-aged more cowardly versions of little darlings Thelma and Louise. Steve Martin and John Candy in “Planes, Trains and Automobiles.” Betty and Wilma with cellulite (thanks to a lack of exercise due to progress in the auto engine industry — but that’s obvious).
Jill Murray vacuums regularly, has a Home Depot credit card, neighbors with a minivan and two cars seats, and a collection of Walt Disney DVDs.
Jill Sherer would have never seen the point of a Home Depot credit card. Walt Disney is for little people with runny noses, low expectations, and desirous of a milky before bedtime. A minivan is for transporting inmates. And a car seat is simply inconvenient, especially when you need the real estate for too many shopping bags and large purchases.
Now I know I talk about these girls a lot, and won’t for much longer, but here’s my point: I’m living in a real house now after decades of apartment and city living and, well, I’m just confused. So there you have it. Now let’s move on, shall we?
—————————————————————————–
A blog wouldn’t be a blog without a mom story, so here goes:
My mother and I had a fight the other day because she called to remind me to change the address on our car insurance. I said we’d get to it when they forwarded the bill. She said what if they didn’t forward the bill. I said what if there was a nuclear bomb and we were all blown up tomorrow. She wasn’t amused. Then I said we’d call, but we just haven’t had time. She said I had plenty of time for lunch with Lorraine and Lorrie for my birthday and to go to Home Goods, I should make these more important things a priority. After all, she had two children, a job (as a receptionist for a proctologist, working from 9 to noon, mind you), a husband who traveled and yet, she still had time to take care of important things. I’m married now. I should do it. After all, my husband goes to work everyday. (Gee, what do I do?) Because, after all, if we have a problem, who’s gonna bail us out? She is. That’s right. She is. So she has the right to ask whether we’ve taken care of it. After all, she’s always been there to bail us out. To take care of it. But I am taking care of it, mom, I said. We just moved in, we went out of town for business, I’ve been sick. Well, that’s not good enough, she said. And if you don’t take care of it, I won’t sleep. Well, as long as she doesn’t call me in the middle of the night, I guess that’s okay. Because what can I do? Get an affidavit from the insurance company that we took care of it to alleviate her concerns? A notarized statement? Am I not taking care of things? Am I a total and complete incompetent because we haven’t yet addressed the issue of changing our address on the bill for our car insurance? You know what, she said, I’m just not gonna care about it or anything anymore. You’re on your own. You’re married now. You said that already, I said. You take care of it. You do whatever you want to do. You set your own priorities. Because I can’t be in charge of them or worry about them. Okay, mom, good point. And so if you have a problem, you’ll have to fix it. Okay, mom. I think that’s just fine. Because daddy and I have done all we could to raise you and make you and your brother the best people you can be. Now, we just have to wash our hands of it all. Okay, mom. (As if I’m talking to her from prison.) That’s okay. We’ll be okay. It’s just that I would think you’d stay on top of these things. I mean, you’re a grown woman. You’re gonna be 44. I know that, but thanks for the reminder, I said. (Like I’d forgotten.) Well, yes, usually we do, but it’s been very hectic. Well, we all have hectic lives and I have a hard enough time staying on top of my own so you know what? I wash my hands of it. Okay mom. Okay? Okay. I’ll just talk to you later. Okay? Okay. Okay. Bye.
———————————————————————————————–
I have got to tell you about the cranky Holiday Grinch of a FedEx guy who came to my door yesterday to deliver some furniture I ordered and then I’m off to walk the dog up the merciless hill in our new park. (When, for heaven’s sake, are they coming out the MIRACLE WEIGHT LOSS PILL ALREADY?) It was the kind of furniture that’s heavy, granted, and in several boxes needing assembly (thank God I married a contractor). But hey, it’s not my fault that’s how it was constructed. And, as far as I’m concerned, I’m helping to support his salary, so let me just say that up front.
I’m upstairs in the loft working when the dog starts to bark mercilessly. Now usually I just scream and tell her to shut up (in a loving yet firm way of course), but this was especially merciless. Like canine distress. So I run down the stairs and peer out the front curtains to see a large delivery truck backing up into our driveway and heading for the front door. First, I wasn’t sure it was going to stop and prepared to call 911. But when it finally did, I was free to stop praying, drop the phone, and regain my clear vision long enough to make out the blue and green FedEx logo. Then, with great glee, I put the dog in her crate and opened the door with a smile. New stuff! Love that!
“Hello. Whaddya got?” I ordered a dresser, a chest, a Asian-inspired file cabinet and credenza, and a rockin’ daybed for the guest bedroom.
The FedEx guy looks like he wants to throw a large box at my upper molars. “Uh, a few very heavy boxes. Did you order something from Home Decorators?” He stops to wipe his brow.
“I sure did. Great! What is it?”
“Gee, I don’t know. They didn’t call to tell me.”
“Oh, uh, huh.” Is he joking?
“I suppose now that you’ve heard me and opened the door, you’re gonna want me to bring them inside?”
No, I think, throw them into the street. “Well, yes, is that okay?” Suddenly I need approval from the FedEx guy? I guess it’s true what they say: You can’t ever have enough therapy.
“Well, not really. But okay.”
“Gee, can I help?” I try to be hospitable. I even think about making him a sandwich.
“Yes,” he says, grunting and lifting the first of three boxes. Tossing them into my living room. “You can stop buying this crap in the first place.”
Okay, am I hearing things or did the FedEx guy just reprimand me for shopping? Does he have my mother in the back of the truck? My lender? A representative from the credit bureau?
“Oh uh.” I laugh nervously.
“I’m not kidding.” He looks right at me, and then spins on his heels to go get the next box. As he approaches the doorway, he says, “People with all these friggin Christmas presents. I’m exhausted.”
For once, I think maybe I should promote the fact that I’m Jewish. “Yeah, well…!”
He cuts me off. “You got more of these boxes coming?”
I’m afraid to answer. I must look really guilty because he says, “Yep, that’s what I figured.”
“Thanks?”
“Uh huh.” And with that, he closes up the back of the truck, climbs into the cabin and drives off. He doesn’t even look back. He’s that good.
Good GODI have a lot to learn from him. And as I head back into the house, I look forward to when he returns.
————————————————
One more story and then, I promise, I’m finished. I went on an interview for a freelance gig a few weeks ago. The gentleman who interviewed me, Brian, is a real nice guy. Down to earth. Amiable. Friendly and authentic. I enjoyed our conversation, as it veered from professional to personal. Turns out he’s been married to his high school sweetheart for a long time. (I can’t remember the exact number of years.) And he still speaks very highly and lovingly about her. So I have to ask, as I do of all people I meet who tell me they’ve been happily married for a while: What’s your secret?
He thinks for a minute and gives me an answer I haven’t heard yet: “I always remember to say thank you.”
Wow. I’ve heard friendship, good communication, a sense of humor. But never something as wise and specific as remembering to speak two simple words: thank you. Still, it makes sense. We should thank our partners for all the things they bring to our lives every day — even if it’s just a cup of coffee or a supportive smile. Never take them for granted. (Dan, honey, by the way, trash day is Friday, not Thursday. I had to bring all the boxes you left at the curb this morning back in. Just saying.) So, I say thank you to my husband Dan for, well, staying alive. Because after all we’ve been through with this move, I’d say, that’s enough.
I’d also like to thank all my readers. For reading and being there. I know a lot of you are my friends and family and your taking the time to hear what I have to say means a lot. So, thanks.
Until next time!
Jill
One last thing: Tomorrow (the 22nd) is my birthday. And I’d like to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ALL THE LOST AND FORGOTTEN HOLIDAY-BURIED-BEATEN-AND-SQUANDERED DECEMBER BIRTHDAYS. We deserve better. (I swear, I’m tearing up.)
Okay, now, bye!
  Share

Well, folks, this past month has TRULY taken the cake. My deepest apologies for taking so long to post, but I’ve had a lot of life over the past 30 days and simply had to prioritize. Not that you — or this blog — aren’t important, but the basics of living had to come first.

What’s been happening you ask? Well, we went on a honeymoon, cancelled buying a new house only to have a cash buyer on our old house come in at the last minute so we could recommit to the new house, which left us with two weeks to pack 1,500 square feet of space and move in to almost 3,000.

We went through two settlements (both of them nail biters), three moves (we had to put our stuff in storage and live with my folks for a week), several states (on vacation and otherwise), one bout of the flu (me, of course), countless numbers of Tums, several bottles of Nyquil, three vet visits (Winnie jumped out of a moving car and lived to tell, but that’s another blog), 10 six packs, and a credit crisis (to Pier 1: I am Jill Murray, REALLY).

But now, I’m back. A little world weary and road tested, with an ever deepening identity crisis, but back. In our new house, unpacked, and happy to have finally landed.

Aaah, rites of passages bring so many interest things. A new name, a new address, a new telephone number, a new dog, a new life. When I call Comcast to tell them that I still can’t get online even though they’ve been here 17 times, and they ask me for my name and address so they can access my account, I’m often stumped. I mean, where am I? Who am I? Really? Who is anybody?

This question comes to me almost every day anymore. Case in point, a few days after we moved in to what I now call “our final resting place” (because I’ll never move again), I had to vacuum. That’s because we have plush bland neutral vanilla carpets throughout the entire house and they attract dirt like Match.com attracts lonely singles at the end of their ropes.

With a heavy heart, and mourning the beautiful hard wood we had in the old house, I brush the dust off the Hoover WindTunnel I was forced to buy when I moved home (thanks mom) and spent a few minutes locating the “on” switch. After 15 minutes, I got down to work, pushing the toddler-sized appliance towards the kaleidoscope specks of fresh dirt and watching them disappear like old boyfriends. It was almost rewarding and that’s when I realized that I might need help.

I mean, there I stood, pushing the vacuum cleaner like a soccer mom pushes a baby carriage — with simultaneous fascination, boredom, and fortitude — wondering how Jill Sherer found her way to this very spot: Vacuuming in black stretch pants and an old pair of flip flops, with The View on the television in the background.

Talk about a seismic shift in image. If Jill Sherer and Jill Murray got in a boxing ring, Jill Sherer would likely win the fight, but Jill Murray would have the best remedy for getting the blood off of the floor without damaging the varnish.

Oh dear.

It dawns on me that the divide between Jill Murray and Jill Sherer is beginning to widen quickly, as time and circumstance march forward. One thing is for sure: It they were put to a Rorschach test, they would certainly respond much differently than ever before.

Three months ago:
JM: “Definitely a pair of Ugg boots. Mid-calf. Probably brown.”
JS: “Absolutely. Could even be tan.”

Today
JM: “Obviously a new screen door with cream-colored trim. Or, wait, some kind of newfangled filter for the air conditioner or a dining room table top? Did you say 13 months to pay with no interest?”

JS: “That Mackenzie Thorpe’s is a genius. Why, look at the new shape of his canvas. I can only imagine the brushstrokes. Love it. Do you take a personal check?”

Jill Murray and Jill Sherer are the modern day middle-aged more cowardly versions of little darlings Thelma and Louise. Steve Martin and John Candy in “Planes, Trains and Automobiles.” Betty and Wilma with cellulite (thanks to a lack of exercise due to progress in the auto engine industry — but that’s obvious).

Jill Murray vacuums regularly, has a Home Depot credit card, neighbors with a minivan and two cars seats, and a collection of Walt Disney DVDs.

Jill Sherer would have never seen the point of a Home Depot credit card. Walt Disney is for little people with runny noses, low expectations, and desirous of a milky before bedtime. A minivan is for transporting inmates. And a car seat is simply inconvenient, especially when you need the real estate for too many shopping bags and large purchases.

Now I know I talk about these girls a lot, and won’t for much longer, but here’s my point: I’m living in a real house now after decades of apartment and city living and, well, I’m just confused. So there you have it. Now let’s move on, shall we?

—————————————————————————–
A blog wouldn’t be a blog without a mom story, so here goes:

My mother and I had a fight the other day because she called to remind me to change the address on our car insurance. I said we’d get to it when they forwarded the bill. She said what if they didn’t forward the bill. I said what if there was a nuclear bomb and we were all blown up tomorrow. She wasn’t amused. Then I said we’d call, but we just haven’t had time. She said I had plenty of time for lunch with Lorraine and Lorrie for my birthday and to go to Home Goods, I should make these more important things a priority. After all, she had two children, a job (as a receptionist for a proctologist, working from 9 to noon, mind you), a husband who traveled and yet, she still had time to take care of important things. I’m married now. I should do it. After all, my husband goes to work everyday. (Gee, what do I do?) Because, after all, if we have a problem, who’s gonna bail us out? She is. That’s right. She is. So she has the right to ask whether we’ve taken care of it. After all, she’s always been there to bail us out. To take care of it. But I am taking care of it, mom, I said. We just moved in, we went out of town for business, I’ve been sick. Well, that’s not good enough, she said. And if you don’t take care of it, I won’t sleep. Well, as long as she doesn’t call me in the middle of the night, I guess that’s okay. Because what can I do? Get an affidavit from the insurance company that we took care of it to alleviate her concerns? A notarized statement? Am I not taking care of things? Am I a total and complete incompetent because we haven’t yet addressed the issue of changing our address on the bill for our car insurance? You know what, she said, I’m just not gonna care about it or anything anymore. You’re on your own. You’re married now. You said that already, I said. You take care of it. You do whatever you want to do. You set your own priorities. Because I can’t be in charge of them or worry about them. Okay, mom, good point. And so if you have a problem, you’ll have to fix it. Okay, mom. I think that’s just fine. Because daddy and I have done all we could to raise you and make you and your brother the best people you can be. Now, we just have to wash our hands of it all. Okay, mom. (As if I’m talking to her from prison.) That’s okay. We’ll be okay. It’s just that I would think you’d stay on top of these things. I mean, you’re a grown woman. You’re gonna be 44. I know that, but thanks for the reminder, I said. (Like I’d forgotten.) Well, yes, usually we do, but it’s been very hectic. Well, we all have hectic lives and I have a hard enough time staying on top of my own so you know what? I wash my hands of it. Okay mom. Okay? Okay. I’ll just talk to you later. Okay? Okay. Okay. Bye.

———————————————————————————————–

I have got to tell you about the cranky Holiday Grinch of a FedEx guy who came to my door yesterday to deliver some furniture I ordered and then I’m off to walk the dog up the merciless hill in our new park. (When, for heaven’s sake, are they coming out the MIRACLE WEIGHT LOSS PILL ALREADY?) It was the kind of furniture that’s heavy, granted, and in several boxes needing assembly (thank God I married a contractor). But hey, it’s not my fault that’s how it was constructed. And, as far as I’m concerned, I’m helping to support his salary, so let me just say that up front.

I’m upstairs in the loft working when the dog starts to bark mercilessly. Now usually I just scream and tell her to shut up (in a loving yet firm way of course), but this was especially merciless. Like canine distress. So I run down the stairs and peer out the front curtains to see a large delivery truck backing up into our driveway and heading for the front door. First, I wasn’t sure it was going to stop and prepared to call 911. But when it finally did, I was free to stop praying, drop the phone, and regain my clear vision long enough to make out the blue and green FedEx logo. Then, with great glee, I put the dog in her crate and opened the door with a smile. New stuff! Love that!

“Hello. Whaddya got?” I ordered a dresser, a chest, a Asian-inspired file cabinet and credenza, and a rockin’ daybed for the guest bedroom.

The FedEx guy looks like he wants to throw a large box at my upper molars. “Uh, a few very heavy boxes. Did you order something from Home Decorators?” He stops to wipe his brow.

“I sure did. Great! What is it?”

“Gee, I don’t know. They didn’t call to tell me.”

“Oh, uh, huh.” Is he joking?

“I suppose now that you’ve heard me and opened the door, you’re gonna want me to bring them inside?”

No, I think, throw them into the street. “Well, yes, is that okay?” Suddenly I need approval from the FedEx guy? I guess it’s true what they say: You can’t ever have enough therapy.

“Well, not really. But okay.”

“Gee, can I help?” I try to be hospitable. I even think about making him a sandwich.

“Yes,” he says, grunting and lifting the first of three boxes. Tossing them into my living room. “You can stop buying this crap in the first place.”

Okay, am I hearing things or did the FedEx guy just reprimand me for shopping? Does he have my mother in the back of the truck? My lender? A representative from the credit bureau?

“Oh uh.” I laugh nervously.

“I’m not kidding.” He looks right at me, and then spins on his heels to go get the next box. As he approaches the doorway, he says, “People with all these friggin Christmas presents. I’m exhausted.”

For once, I think maybe I should promote the fact that I’m Jewish. “Yeah, well…!”

He cuts me off. “You got more of these boxes coming?”

I’m afraid to answer. I must look really guilty because he says, “Yep, that’s what I figured.”

“Thanks?”

“Uh huh.” And with that, he closes up the back of the truck, climbs into the cabin and drives off. He doesn’t even look back. He’s that good.

Good GODI have a lot to learn from him. And as I head back into the house, I look forward to when he returns.
————————————————
One more story and then, I promise, I’m finished. I went on an interview for a freelance gig a few weeks ago. The gentleman who interviewed me, Brian, is a real nice guy. Down to earth. Amiable. Friendly and authentic. I enjoyed our conversation, as it veered from professional to personal. Turns out he’s been married to his high school sweetheart for a long time. (I can’t remember the exact number of years.) And he still speaks very highly and lovingly about her. So I have to ask, as I do of all people I meet who tell me they’ve been happily married for a while: What’s your secret?

He thinks for a minute and gives me an answer I haven’t heard yet: “I always remember to say thank you.”

Wow. I’ve heard friendship, good communication, a sense of humor. But never something as wise and specific as remembering to speak two simple words: thank you. Still, it makes sense. We should thank our partners for all the things they bring to our lives every day — even if it’s just a cup of coffee or a supportive smile. Never take them for granted. (Dan, honey, by the way, trash day is Friday, not Thursday. I had to bring all the boxes you left at the curb this morning back in. Just saying.) So, I say thank you to my husband Dan for, well, staying alive. Because after all we’ve been through with this move, I’d say, that’s enough.

I’d also like to thank all my readers. For reading and being there. I know a lot of you are my friends and family and your taking the time to hear what I have to say means a lot. So, thanks.

Until next time!
Jill

One last thing: Tomorrow (the 22nd) is my birthday. And I’d like to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ALL THE LOST AND FORGOTTEN HOLIDAY-BURIED-BEATEN-AND-SQUANDERED DECEMBER BIRTHDAYS. We deserve better. (I swear, I’m tearing up.)

Okay, now, bye!
  Share