Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Do you know what I got?

A lovely plant from my mother. A telephone call from my friend Joan, another underappreciated stepmother (bless your heart, Joan, peace out girl). And the flu.

It was a far cry from what I got last year. Nothing from C, who we’d just started seeing after her mother removed her from us for four solid months (for reasons I always say continue to baffle us because they still do). And a lovely note (I cried) and placard that said “Mother” in brown scripted letters from my other stepdaughter I’ll now call “H,” who was older, married, and with her own child at the time (now she has two).

I displayed this plaque proudly in our kitchen for six months until H chose to go back to the religious cult she was raised in and unceremoniously dumped us last October. After all, we were “nonbelievers” and “free thinkers.” Who could blame her? Sometimes, even I wonder how we could ever get away with thinking that—whatever that is.

And yet, last year was all I could think about yesterday–in between calling my own mother, and then eight straight hours of watching Lifetime Television, blowing my nose like a dolphin, and hacking up mucous like an 80-year-old ingénue who’s been smoking since before World War II. I silently reminisced over the dashed hopes I brought to my marriage about having these two lovely young girls in my life.

Of course, I didn’t share that with my husband, who endured the same custody battle and shunning as I did (and so much more, frankly) and who will get his chance to be cross about it on Father’s Day in June. Until then, it was my turn yesterday to sulk and make him a party to it.

His part? To lie beside me holding a box of tissues while 480 minutes of Pollyanna movies about motherhood rolled across the television in our bedroom like a faulty tractor being pushed across a cornfield. It was the perfect husband-to-wife gift for a much maligned stepmother (sick since last Thursday, mind you) on Mother’s Day.

(Fortunately, it was not ruined by his passive-aggressive “Honey, when was the last time you took a shower?” comment, but I’ve already let it go. I am nothing if not forgiving.)

After all, who really gives a hooty toot about stepmothers anyway? I’ll tell ya who. Stepmothers. That’s who. (This is for you, Joan, Linda, Stacey, Lisa, and all you other fabulous lovers of not-your-own children…)

Sad, really, because we do so much for other women’s children—we hug them and love them and care for them when they’re in our homes (and, depending on whether we’re granted access [I'm not], even when they’re not).

We encourage their alone time with fathers and then provide added nourishment when they need to feel part of something bigger. We show them who we are and open up our hearts to them. We pay for them in time, money, and emotion, even though they are not biologically ours.

And while we are not their mothers or trying to be, we do have something of value to contribute. We are humans, after all, not robots, and come to their lives with our own stories and thoughts and opinions. I know, I know. I say it all the time. I’m like a broken record. Good lord, Jill. Shut up already.

It’s just that I’m never not going to be a stepmother and, well, I have feelings about it and well, never is that clearer than on Mother’s Day of all days, and well, it sure would’ve been nice to have been able to talk to—or at least hear from—at least one of my stepdaughters yesterday. Yo yo, Jill. Happy whatever. You do count. 

But then again, I guess I shouldn’t complain too much.

After all, I did get the first prize of my beautiful husband—his thick arms wrapped around my squishy body and fragile immune system for an entire workday, despite my smelling like a runner after the marathon, looking like the before picture of a dramatic makeover, and having the red rings of Saturn around my eyes and nose.

Now that’s more than something.

In the meantime, as I hold out hope for Stepmother’s Day (which, according to the all-knowing Internet takes place the Sunday after Mother’s Day so this Sunday, can’t wait!), I wish all you stepmothers out there a belated happy-dappy, gift-receiving, metabolism-raising, and stomach-flattening post-mother’s day. May you ingest a multitude of calories with no after-effects clear through summer.

I really mean that.

Until next time!

  Share

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Do you know what I got?

A lovely plant from my mother. A telephone call from my friend Joan, another underappreciated stepmother (bless your heart, Joan, peace out girl). And the flu.

It was a far cry from what I got last year. Nothing from C, who we’d just started seeing after her mother removed her from us for four solid months (for reasons I always say continue to baffle us because they still do). And a lovely note (I cried) and placard that said “Mother” in brown scripted letters from my other stepdaughter I’ll now call “H,” who was older, married, and with her own child at the time (now she has two).

I displayed this plaque proudly in our kitchen for six months until H chose to go back to the religious cult she was raised in and unceremoniously dumped us last October. After all, we were “nonbelievers” and “free thinkers.” Who could blame her? Sometimes, even I wonder how we could ever get away with thinking that—whatever that is.

And yet, last year was all I could think about yesterday–in between calling my own mother, and then eight straight hours of watching Lifetime Television, blowing my nose like a dolphin, and hacking up mucous like an 80-year-old ingénue who’s been smoking since before World War II. I silently reminisced over the dashed hopes I brought to my marriage about having these two lovely young girls in my life.

Of course, I didn’t share that with my husband, who endured the same custody battle and shunning as I did (and so much more, frankly) and who will get his chance to be cross about it on Father’s Day in June. Until then, it was my turn yesterday to sulk and make him a party to it.

His part? To lie beside me holding a box of tissues while 480 minutes of Pollyanna movies about motherhood rolled across the television in our bedroom like a faulty tractor being pushed across a cornfield. It was the perfect husband-to-wife gift for a much maligned stepmother (sick since last Thursday, mind you) on Mother’s Day.

(Fortunately, it was not ruined by his passive-aggressive “Honey, when was the last time you took a shower?” comment, but I’ve already let it go. I am nothing if not forgiving.)

After all, who really gives a hooty toot about stepmothers anyway? I’ll tell ya who. Stepmothers. That’s who. (This is for you, Joan, Linda, Stacey, Lisa, and all you other fabulous lovers of not-your-own children…)

Sad, really, because we do so much for other women’s children—we hug them and love them and care for them when they’re in our homes (and, depending on whether we’re granted access [I'm not], even when they’re not).

We encourage their alone time with fathers and then provide added nourishment when they need to feel part of something bigger. We show them who we are and open up our hearts to them. We pay for them in time, money, and emotion, even though they are not biologically ours.

And while we are not their mothers or trying to be, we do have something of value to contribute. We are humans, after all, not robots, and come to their lives with our own stories and thoughts and opinions. I know, I know. I say it all the time. I’m like a broken record. Good lord, Jill. Shut up already.

It’s just that I’m never not going to be a stepmother and, well, I have feelings about it and well, never is that clearer than on Mother’s Day of all days, and well, it sure would’ve been nice to have been able to talk to—or at least hear from—at least one of my stepdaughters yesterday. Yo yo, Jill. Happy whatever. You do count. 

But then again, I guess I shouldn’t complain too much.

After all, I did get the first prize of my beautiful husband—his thick arms wrapped around my squishy body and fragile immune system for an entire workday, despite my smelling like a runner after the marathon, looking like the before picture of a dramatic makeover, and having the red rings of Saturn around my eyes and nose.

Now that’s more than something.

In the meantime, as I hold out hope for Stepmother’s Day (which, according to the all-knowing Internet takes place the Sunday after Mother’s Day so this Sunday, can’t wait!), I wish all you stepmothers out there a belated happy-dappy, gift-receiving, metabolism-raising, and stomach-flattening post-mother’s day. May you ingest a multitude of calories with no after-effects clear through summer.

I really mean that.

Until next time!

  Share

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Do you know what I got?

A lovely plant from my mother. A telephone call from my friend Joan, another underappreciated stepmother (bless your heart, Joan, peace out girl). And the flu.

It was a far cry from what I got last year. Nothing from C, who we’d just started seeing after her mother removed her from us for four solid months (for reasons I always say continue to baffle us because they still do). And a lovely note (I cried) and placard that said “Mother” in brown scripted letters from my other stepdaughter I’ll now call “H,” who was older, married, and with her own child at the time (now she has two).

I displayed this plaque proudly in our kitchen for six months until H chose to go back to the religious cult she was raised in and unceremoniously dumped us last October. After all, we were “nonbelievers” and “free thinkers.” Who could blame her? Sometimes, even I wonder how we could ever get away with thinking that—whatever that is.

And yet, last year was all I could think about yesterday–in between calling my own mother, and then eight straight hours of watching Lifetime Television, blowing my nose like a dolphin, and hacking up mucous like an 80-year-old ingénue who’s been smoking since before World War II. I silently reminisced over the dashed hopes I brought to my marriage about having these two lovely young girls in my life.

Of course, I didn’t share that with my husband, who endured the same custody battle and shunning as I did (and so much more, frankly) and who will get his chance to be cross about it on Father’s Day in June. Until then, it was my turn yesterday to sulk and make him a party to it.

His part? To lie beside me holding a box of tissues while 480 minutes of Pollyanna movies about motherhood rolled across the television in our bedroom like a faulty tractor being pushed across a cornfield. It was the perfect husband-to-wife gift for a much maligned stepmother (sick since last Thursday, mind you) on Mother’s Day.

(Fortunately, it was not ruined by his passive-aggressive “Honey, when was the last time you took a shower?” comment, but I’ve already let it go. I am nothing if not forgiving.)

After all, who really gives a hooty toot about stepmothers anyway? I’ll tell ya who. Stepmothers. That’s who. (This is for you, Joan, Linda, Stacey, Lisa, and all you other fabulous lovers of not-your-own children…)

Sad, really, because we do so much for other women’s children—we hug them and love them and care for them when they’re in our homes (and, depending on whether we’re granted access [I'm not], even when they’re not).

We encourage their alone time with fathers and then provide added nourishment when they need to feel part of something bigger. We show them who we are and open up our hearts to them. We pay for them in time, money, and emotion, even though they are not biologically ours.

And while we are not their mothers or trying to be, we do have something of value to contribute. We are humans, after all, not robots, and come to their lives with our own stories and thoughts and opinions. I know, I know. I say it all the time. I’m like a broken record. Good lord, Jill. Shut up already.

It’s just that I’m never not going to be a stepmother and, well, I have feelings about it and well, never is that clearer than on Mother’s Day of all days, and well, it sure would’ve been nice to have been able to talk to—or at least hear from—at least one of my stepdaughters yesterday. Yo yo, Jill. Happy whatever. You do count. 

But then again, I guess I shouldn’t complain too much.

After all, I did get the first prize of my beautiful husband—his thick arms wrapped around my squishy body and fragile immune system for an entire workday, despite my smelling like a runner after the marathon, looking like the before picture of a dramatic makeover, and having the red rings of Saturn around my eyes and nose.

Now that’s more than something.

In the meantime, as I hold out hope for Stepmother’s Day (which, according to the all-knowing Internet takes place the Sunday after Mother’s Day so this Sunday, can’t wait!), I wish all you stepmothers out there a belated happy-dappy, gift-receiving, metabolism-raising, and stomach-flattening post-mother’s day. May you ingest a multitude of calories with no after-effects clear through summer.

I really mean that.

Until next time!

  Share

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Do you know what I got?

A lovely plant from my mother. A telephone call from my friend Joan, another underappreciated stepmother (bless your heart, Joan, peace out girl). And the flu.

It was a far cry from what I got last year. Nothing from C, who we’d just started seeing after her mother removed her from us for four solid months (for reasons I always say continue to baffle us because they still do). And a lovely note (I cried) and placard that said “Mother” in brown scripted letters from my other stepdaughter I’ll now call “H,” who was older, married, and with her own child at the time (now she has two).

I displayed this plaque proudly in our kitchen for six months until H chose to go back to the religious cult she was raised in and unceremoniously dumped us last October. After all, we were “nonbelievers” and “free thinkers.” Who could blame her? Sometimes, even I wonder how we could ever get away with thinking that—whatever that is.

And yet, last year was all I could think about yesterday–in between calling my own mother, and then eight straight hours of watching Lifetime Television, blowing my nose like a dolphin, and hacking up mucous like an 80-year-old ingénue who’s been smoking since before World War II. I silently reminisced over the dashed hopes I brought to my marriage about having these two lovely young girls in my life.

Of course, I didn’t share that with my husband, who endured the same custody battle and shunning as I did (and so much more, frankly) and who will get his chance to be cross about it on Father’s Day in June. Until then, it was my turn yesterday to sulk and make him a party to it.

His part? To lie beside me holding a box of tissues while 480 minutes of Pollyanna movies about motherhood rolled across the television in our bedroom like a faulty tractor being pushed across a cornfield. It was the perfect husband-to-wife gift for a much maligned stepmother (sick since last Thursday, mind you) on Mother’s Day.

(Fortunately, it was not ruined by his passive-aggressive “Honey, when was the last time you took a shower?” comment, but I’ve already let it go. I am nothing if not forgiving.)

After all, who really gives a hooty toot about stepmothers anyway? I’ll tell ya who. Stepmothers. That’s who. (This is for you, Joan, Linda, Stacey, Lisa, and all you other fabulous lovers of not-your-own children…)

Sad, really, because we do so much for other women’s children—we hug them and love them and care for them when they’re in our homes (and, depending on whether we’re granted access [I'm not], even when they’re not).

We encourage their alone time with fathers and then provide added nourishment when they need to feel part of something bigger. We show them who we are and open up our hearts to them. We pay for them in time, money, and emotion, even though they are not biologically ours.

And while we are not their mothers or trying to be, we do have something of value to contribute. We are humans, after all, not robots, and come to their lives with our own stories and thoughts and opinions. I know, I know. I say it all the time. I’m like a broken record. Good lord, Jill. Shut up already.

It’s just that I’m never not going to be a stepmother and, well, I have feelings about it and well, never is that clearer than on Mother’s Day of all days, and well, it sure would’ve been nice to have been able to talk to—or at least hear from—at least one of my stepdaughters yesterday. Yo yo, Jill. Happy whatever. You do count. 

But then again, I guess I shouldn’t complain too much.

After all, I did get the first prize of my beautiful husband—his thick arms wrapped around my squishy body and fragile immune system for an entire workday, despite my smelling like a runner after the marathon, looking like the before picture of a dramatic makeover, and having the red rings of Saturn around my eyes and nose.

Now that’s more than something.

In the meantime, as I hold out hope for Stepmother’s Day (which, according to the all-knowing Internet takes place the Sunday after Mother’s Day so this Sunday, can’t wait!), I wish all you stepmothers out there a belated happy-dappy, gift-receiving, metabolism-raising, and stomach-flattening post-mother’s day. May you ingest a multitude of calories with no after-effects clear through summer.

I really mean that.

Until next time!

  Share

 I am in hell. Comes every spring since I’ve moved back to Pennsylvania from Chicago (where I never had an itchy sneezy moment). But now, since I live in the pollen capital of America—and where a yellow blanket of dust lays across everything in my path like an oversized duvet—I’m miserable. What is it about spring people like?

 

Is it the clogged sinuses, which solidify what I know for sure—that breathing is not overrated?

 

The itchy eyes, which I’d happily gauge out at the moment and donate to science?

 

The fuzzy brain? (Case in point: this morning, I accidentally put the laundry detergent in the refrigerator and hung my husband’s clean shirts up in the garage.)

 

The dehydration festival in my body, thanks to a rotating cocktail of Zyrtec-D, Alka Seltzer Cold and Sinus Nighttime, and Dayquil?

 

I hate spring. Don’t write me. You would too if you spent it gasping for air and wishing you could pour calamine lotion into your corneas. You would too.

 

As if my now tricky-dicky hormones, fat-buckle knees, and middle-aged werewolf Jack-ness weren’t enough to keep me challenged during the season of shorts (which, by the way, I do not wear so don’t look for it).

 

Add to the picture 12 weeks of big boogers, snorting, nose blowing, and the natural glow of artery-red eyeliner, and you might be able to see why I solidified the deal with my now husband in the fall (he proposed in November).

 

I could handle all this ugliness—all the relentless sneezing, running slimy excretions, and acid-rock guitar playing in my delicate frontal cortex—if I were able to remain propped up in a heavenly-bed, eating no-consequence pizza, while a handsome series of male nurses, butlers, and massage therapists tended to my every whim.

 

But, perhaps like you, I have to function in the real world, working and, okay, playing, despite an evil little feather tickling my retinas 24/7 or the buckets of snot dropping like lava down a volcano through my sinuses.

 

So you’ll please forgive if I’m rambly gambly and pambly. (See, this last word doesn’t even exist.) Coherence isn’t always my strong suit, even when I’m perfectly healthy. So, please, adjust your expectations before reading on.

 

———————————-

Last week, Dan and I met my friend Joan and her new husband Dave (they married four months before we did) in Taos, New Mexico for a writing workshop with Natalie Goldberg.

 

It was a full-circle experience for Joan and I, who had taken a week-long workshop with Natalie back in 2002, when we were both single (despite my having a boyfriend of 10 years). We were not only friends but also neighbors, living in a perfect pair of re-gentrified two-bedroom condo’s on Chicago’s North Side—hers above mine, which at the time, seemed rightly symbolic.

 

I had just finished a year of writing essays about losing weight and getting fit for Shape Magazine. And while I felt good physically, mentally I was struggling. After all, I was 39, on the shaky precipice of entering mid-life. And, as I look back, I was for sure in pre-crisis.

 

Wondering: Would my boyfriend ever marry me? Would I have children? Would I be one of those women people used as a cautionary tale for their daughters? Don’t be so picky or worse don’t settle for less than what you deserve. After all, look (point to me) what could happen.  You don’t want that to happen to you, do you?

 

It was a horrible burden, a line of thinking so heavy that, like being trapped under sheetrock, never left my mind entirely. Sure, I’d be distracted by a pretty pair of shoes or a connecting flight or even a 10-minute timed writing about whatever subject Natalie tossed out to the audience. Still, it was always there, humming in the background like white noise.

 

Joan, on the other hand, had already made this rites of passage. At 44, she was gracefully Buddhist, calm in a way I wasn’t, the rock to my flying particles of dust. And while she would have liked to have had consistent male companionship, the desire didn’t define her the way it did me. Suffice to say, she was not only a wonderful travel companion—as we meditated and wrote and even shopped during a brief post-jaunt to Santa Fe—she was a treasured mentor.

 

Still.

 

So it was both moving and ironic to find us back in Taos, at another of Natalie’s workshops, only this time with our husbands. And it was even more poignant to watch them bond over a nightly rotation of chicken quesadilla, buffalo steak, chips and guacamole, and green chile-pepper everything.

 

And yet, there was a defined change in the spirit of who we were as girlfriends—as there is at this stage of life, I think, for all of us. One night stands out, in particular.  As it was, at least for me, a clear sign of the times in terms of how life goes, especially if you’re married and in mid life.

 

We had just sat down for a late dinner at this wonderful little restaurant called the Apple Tree on Bent Street down the street from the Taos Inn, where we were staying in the historic part of the decidedly-artist-in-a-dreadlock-and-not-martini-toidy-kind-of-way town.

 

The four of us were eyeing the menu, deciding whether to share an appetizer of baked brie or the shrimp tortillas? Dan and I were accustomed to sharing. In fact, whenever we go out to eat, it’s our ritual. But, on our vacation, we weren’t vigilant about it. And frankly, in the moment, as we evaluated our choice of entree, it felt almost more natural to turn to Joan, my dear friend of a decade, and say, “Want to share something?” After all, we’d done it for years prior to being with our respective spouses.

 

To which she replied, “I think I’ll share something with my husband first.”

 

Now, I know she didn’t mean anything by it. It wasn’t a diss, but a mere sentence, spoken with a smile, love, and kindness (if that particular sentence could be taken as a personal attack, which it couldn’t).

 

But for me, it was its own rites of passage. Confirmation of what I’d been feeling in the months leading up to our trip about my relationship with my girlfriends in general—that as we get older and more partnered, our sense of loyalty shifts.

 

When I was younger, I longed for the company of men. Not just any man, mind you, although I will admit I succumbed to that standard all too often. But for one who would commit—you know, assign his voter registration card the same address as mine, share a tax return, worry about home repairs and saving for retirement with equal determination and zeal.

 

And yet, that one simple sentence—I think I’ll share with my husband—which made all the sense in the world, especially by society’s standards, stopped me. It reminded me that now that I was married, I finally had the company of men. But the scales were out of balance. And now, I longed for the company of women in the way that it used to be when I was younger and single. But that was no longer available—gone into air like the bubbles you used to blow through a plastic ring when you were a kid.

 

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my husband. Wouldn’t trade him or being married for all the black spandex at Goodyear. But I miss the time I could simply turn to my girlfriend and say, “Hey, wanna share some fried calamari?” It’s a small but meaningful and almost sisterly pleasure that some days I long for as much as I do anything.

 

There was once that time with Joan. And, in fact, I wrote about it one of my columns, where she participated in a photo shoot about enjoying the sensation of one simple chocolate truffle—shared by two girlfriends. Along with perfect portions of salad, sandwich, soup, cake, and whatever else was on life’s menu.

 

Now, however, things were different. Not just with Joan, but across the bigger female-bonding picture.

 

And gosh, I miss my girls.

 

I’ve noticed that friendship, at this age, no longer enjoys the luxury of spontaneity. No more calling a friend in the morning for dinner that night. At 45 and beyond, dinner out now requires the same set of skills needed to put on a community production of Annie or, say, A Chorus Line.

 

It calls for planning and negotiating. Securing the players, hoping they’re not distracted by work, husbands, children, traffic, or sheer exhaustion. My friend Brooklyn Jill (versus me Jill) always says: “I hate life in the 21^st century. Everybody’s too busy.” And so it goes.

 

Still, that doesn’t mean I didn’t want more than anything to share a duck confit fajita in Taos with my friend Joan.

 

I know, I sound like I’m whining. And really, I’m not. Life is all about passages, stages, we start with our friends, then our family, and I know, someday, later (please much later) our friends. Again. I’m not rushing it. But I do wonder why we can’t have it all today.

 

I spent the first full act of life doing things easily with my girlfriends. And now easy is over. Did you enjoy it sweetie (or even know to)? The freedom of having a Chinese Chicken Salad on a moment’s notice. The underwhelming act of sitting down to discuss the great Nordstrom’s shoe sale, why Bob X can’t commit, or why you don’t know why you feel that way but you just do and thanks for listening. Did you enjoy the sisterly discourse that happens over a shared piece of chicken and too much chocolate? Or did you take for granted how easy it was? How if you didn’t get to “it” that night, there’d surely be another fast and furiously to follow?

 

Then I say: Oh Jill, what are you saying? What is it you want, for goodness sakes? Will you ever be happy?

 

The answer is yes. Of course, I’m thrilled. And it was wonderful—beyond any explanatory prose—to be with Joan and Dave and Dave and Dan and Joan and Dan. As wonderful as fitting into your skinny jeans—and that first night with the person you know for sure you’re going to spend your life.

 

But hey, I did sure did miss being with Joan and Jill.  

——————————————————–

And so what else did I do on our vacation? So many wonderful things. We spent several hours at the Taos Pueblo, marveling at how the Red Willow Indians live without electricity or running water.

 

I ate a real hot dog—not the 40-calorie fat free kind I’m addicted to at home—but the I-don’t-care kind from a street vendor on the Plaza in Santa Fe. It was my first and only since I think Nixon was in the White House. And it was divine.

 

I schlepped a camera across too-many states (travel to New Mexico is a day trip) and never took it out of the suitcase. And even though we were in the desert, I had no less than 42 allergy attacks over the course of five days. But didn’t let them stop me.

 

I enjoyed watching my husband explore the many shops like a little Jewish girl just out of prison—his stamina for browsing awe inspiring. (You go honey.)

 

I also learned that I’m incredibly high maintenance (I need a bathroom, a bottle of water, and sandwich in between each of our connecting flights) and no longer need to shop or eat to be happy.

 

Case in point: I left New Mexico—the art capital of America—with a mere $50 mask of the Sun God for my husband’s basement studio versus the $600 mixed-media piece I coveted at a store called Ortega’s and then left behind.

 

And while I had my fair share of cheese and beans, I also spent 45 entire minutes in the Haagan Daaz shop in Santa Fe drinking diet Pepsi out of a paper cup. All the while, gluttonous hoards of tourists shouted out their orders for Rocky Road, Vanilla Fudge Twirl, and Pralines and Cream.

 

My favorites.

 

Yet, being there in that moment alone with my husband was the only thing I craved—never mind the momentary purchase of paint on canvas or the taste of sugar and salt on my tongue.

 

(Although, if Joan were there and wanted to share a scoop of something, well, I might have gone for it.)

 

Until next time!
  Share

 I am in hell. Comes every spring since I’ve moved back to Pennsylvania from Chicago (where I never had an itchy sneezy moment). But now, since I live in the pollen capital of America—and where a yellow blanket of dust lays across everything in my path like an oversized duvet—I’m miserable. What is it about spring people like?

 

Is it the clogged sinuses, which solidify what I know for sure—that breathing is not overrated?

 

The itchy eyes, which I’d happily gauge out at the moment and donate to science?

 

The fuzzy brain? (Case in point: this morning, I accidentally put the laundry detergent in the refrigerator and hung my husband’s clean shirts up in the garage.)

 

The dehydration festival in my body, thanks to a rotating cocktail of Zyrtec-D, Alka Seltzer Cold and Sinus Nighttime, and Dayquil?

 

I hate spring. Don’t write me. You would too if you spent it gasping for air and wishing you could pour calamine lotion into your corneas. You would too.

 

As if my now tricky-dicky hormones, fat-buckle knees, and middle-aged werewolf Jack-ness weren’t enough to keep me challenged during the season of shorts (which, by the way, I do not wear so don’t look for it).

 

Add to the picture 12 weeks of big boogers, snorting, nose blowing, and the natural glow of artery-red eyeliner, and you might be able to see why I solidified the deal with my now husband in the fall (he proposed in November).

 

I could handle all this ugliness—all the relentless sneezing, running slimy excretions, and acid-rock guitar playing in my delicate frontal cortex—if I were able to remain propped up in a heavenly-bed, eating no-consequence pizza, while a handsome series of male nurses, butlers, and massage therapists tended to my every whim.

 

But, perhaps like you, I have to function in the real world, working and, okay, playing, despite an evil little feather tickling my retinas 24/7 or the buckets of snot dropping like lava down a volcano through my sinuses.

 

So you’ll please forgive if I’m rambly gambly and pambly. (See, this last word doesn’t even exist.) Coherence isn’t always my strong suit, even when I’m perfectly healthy. So, please, adjust your expectations before reading on.

 

———————————-

Last week, Dan and I met my friend Joan and her new husband Dave (they married four months before we did) in Taos, New Mexico for a writing workshop with Natalie Goldberg.

 

It was a full-circle experience for Joan and I, who had taken a week-long workshop with Natalie back in 2002, when we were both single (despite my having a boyfriend of 10 years). We were not only friends but also neighbors, living in a perfect pair of re-gentrified two-bedroom condo’s on Chicago’s North Side—hers above mine, which at the time, seemed rightly symbolic.

 

I had just finished a year of writing essays about losing weight and getting fit for Shape Magazine. And while I felt good physically, mentally I was struggling. After all, I was 39, on the shaky precipice of entering mid-life. And, as I look back, I was for sure in pre-crisis.

 

Wondering: Would my boyfriend ever marry me? Would I have children? Would I be one of those women people used as a cautionary tale for their daughters? Don’t be so picky or worse don’t settle for less than what you deserve. After all, look (point to me) what could happen.  You don’t want that to happen to you, do you?

 

It was a horrible burden, a line of thinking so heavy that, like being trapped under sheetrock, never left my mind entirely. Sure, I’d be distracted by a pretty pair of shoes or a connecting flight or even a 10-minute timed writing about whatever subject Natalie tossed out to the audience. Still, it was always there, humming in the background like white noise.

 

Joan, on the other hand, had already made this rites of passage. At 44, she was gracefully Buddhist, calm in a way I wasn’t, the rock to my flying particles of dust. And while she would have liked to have had consistent male companionship, the desire didn’t define her the way it did me. Suffice to say, she was not only a wonderful travel companion—as we meditated and wrote and even shopped during a brief post-jaunt to Santa Fe—she was a treasured mentor.

 

Still.

 

So it was both moving and ironic to find us back in Taos, at another of Natalie’s workshops, only this time with our husbands. And it was even more poignant to watch them bond over a nightly rotation of chicken quesadilla, buffalo steak, chips and guacamole, and green chile-pepper everything.

 

And yet, there was a defined change in the spirit of who we were as girlfriends—as there is at this stage of life, I think, for all of us. One night stands out, in particular.  As it was, at least for me, a clear sign of the times in terms of how life goes, especially if you’re married and in mid life.

 

We had just sat down for a late dinner at this wonderful little restaurant called the Apple Tree on Bent Street down the street from the Taos Inn, where we were staying in the historic part of the decidedly-artist-in-a-dreadlock-and-not-martini-toidy-kind-of-way town.

 

The four of us were eyeing the menu, deciding whether to share an appetizer of baked brie or the shrimp tortillas? Dan and I were accustomed to sharing. In fact, whenever we go out to eat, it’s our ritual. But, on our vacation, we weren’t vigilant about it. And frankly, in the moment, as we evaluated our choice of entree, it felt almost more natural to turn to Joan, my dear friend of a decade, and say, “Want to share something?” After all, we’d done it for years prior to being with our respective spouses.

 

To which she replied, “I think I’ll share something with my husband first.”

 

Now, I know she didn’t mean anything by it. It wasn’t a diss, but a mere sentence, spoken with a smile, love, and kindness (if that particular sentence could be taken as a personal attack, which it couldn’t).

 

But for me, it was its own rites of passage. Confirmation of what I’d been feeling in the months leading up to our trip about my relationship with my girlfriends in general—that as we get older and more partnered, our sense of loyalty shifts.

 

When I was younger, I longed for the company of men. Not just any man, mind you, although I will admit I succumbed to that standard all too often. But for one who would commit—you know, assign his voter registration card the same address as mine, share a tax return, worry about home repairs and saving for retirement with equal determination and zeal.

 

And yet, that one simple sentence—I think I’ll share with my husband—which made all the sense in the world, especially by society’s standards, stopped me. It reminded me that now that I was married, I finally had the company of men. But the scales were out of balance. And now, I longed for the company of women in the way that it used to be when I was younger and single. But that was no longer available—gone into air like the bubbles you used to blow through a plastic ring when you were a kid.

 

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my husband. Wouldn’t trade him or being married for all the black spandex at Goodyear. But I miss the time I could simply turn to my girlfriend and say, “Hey, wanna share some fried calamari?” It’s a small but meaningful and almost sisterly pleasure that some days I long for as much as I do anything.

 

There was once that time with Joan. And, in fact, I wrote about it one of my columns, where she participated in a photo shoot about enjoying the sensation of one simple chocolate truffle—shared by two girlfriends. Along with perfect portions of salad, sandwich, soup, cake, and whatever else was on life’s menu.

 

Now, however, things were different. Not just with Joan, but across the bigger female-bonding picture.

 

And gosh, I miss my girls.

 

I’ve noticed that friendship, at this age, no longer enjoys the luxury of spontaneity. No more calling a friend in the morning for dinner that night. At 45 and beyond, dinner out now requires the same set of skills needed to put on a community production of Annie or, say, A Chorus Line.

 

It calls for planning and negotiating. Securing the players, hoping they’re not distracted by work, husbands, children, traffic, or sheer exhaustion. My friend Brooklyn Jill (versus me Jill) always says: “I hate life in the 21^st century. Everybody’s too busy.” And so it goes.

 

Still, that doesn’t mean I didn’t want more than anything to share a duck confit fajita in Taos with my friend Joan.

 

I know, I sound like I’m whining. And really, I’m not. Life is all about passages, stages, we start with our friends, then our family, and I know, someday, later (please much later) our friends. Again. I’m not rushing it. But I do wonder why we can’t have it all today.

 

I spent the first full act of life doing things easily with my girlfriends. And now easy is over. Did you enjoy it sweetie (or even know to)? The freedom of having a Chinese Chicken Salad on a moment’s notice. The underwhelming act of sitting down to discuss the great Nordstrom’s shoe sale, why Bob X can’t commit, or why you don’t know why you feel that way but you just do and thanks for listening. Did you enjoy the sisterly discourse that happens over a shared piece of chicken and too much chocolate? Or did you take for granted how easy it was? How if you didn’t get to “it” that night, there’d surely be another fast and furiously to follow?

 

Then I say: Oh Jill, what are you saying? What is it you want, for goodness sakes? Will you ever be happy?

 

The answer is yes. Of course, I’m thrilled. And it was wonderful—beyond any explanatory prose—to be with Joan and Dave and Dave and Dan and Joan and Dan. As wonderful as fitting into your skinny jeans—and that first night with the person you know for sure you’re going to spend your life.

 

But hey, I did sure did miss being with Joan and Jill.  

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And so what else did I do on our vacation? So many wonderful things. We spent several hours at the Taos Pueblo, marveling at how the Red Willow Indians live without electricity or running water.

 

I ate a real hot dog—not the 40-calorie fat free kind I’m addicted to at home—but the I-don’t-care kind from a street vendor on the Plaza in Santa Fe. It was my first and only since I think Nixon was in the White House. And it was divine.

 

I schlepped a camera across too-many states (travel to New Mexico is a day trip) and never took it out of the suitcase. And even though we were in the desert, I had no less than 42 allergy attacks over the course of five days. But didn’t let them stop me.

 

I enjoyed watching my husband explore the many shops like a little Jewish girl just out of prison—his stamina for browsing awe inspiring. (You go honey.)

 

I also learned that I’m incredibly high maintenance (I need a bathroom, a bottle of water, and sandwich in between each of our connecting flights) and no longer need to shop or eat to be happy.

 

Case in point: I left New Mexico—the art capital of America—with a mere $50 mask of the Sun God for my husband’s basement studio versus the $600 mixed-media piece I coveted at a store called Ortega’s and then left behind.

 

And while I had my fair share of cheese and beans, I also spent 45 entire minutes in the Haagan Daaz shop in Santa Fe drinking diet Pepsi out of a paper cup. All the while, gluttonous hoards of tourists shouted out their orders for Rocky Road, Vanilla Fudge Twirl, and Pralines and Cream.

 

My favorites.

 

Yet, being there in that moment alone with my husband was the only thing I craved—never mind the momentary purchase of paint on canvas or the taste of sugar and salt on my tongue.

 

(Although, if Joan were there and wanted to share a scoop of something, well, I might have gone for it.)

 

Until next time!
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