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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, does anybody know anything about fencing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

That my deodorant is working just fine.

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

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

That my new Adele CD rocks.

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

That my girlfriends still want to meet me for dinner.

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

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

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Okay, everybody, hi. Uh, hello. I know, I know, I’ve been a bad girl. No Jilly no posty.

I promise, there’ll be a new post up shortly — by the end of the weekend at the latest. And here, let me give you a little teaser. Has anybody ever heard of a “shaman“? Huh? Well, I haven’t seen a shaman per se, but hey, I just had a conversation about one and, well, you know where that can go…

…that’s right. Anywhere! (Especially in my world…)

Anyway, please be patient with me. I’ve got a couple of good topics lined up for you. And, in fact, I just wrote an entire five paragraphs until I accidentally hit a wrong key and my computer decided to erase it all (must not have been very good, huh, everybody’s an editor–even inanimate objects these days). Anyway, I cursed for about 12 minutes, and now, well, here I am, trying to recall when I just wrote. And guess what?

I can’t.

So, this will have to do. Although, I think was writing something about listening to Dr. Laura Schlessinger in the car for the very first time on the way home from today’s doctor’s appointment. And I was appalled. Talk about being judgemental! The disgust she exudes between the lines of her advice. It’s disgusting, really. I could’ve given her disgust a run for it’s money, were I her caller. I mean, seriously.

In fact, I was so mad, I could almost feel the spike in cortisol when she told one woman, who called in about what to do with her cheating husband, that she had no recourse. Essentially, that she had “ruined her life forever”. That she’d chosen poorly–whatever was she thinking?–and now, she’d just have to live with it.

“In misery” is how I believe she put it. Forever. Saddled with a man of bad character and two of his rotten kids.

Okay, well, yep. That’s what she said. Oh, another woman? Called in to ask if her fiance had a right to be mad since, after they married, she planned to take his last name? But keep her last name as her middle name?

Dr. Laura’s response: “Why?” Just take his name because if you don’t (I’m paraphrasing here), it’ll make him unhappy.

I mean, good grief. Talk about setting the women’s movement back to the dark ages.

Okay, well, more coming. (See, aren’t you really excited now? And looking forward to the full post?) I’m off to order pizza for my husband’s study group. (Okay, who’m I  kidding…it’s for me.)

Write back to you all SOON. Count on it!

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Here’s a real, real quick update:

I am busy. (That’s why just an update…) Super busy. Really good busy. Ergo, my not posting as much as I had been (not that I wasn’t busy then, I was, but now, I’m off the charts…and might I give myself a public “You go girl”. Please, indulge me. I’m fragile.)

Every day, another client calls me with work. It’s GLORIOUS. (Does anybody else hear the “Rocky” theme, or is it just me?)

And still, not problem free. Not by a long shot, although they are much condensed in the moment, confined to the following:

–My desire to eat everything in the house that’s not nailed down or eats me first because I’m so busy and don’t have any colleagues in my house to goof off with when I need a break. Food. That’s my buddy. (Big sigh.)

–My loneliness, since I do work alone in a room all day every day (and does anybody else think this room looks smaller?). And while I know I should get out of the house more–and could, if I sent out a smoke signal to a few peeps–I simply don’t have the time to waste. Because I’m busy. (Get my dilemma?) And still, I’m alone so much, well, I’m starting to see dead people. (Not good.)

–Now that I have mastered the art of tennis and am clearly on my way to the U.S. Open (that is the tennis thingy, right?), I am starting to experience some joint pain in my right hand. And, I’m still chubby. Although, optimistic. Much more optimistic! (In fact, this morning, I actually detected the signs of a cheekbone!)

–I haven’t had a piece of chicken in eight weeks (at least)–not since I was delivered the diagnosis of adrenal distress and inflammation. Which means that I cannot eat too much animal protein OR stress myself out. (HA, good one!) Which means that I miss chicken. Which means that some days, our little rescue dog looks, well, tempting. But of COURSE, that’s disgusting. Never mind. Forget I said that. Good lord, gross.

–Barack Obama did not rescue a dog. I know, this one is not like the others, but still…very disappointing. He could have done a LOT for that cause.

Other than that, life is grand. It is. It really is. And yes, it’s me. I have not been captured by banditos and replaced with an evil surrogate-pretending Pollyanna who’s just acting as if she’s crisis free for the moment so as to lull you into a false sense of security before taking over the world (…okay, too much Keifer Sutherland, but 24 was soooo good last night … and Tony, Tony, who are you? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?).

I’m just in a good mood. We’re not living on skid row. Those adorable Seals freed the Captain being held by pirates. (I say we punish the one in custody by forcing him to spend five days on a life raft with four scorned, bitter, and progesterone-deficient ex-wives–without food, water, or a shotgun so he could actually kill himself…sorry women’s rights groups…)  And my husband has never been cuter. What could be bad? (I know, check with me tomorrow…)

Okay, gotta run. Back to work. Until next time!

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It was so nice outside on Sunday, wasn’t it? Actually felt like spring. And, as a result, not even a “Live or Let Die” marathon on the Lifetime Movie Network could keep me from enjoying the sunshine and 60-plus degree temps–even though I loves me a little Sunday sluggin’.

So you can imagine my own surprise when I heard the words tumble out and over my very own only-exercise-cause-I-have-to-and-not-because-I-like-it lips: “Hey,” I said to my husband and stepdaughter, “let’s go play tennis.”

As I finished pronouncing the “nis“, it felt as if my head suddenly swung around on my own neck, as if someone had popped me in the ear. But they didn’t. It was just my gut reaction to having proposed a form of exercise without being bitch-slapped by some power-hungry trainer into doing it.

I mean, was I kidding? Tennis? SOOOOOOO not me. (In fact, I think I may have played tennis once, thought I liked it, joined a tennis club, and never held a racquet again.)

And yet, before I could retract my testimony, the idea was out of the bag. And Dan and Steppy (a new and more efficient name for “C”)–both athletically inclined and eager to do something other than watch a series of middle-aged TV women spy on their cheating husbands–jumped on the suggestion.

“What a great idea!” they said, with enthusiasm.

Oh, yeah, I grumbled. Fan-friggin-tastic. I’m tired. I’m going to be menstruating in 22 days. I’m adrenally challenged and shouldn’t over-exert myself. It’s a job market jungle out there and I’m in the thicket without an axe. What in the he*& was I thinking?

Then, once I realized I was mentally searching for ways to get out of something I myself had proposed (granted, impulsively), I decided to go with it in lieu of appearing, well, flaky or unstable. (Shut up, you.)

It’s in that spirit that I applied some fresh lipstick, shoved my feet into a pair of tired and battered sneakers, dug out the sports bra (and then shoved it back in the drawer–no need to be strapped into a vice on the weekend), and prepared myself for two hours of painful exertion.

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And so, we dusted off the two racquets my parents bought Dan for his birthday two years ago–the ones that have been unused for 24 months, hanging like a confused taxidermist’s special in our garage just above a stack of dirty boxes. Then, we walked over to the courts in the park, my husband and Steppy whistling like two happy idiots. (Did they not get the agony that awaited?)

I, on the other hand, was deep in thought. I needed a strategy–a way to appear athletic without a) smudging my lipstick, b) appearing dork-like and c) showing my lack of physical prowess, if you will. It was a tall order.

As we approached the courts, I heard the Peter Gunn theme playing in my head–and took my place on one side of the net with Steppy, thoughts racing, groping the long hard rod of a tennis racket as if it were an AK-47. Dangerous and/or useless, if not used properly.

While Dan gave us instructions on how to play from the other side of the net, I wished I had slathered on a soup ladle’s worth of sunscreen, since parts of my exposed skin were already starting to crisp like turkey bacon.

I couldn’t help but think, with longing and probably a dreamy expression, how you can’t get a melanoma-inducing sunburn watching cable from the sofa.

Big sigh.

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Rather than go into the gory details (i.e., my hitting the tennis ball into the basketball courts approximately 12 times, swinging at the air 46 times, “running the court” to keep my heart rate up in the hopes of shrinking my donkey even ever so slightly [much to the horror of Steppy who was mortified by my jumping and yelping "LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME!"]), it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined.

I even think that, despite my many faux paus, I showed a little promise! (At least that’s what my brilliant husband who likes his life the way it is said!)

We left the park injury-free, save a little dehydration and Steppy telling me the now tepid water in my bottle (which she proceeded to drink once hers was empty) tasted like “warm blood”. (I didn’t press, given what I already know about her mother, and figuring what I don’t know won’t hurt me.)

There were no temper tantrums, no excessive texting (hard to do when you’re gasping for oxygen), and no tearful lectures of how unimportant I was in the scheme of everybody else on the planet. Everything went smoothly, especially since I eventually got out of the way to let Steppy be center stage with her daddy.

It was all good, my dear readers. Happy to report. Of course, let’s see how it goes this weekend. Not that I want to be a pessimist, but you just never know.

I’ll keep you posted!

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