Letting Go Is the New Moving On

2021. It sounds like such a big number. 2020 did too, and we all thought, hmm, a momentous year indeed. Unfortunately, it did not turn out the way we had hoped for. Sure, it was significant, but in a Nero fiddled while Rome burned while a plague raged out of control way. So, here we are, on a new day in a new year that has begun.

The mood of today, compounded by the grey skies and unusual amount of rain, is not unlike the feeling I have on Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. It makes sense, really, since it follows Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. If Rosh Hashanah is like New Year’s Eve, all fun and celebration and maybe a few drinks, it stands to reason that the suffering of Yom Kippur parallels the misery that is New Year’s Day. My husband refers to New Year’s Day as the Sunday of holidays, and he is not wrong.

The Jewish tradition of atoning for one’s sins is not as severe as you think. Rather than burning in hell for all eternity, we go with something more banal, that we have missed the mark, and we should do better. Be better. Be best? Anyway, the way I look at it, Jews get a another shot at redemption for our second new year’s resolutions, especially if we did not take it too seriously last October, when we had the chance. If at first you don’t succeed, blah, blah again.

I envy those people who do not do any self-reflection every January 1. Some people have decided long ago that setting resolutions does not serve them. Others make lofty goals for being kinder, thinner, or healthier. I disappoint myself enough on a daily basis that I do not need that kind of failure in my life, which is why I stick with the same resolution I have had for years: to read more books.

I love to read, mind you, so it is not such a struggle, but I have noticed my attention span is not always cooperative, especially since, oh, November of 2016. I typically set a goal of one book every two weeks, or 26 for the year, and honestly, I have failed to meet that seemingly simple goal for the past few years. Until 2020, when those of us who believe in science and love one another stayed home as much as possible.

Escapism through literature became a necessity during the pandemic, and I surpassed my arbitrary end zone with ease. I read some classics and some best sellers. I read historical fiction and mysteries. I read female and male authors. I even read some non-fiction, although I shied away from self-help books, because who needs that kind of pressure?

I decided that for 2021, I am going to level up and aim for 30 books. Same resolution, new number. You cannot expect change to happen if you continue to do the same thing, right? I am already halfway done with my first one, and if you are interested in following along with my good and poor choices, literally speaking, just friend me on Goodreads and watch my progress.

On another note, I did something unexpected, a bonus resolution, if you like. For the past few years, I have been holding onto unread email, as if I would miss out on something if I did not come back and read it. I’m good at responding to action emails, and I am pretty much on top of deleting and unsubscribing to those constant inbox fillers from every online store from which I have ever made a purchase. What I am not so good at doing, however, is reading those newsletters that arrive way too often for me. New recipes to try or travel hotspots to visit or lifehacks to embrace; they would all sit in my inbox, waiting for me to get around to opening them.

In November, my unread folder of life-improving emails had grown to almost 2,000. Clearly, I was not going to make time for them, for any of them, in the same way I did not make time for much other life improvement. I scanned through them, mostly just deleting, but only about a block of a 100 or so at a time. I updated my friend, MH, who is obsessively on top of her email, to be accountable, even though I never asked her to do that, nor did she offer. I just decided independently that she would be proud of me for weeding them out, for gaining control over this small segment of my life. And so, every time that number dropped, I reported it to her, and she would cheer me on, which kind of made me feel that she was okay with acting as some sort of email anonymous sponsor to me.

Yesterday, I was down to 61 unread emails. They dated back to 2016, the earliest from sometime after November. It was no coincidence. It was the time when life took a turn for the worse, and those activities and behaviors that I managed to keep my mental and physical health in check sort of became way less motivating to me. Those emails reflected what I had allowed to happen through inaction and passivity, and I was ready to part with them.

This morning, after wasting my “new normal” hour on my phone, I got up, had breakfast, and sat with my husband as he enjoyed a cup of coffee and some pre-game football shows. I went through the rest of my email, deleting as I went, from years-old committee back-and-forths to travel arrangements to shipping notifications from when my now 21-year-old was still in high school. I worked at it for a little while in front of the television, and then I realized I was down to just one unread email.

It was from the Van Gogh Museum, sent in the summer of 2018, when my family and I had planned a trip to Amsterdam after first visiting Iceland. We never made it to the Netherlands because my husband broke his ankle in three places while hiking in a lava field. Instead of seeing the museum or the Anne Frank House or a shit ton of bikes and tulips, we flew home for his surgery.

He is pretty much back to his new normal, which is to say he can walk and hike again, although he does have a nasty scar and lingering pain and numbness. It was a long and tough recovery, and it took a toll on all of us, at a time when we were solidly grieving what life in the US had become, on how we interacted with each other and the world around us, on how to find our place in a regressing and repressive society.

I opened the email; it contained a link to a personalized video to welcome me to the museum. I clicked on it, and much as you or any reasonable person might have expected, it was no longer valid. I had been holding on to this email in the hope that I would somehow be able to take that trip that was cancelled, to travel again as we once could, to have that experience I so desperately want yet have to be patient to have once again. I was waiting to see what I missed, and when I finally was ready to, that opportunity had passed me by.

I closed the tab to the Van Gogh Museum, and I deleted the email. Now I have none that is unread. I did it. I made a change, and all this on the first day of the New Year. With that change comes a sense of hope, however small, that maybe, this year will be better, and that I can do things to make myself happier if I just make the effort.

Whatever goals you set for yourself, make them achievable. I promise you that every victory, however small, is worth the energy you put into it, even if it is something as basic as cleaning out your inbox.

 

And Regrets, I've Had a Few

For the most part, I like to think I am a capable, intelligent, functional adult. And then, every once in a while, I do something so colossally stupid that I can’t shake it off. Does that ever happen to you?

I can’t tell if it’s a mom thing or a menopausal thing or just a getting older thing. Whatever the reason, I am still embarrassed, and because it involves my older daughter, I won’t be able to live it down for a while.

Let’s start at the beginning: Instagram. I have been entranced for a while by some of those ads that I scroll past, and for some bizarre reason for which I can’t forgive myself, I click on them to learn more. Sometimes it’s for one of those straightening brushes, which I still can’t believe can work on hair as curly as mine. Sometimes, it’s for a new version of Spanx-like control garment, making every lump and bump magically smooth out. And sometimes, it’s for a pet product that I can’t live without.

So that’s where I landed, on some grooming glove thing. It fits on your hand, and on the palm side, it has what is essentially plastic or rubber spiky teeth that can help remove your pet’s undercoat or loose fur. In the ads, the pets look like they’re enjoying it, this surprisingly effective grooming disguised as run-of-the-mill petting. It looked so promising, so convincing, so necessary.

Not that I needed convincing. Every spring, my two cats shed. A lot. While it’s easy enough to pick up the little black clumps of hair the tumbleweed around the baseboards, it’s the hairball puking that I am currently over. The two of them takes turns throwing up every few weeks so that I am on a constant routine of cleaning up hairballs.

Moshe, the short-haired one with the thicker coat, is partial to throwing up on my bedroom carpet. A few weeks ago, he started gagging on the hardwood floor of the upstairs hallway, but he ran as well and fast as he could to make it onto the carpet of my bedroom before he tossed his kibble. Oh, and it was four in the morning.

And it’s never just one and done. He has to heave a few more times before his digestive tract calms down. Which means I have multiple spot treatments to attempt, at least once a month. I try to give him that cat hairball remedy, but he hates it, and he will eat pretty much anything.

The other cat, Yoko, is also a puker. Her fur is longer than Moshe’s, and she doesn’t shed as much as he does. If you touch him, he loses fur like porcupine quills, but Yoko’s fur is more likely to tangle and clump in her kitty armpits or around her neck. Watching her groom herself is also disturbing because the hair gets stuck on her little tongue barbs. It makes me want to cough up a hairball, just watching her.

She is sneakier and more retaliatory with her hairball projecting. If I go out of town, she makes sure to upchuck her displeasure. Recently, she threw up on the all but abandoned treadmill in the downstairs guest room. Do you know how hard it is to clean dried cat puke off a treadmill belt? I do.

Which brings me back to the grooming glove. It seemed like a real solution to my hairball drama and possibly even worth the money I was going to spend on it. The next time I saw the ad on Instagram, I clicked on the “Shop now” link and placed my order.

I didn’t give it another thought, and a few days later, I received a confirmation email letting me know that my glove was in the mail. Five days later, I got another email from the company: the package was delivered! I rushed out the mailbox, but it was empty. I looked on the side porch, and nothing. Nothing on the front step either.

I reread the email, and that’s where I discovered my mistake, the thing I did that never should have happened. It turns out that I didn’t use the same shipping address as my billing address, as I thought I had. Instead, for some unknown reason, the address that auto-filled the online form was my daughter’s ex-boyfriend’s.

At some point in the beginning of their freshman year, when they were still together, I had sent him a package, one of those kind gestures that girlfriends’ moms sometimes do. They broke up around Thanksgiving, and I ordered the glove in late April. It wasn’t like his was the last mailing address I had used on my phone. Why it decided that his was the address to select during my glove ordering, I will never understand.

So, I did what any normal, rational, slightly frugal person would do: I texted the ex-boyfriend to ask him to bring it to me when he finished with finals and got home. I didn’t want to throw away the money, and I really wanted that glove. I needed that glove. I had to have that glove.

I started out with a little small talk, just to soften the absurdity of my request. He does live close to us, but he attends college in another state, so it wasn’t a small ask. He claimed he was happy to do it, so I said my goodbyes and let it go for another week or two until he got home.

During the course of this glove situation, my older daughter also finished her semester and came home. I must have mentioned in passing that I had texted her ex, which would be where I made my second mistake. She is never one to miss an opportunity to make a mountain out of a molehill, which only made me feel even more like an idiot for contacting him and for the first mistake of the incorrect address.

The two of them texted about my idiocy and had a few laughs at my expense, but whatever, because I knew that grooming glove was soon to be mine.

When he brought it over, he actually came to the door and hand delivered it to me instead of leaving it in my mailbox. That was a very adult move on his part; I doubt I would have had the confidence to make small talk with my ex-girlfriend’s mother while handing over a stupid package she had shipped to me, the mail-order equivalent to an unsolicited Anthony Weiner dick pic, something you wish you didn’t receive and had to deal with.

After he left (and my daughter came out of hiding), I quickly opened the mailing envelope and removed me grooming glove. There it was, with its Velcro wrist strap and textured surface, ready to put on my right hand and start the petting.

On the other hand, I am left-handed.

Petting, like writing or masturbating, is a dominant-hand activity. I tried using it with my right hand, but my old, stupid brain didn’t have the capacity to coordinate my petting skills with my right palm. It, much like me, is useless.

Looking back on the whole debacle, I realize that the grooming glove ad didn’t offer a choice of hands, and also that I need to delete all the cookies on my phone. And also, that I probably shouldn’t fall for Instagram ads, because the reality never lives up to the expectations.

Without a Leg to Stand On

If you’ve ever witnessed a car accident (or have been in one), you know that it sticks with you for a while. It doesn’t have to be horrible to replay over and over in your mind; car accidents, while an everyday occurrence, aren’t part of most people’s everyday. So, it makes sense that I would still be thinking about the accident I saw a couple of days ago. The accident itself wasn’t so bad, but it was memorable, and I can't seem to shake it.

Let me set the scene for you. It was mid-morning, and I was stopped at a red light that was barely a mile from my neighborhood, waiting to make a left turn. As I sat there, a pickup truck with a lawn mower in the flat bed approached the green light on the cross street, and without slowing down, careened left through the intersection. I thought the driver was going a bit fast, but whatever. People do stupid shit all the time.

Then things took an interesting turn.

As the truck went past me, a man fell out of the truck and onto the pavement, rolling over a few times before he stopped. The truck continued on its way until it slammed into the thick trunk of a Bradford pear tree that probably reached its life expectancy at that very moment. The sound of pickup truck grill against hard wood is not a pleasant thing to witness. Neither is watching a man literally hit the road.

I stared at the man, trying to determine where he came from. Was he riding in the back of the truck with the mower? It’s not unheard of around these parts. I looked at the truck and noticed the driver door was wide open. No one else was standing around. The man on the street had to be the driver.

As I sat there, trying to make sense of what I had seen, the man suddenly got up on his feet. Well, foot. He held a prosthetic leg in his hand. Then, holding the leg up high in the air like a flag, he hopped over to the truck.

At this point, a woman got out of the passenger side of the truck, holding her forehead. The one-legged man started yelling at her. She was hunched over but walking, so she seemed as well to be alright.

My light was still red.

I am usually a good helper, but honestly, when something unexpected like a car accident or someone falling on volcanic rocks in a lava field, I freeze up. I suddenly lose any ability to process information and do anything. I just sat there, paralyzed. In my defense, I had just left my therapist’s office, so I was a bit preoccupied with my own shit at that moment and not exactly on top of my game. 

Luckily, plenty of other people with better fight or flight reactions had also witnessed the one-truck accident. A car stopped on the road next to the truck, and four older men dashed out of it to offer assistance. Meanwhile, a man that was two cars behind me at the red light got out of his vehicle and stood on the road divider, calling 9-1-1 to report it. I was hardly the only witness, and multiple good Samaritans had already launched into action.

When the light turned green, I made my left turn and drove home. I kind of wish I could have driven back to my therapist's office. Instead, I went inside and told my husband, “I just saw a car accident.”

He wanted the details, and I told him that a man fell out of a truck and lost his leg. Then I had to explain that it wasn’t his real leg. Then I had to clarify that it was his leg, but it was a fake leg, and he lost it during the fall, but that I had no idea what happened to his original leg, only that he started and finished the accident with one real leg and one fake leg, but only one was working at the time. I probably needed to do a better job of explaining, but it pretty much happened like that. It was just hard to put into words.

We surmised that his prosthetic limb must have detached somehow while he was driving, and knowing he lost control of truck, he bailed out while he could. Clearly, he did not have a seat belt to hold him back from his stunt man move. He also didn’t seem too concerned about that poor woman in the passenger seat with the head injury. Again, fight or flight, am I right?

But he had to be okay, didn’t he? I mean, he could walk, er, hop, right away. It was almost as if he knew exactly what to do, as if it had happened before.

I still feel a tad guilty for not stopping to help. I know at least two friends who are much better people than I who would have never hesitated to get involved. Not me. I assume I will just be in the way, and then I count on the kindness of others to step up. I assume if I were the only one who saw an accident, I would definitely stay and do the right thing. But how many people need to? Two? Four? All of us? At some point, I figure, too many cooks spoil the soup.

The End of an Era

     Today was my younger daughter’s last Religious School class. After thirteen years of going most Sunday mornings during the school year, she, much like her sister did two years ago, will find herself able to sleep late on Sunday mornings. She will no longer be able to complain about getting out of bed or getting dressed or sitting in the sanctuary with a bunch of wild younger kids or singing along or trying to make friends with kids that she doesn’t have much in common with outside of her religion, such as it is. Her faith may not have stuck after her many lessons about Judaism, but her Jewish identity is strong, for which we have religious school, and the rabbi, to thank.

     She started when she was three, attending a monthly pre-school class that did not always hold her interest. As a three-year-old, she was head-strong, stubborn, and non-compliant, which dominated both her Montessori experience as well as her religious school hours. No one had determined yet how to make her participate in anything she didn’t want to do. I recall her pre-school teacher at temple asking me if she understood how to color, or if she even knew her colors. I knew she just didn’t want to do what she was told to do, and she didn’t want to do what the other kids were doing, and pretty much fuck you, but in a three-year-old way.

     When kindergarten started, everything changed. A girl her age joined her religious school class, and suddenly, she had an instant friend with whom she could relate, rather than the rest of the class, all boys who liked boy things and didn’t appreciate her passion for fashion or stuffed animals. The new girl did, and they became best friends.

     Suddenly, we had another family to be Jewish with. We celebrated holidays together. We had cookouts. As the girls got older, they had sleepovers at both of our houses. We took vacations together and generally looked out for one another.

     When fifth grade ended, her best friend, along with the rest of her Jewish family, moved up north, where they quickly assimilated into a community with probably ten times the number of Jews, if not more. My daughter went back to being the only girl in a religious school class of boys at a time when they were all on the verge of middle school and puberty. It wasn’t an easy adjustment for her.

     She rallied a bit for her bat mitzvah, and because she loves our rabbi, she agreed to continue past her b’nai mitzvah year to confirmation. Those few years saw more of her religious school class leave, either just because they had enough, or, like her best friend, they moved away. She tried to be involved with the youth group as a way to stay connected to her Jewish peers, but the experience wasn’t really for her, even if she did make a few friends.

     Which brings us to this year, her confirmation year, her last year of formal religious school education. She half-heartedly continued to join in youth group events out of obligation, but she made a point of being present and engaged for her class with the rabbi. It was her and one other boy, the only two who made it all the way from the beginning together. They are friends and share a bond that comes from shared experiences, but I suspect they too will grow apart as their paths diverge with each of them going to different high schools and having different interests.

     They have one joint shabbat service left, and then, well, it will probably be high holy days and holiday celebrations at home here on out. In a couple more years, she will go to college, and she may or may not decide to participate in Hillel or other Jewish college groups. She may take her Birthright trip, or she may never make it to Israel. And as she grows up, she may get married and have children and have to decide if she too will enroll them in religious school so that they can understand the faith that goes along with the culture.

     In the meantime, we can sleep in or go out for brunch on Sunday mornings. Our lives will spill over into that time slot that for over a decade was devoted to being Jewish, and chances are pretty good, at least for now, that another time slot won’t open up on a different day to replace it. Will she miss it? Will I? Does anyone miss going to religious school?

     Thirteen years ago, I drove her to religious school. Today, she drove me home from the temple. It feels so final. Of course, we can go to temple whenever we want, but will we? 

This Is the New Year

I just popped in on my blog site for the first time this year, and I was dismayed to discover that I only wrote four blog posts last year. Four, that’s four days out of 365. Not quite a prolific year, huh? How did a whole year go by without more to say?

As disappointed as I am in my lack of words and posts, I am even more disappointed in my lack of stories to share. What can I tell you: 2017 was not the best year. What made it subpar? I wish I could sum it up in a word, a phrase, or even a sentence, but the reality is that it was more of a mood, and it wasn’t positive.

I started the year feeling motivated and proactive, much like some of my friends who were also out of sorts after the 2016 election. I went to the Women’s March in D.C. with two of my favorite people. I came home ready to fight, but no amount of book clubs and post card parties and meditation apps could make up for the relentless news stories that seemed to affect many things that matter to me. Everyday felt like another step backward, another liberty lost, and I couldn’t stop watching because I thought it was my civic duty to bear witness. The more I paid attention, the more outrage I felt, which in turn chipped away at my ability to find joy in the everyday.

I definitely made happy memories in 2017, but in between those bright moments was that sense of disappointment. I took one day at a time, whether it meant focusing on work, helping my family, or whatever other tasks I had. I filled my days with busyness to tamp down the disappointment, but at night, when I would sit down, it was still there, ready to color my mood gray.

How do I sum up the year? I smiled less. I stayed home more. I wrote fewer words. I ate more chocolate. I dealt with my husband’s stress, my children’s stress, and my country’s stress, all while denying my own. Turns out, my lack of a strategy didn’t work so well. As the months passed, so did my motivation. Every time I tried to change my attitude, I found myself giving into the disappointment because it felt safer, like staying under the covers on a rainy morning.

And then the year ended, with yet another loss, this time of a dear friend, an unexpected heartbreaking tragedy that was the symbolic culmination of everything about life that isn’t fair. I stumbled through the last two weeks of the year thinking about my friend who passed away, about what a positive person she was, even as she too had to work hard to stay that way, each day of her life. She loved her husband, her daughters, her pets, but she really loved herself. Hers was a life well lived, and her memory will be for a blessing, but for now, many people who knew her, including me, are still in shock.

Fast forward to today, January 2, 2018. It’s a new year, but can I make a new me? I’m no soothsayer, but I still have my words and I’m going to try. I don’t need to stay silent; it doesn’t serve me to keep a low profile. I’ve spent a year trying to ignore or suppress how I feel, and all it got me was twenty extra pounds and an increase in my medication.

I am not a big believer in resolutions because they never really pan out for most people. A few years ago, I tried to simplify my goals to make them realistic. Read four books every month. Meditate for ten minutes every day. Lose one pound a week. Nothing stuck past February, and then I would just feel worse about myself because I could add failure to the list of things that hadn’t changed.

What’s going to be different about this year? Hopefully a lot. For starters, I am going to write it down. It isn’t enough to bear witness; I need a tangible record and a sense of accountability. I need to give up excuses and just do things. I need to take chances and trust more. I need to stop eating so much chocolate and take more walks. I need to say no, but I also need to say yes. I need to honor my friend by loving myself.

So, here’s my resolution: once a week, at a minimum, I am going to write, here, for me. One thing I know is that writing makes me feel better, and when I stopped, so did the feeling better. It’s time to make a change because what’s happening now isn’t working.

You can read it if you would like, but you don’t have to; you do you, and I’ll do me. Yes, I still want to lose some weight, and read more, and be mindful. No, I don’t want to see our world suffer more injustices and setbacks. Maybe I’ll write about it, and just maybe, it will help.

Top of the Heap

I have a confession to make: I don’t heart New York.

I know it’s not a popular position to take, but my family and I just returned from a trip to the Big Apple, and I have to admit, I am not equivocating when I say I’m not crazy about it. I don’t feel safe. I don’t like the rudeness. I don’t care for the smells. It’s too big and has too much going on. It’s just too much everything.

I have lived in the South, or south of the Mason-Dixon Line, almost all of my life. While I live in what would best be described as a small, generic city, I’ve been to big cities many times. San Francisco, Chicago, London, Paris, Washington DC, Phoenix, Atlanta, Los Angeles…I actually quite enjoy a nice vacation to an urban center where I can have the kinds of experiences that are lacking in my own town. I love to visit museums and eat fabulous food and walk and explore. I could navigate public transportation on my own if I had to, although I generally am with my family when I do. I feel comfortable, even when I am out of my element.

I have been to NYC before, although it has been almost 20 years since my last visit. I’ve done some touristy stuff. I’ve gone cheap, and I’ve had a touch of luxury. It doesn’t matter how I travel there; it’s just not my cup of tea. I grew up in a time when New York was considered dangerous, and clearly, it left a big impression on me. When I think of New York, my mind goes to some dark places. Rape in Central Park, muggings on street corners, Son of Sam during a black out kind of dark places.

I never said my New York state of mind was rational.

Our recent trip did not change my opinion. For starters, we went during a bit of a heat wave, when the temperatures creeped over 90 degrees every day. I am used to heat and humidity, but I am also used to functional air conditioning. New York’s buildings are sorely lacking in good A/C. Ducking into a store does not offer you any relief from the oppressive heat. Restaurants won’t give you ice unless you ask, which may be the norm in Europe, but doesn’t fly in the US. Schvitzing doesn’t even begin to describe the kind of sweaty mess I became.

Everywhere we walked was filthy. Not like cigarette butts and empty Big Gulp cups filthy, but actual trash bags piled torso high on every street, food and feces on the sidewalks filthy. You would think over the past hundred years or so they would have come up with a better system for public sanitation than throwing your trash in the streets.

There was a constant rivulet of water flowing along each curb, rehydrating the forgotten garbage, which we referred to as “street juice.” On our last morning there, we were treated to a true New York moment. A rat skittered out of a construction site near the Hotel Chelsea, where Sid murdered Nancy, to gingerly sip at the street juice before darting back to the safety of darkened building. We silently ate our doughnuts and watched the spectacle.

Last year, when we were in San Francisco, we marveled at the commitment to public recycling that one would expect in California. NYC doesn’t give a shit about the environment, which is why tossing your trash in the street is just fine. In fact, a small population of elderly people takes the garbage sorting literally into their own hands, most likely as a way to make ends meet. You can feel bad about the pollution and the lack of public services for the needy at the same time.

If you really want to feel bad, check out the handwritten cardboard signs in front of many homeless people around the city. I couldn’t buy a bottle of water for everyone, and I couldn’t reconcile doing nothing. Instead, I avoided eye contact and felt like an entitled piece of shit.

While riding in a taxi, we saw a homeless man pissing on the sidewalk. Common decency would dictate we look away, but my curiosity got the better of me. I was treated to a view of him using a wad of discarded napkins to wipe his ass inside his shorts. You better believe I thought about that the rest of the time we walked around the city, which made me feel even more like an entitled piece of shit.

Did I mention the incessant honking? What is that going to accomplish? Also, is there any time of day that an emergency requiring firetrucks, police cars, or ambulances is not occurring? The City
That Never Sleeps needs to give it a rest.

Everything in New York is so GD expensive. My husband kept joking about eating in NYC for $400 a day, but seriously, other than the Staten Island ferry, nothing is free. The food is crazy expensive, as are the museums, hotels, transportation, clothing, etc. It was frequently cheaper to take Uber everywhere for the four of us than it was to ride the subway or a taxi. We did use the subways a few times, and they rival the streets for the dirtiest spots in the city. The black grime that covers most surfaces is not just a few decades of buildup; it is the actual decay you would expect in a dystopian movie. I kept yanking my older daughter away from the edge of the platform while we waited for a train. She just wanted to find Pizza Rat, and I was petrified some lunatic would push her on the tracks.

Let’s take a moment to talk about Times Square. Why is it a thing? Part of the road is blocked off for pedestrians, and that area is lined with concrete barriers to prevent crazies from plowing their cars into the crowd. Inside the barriers, however, anything goes. Women with their breasts painted in patriotic colors posed for photos with tourists. A variety of statues of Liberty stood around with sunglasses and flags in case you want the ultimate picture. The crowds. The smells. The noise. The flashing signs. My ADD self didn’t know where to look, and the overstimulation was practically debilitating. Nothing about it was fun or enjoyable, and none of it felt safe. It was the kind of atmosphere that could turn bad at any moment, and I didn’t want to be there when it happened.

I don’t want you to think that I hated every moment of my vacation, because I didn’t. I had a lovely time, in fact. I reconnected with a dear friend from high school. I marveled at the skyline from the Empire State observation deck. I saw the newest production of 1984 on Broadway. I tasted pastrami at Katz’s. I strolled the High Line. I took a picture of my husband grabbing the balls of the Charging Bull on Wall Street, although I am not allowed to show it to anyone. We covered a lot of territory, and we ate some marvelous food, and all in all, we had a great time.

I’m just not eager to go back again any time soon.

There's the Rub

A few months ago, when my sister, LK, came to town for a visit, we wanted to treat ourselves. We are normally pedicure fans, but there’s a local place that offers foot reflexology and massages that I wanted to try. I had not been able to talk anyone into going with me, and honestly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go alone. It seemed like the kind of experience that required a witness and possibly a safe word. I also wasn’t entirely sure what it involved, but it was an hour long and cost the same as getting my toes painted, so it seemed worth a gamble. My daughter, S, wanted to join us because her feet are a hot mess from years of dance, or more specifically, years of pointe shoes. I made reservations for the three of us.

The foot massage place was located in a strip mall, and it had the same sort of feel as a Chinese take-out. There were handwritten signs on the windows with the specials scribbled on them: Good Deal 30 min foot 30 min massage, and Treat Self, 50 min massage with 15 neck, walk in welcome. We went inside and were met at the door by a tall Asian man who did not speak but indicated through gestures that we should follow him. He never asked for our names, but I guess we were the only party of three that came in, so there was no need for formalities.

Down the hall were a series of small rooms with open doorways, some of which were partially obscured by a curtain of sheer fabric or hanging beads. Most had a single massage table in the center of the room, which made me wonder how many massages could be performed at the same time. I suppose it would depend on the therapists scheduled at a particular time. That made me wonder if they had a busy time because they are open seven days a week for roughly twelve hours a day. That made me wonder about the privacy. These were small rooms, mind you. Even hookers would have felt exposed.

He led us to a dimly lit room with about eight black leather padded chairs with ottomans, all in a row. Half of the chairs were occupied by older Asian women who had towels on their laps. Some of them were having their heads rubbed, while others were receiving their vigorous foot massages. All of the massage therapists, if you will, were middle-aged to older Asian men.

The man pointed at three vacant chairs. I sat in one, S took the seat next to me, and LK sat in the third, closest to where the rest of the action was. LK immediately settled back on her chair and closed her eyes. She is quite adept at relaxing. S, on the other hand, has never had a massage, not even of her feet, and she certainly hasn’t been touched by a grown Asian man. She sat up stiffly, trying not to stare at the other patrons. The men were finishing up their massage work by slapping the bottoms of the ladies’ feet and pounding on their calves with fists.

S tapped me on the arm and bugged out her eyes. Let’s just say she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to relax. It didn’t occur to me until that moment that a grown man, an absolute stranger, was about to put his hands on my fourteen year old child. This was exactly the kind of situation she spent most of her life trying to avoid.

One of the men finished and left the room. He returned carrying a large wooden bucket. It was lined with a clear plastic bag and filled with water. He set it down in front of my chair and indicated that I should put my feet in it, which I did. It was tepid and felt a bit like I had my feet in a small trashcan that had been left out in the rain. He left the room and came back with the same setup for S, and then a third time for LK. My sister stuck her feet into her bucket and reclined again. S couldn’t decide what to do. I gestured to her to roll up her pants and stick her feet in the water. In her awkwardness, she managed to kick the bucket accidentally and spill half the water onto the floor.

We sat with our feet in buckets, trying to relax. After a little while, the first Asian man and two other men came in and sat on the ottomans. They worked in a synchronized rhythm, first lifting our feet out of the buckets, then patting them dry with towels before repositioning the ottoman and starting the reflexology portion of the massage.

Reflexology must involve some ancient Asian wisdom, but on the surface, it is more a combination of ungodly pressure that manages to hurt and tickle at the same time. There is a lot of toe pulling and arch irritating, interspersed with ankle twisting. It’s a bit more spirited than your standard Swedish massage technique, designed to get deep into the tissues that may or may not correspond with your inner organs that could possibly release whatever toxins may be hiding there.

I tried to remain calm but I couldn’t. I sat there stiffly with my feet in a stranger’s hands, worrying about my daughter next to me. Maybe that’s why spas tell you to leave your children at home.

 After the foot squeezing ended, they slapped the bottoms of our feet and pounded on our calves and thighs with closed fists. It didn’t hurt, but it also didn’t feel good, like getting hit with a ball that was thrown underhand.

Finally, the Asian men moved behind our chairs and began the neck and head portion of the massage. Normally, I rather enjoy a scalp massage, but not with hands that are covered in feet cells. I didn’t recall the men leaving the room to freshen up; they just switched positions and kept at it. Feet in hair, hair on chair. I wanted to take a peek at their DHEC inspection paperwork, but I also wanted to get my money’s worth. After some uncomfortable neck squeezing and odd arm pulling, the spa treatment ended.

They left the room and the three of us sat up, unsure of what to do next. We stepped into our shoes and walked back down the hallway to the counter near the door where we entered. A woman stood behind the counter, and on the floor next to her was a baby. The baby fussed as she tried to indicate, without words, what we needed to pay. We settled up as she passed the baby over to one of the foot-rubbing men, and he tried to calm it. Apparently, this was one spa that was fine with children of all ages.

Would I go again? Absolutely! Thirty bucks for a complete stranger to rub my feet in a non-sexual way is a steal, people. It might not be the most relaxing spa treatment, but you get what you pay for. Although, you might want to leave your kids at home.

This Is What Democracy Looks Like: Part I of the Women's March

Have you wondered what makes people take action? Sometimes it is in their nature to stand up and speak out. Sometimes, it takes a little support and encouragement from likeminded people. Sometimes, it’s just a text.

I got a text message from my friend MH: Do you want to go with me to the women’s march in Washington?

I don’t remember how long after the election that the march was proposed and announced. I had seen it on Facebook, and thought about how much I wanted to participate. I also thought about how unlike me it would be to go that far outside of my comfort zone. I knew, in a million years, I would never do something like that on my own, but that text message was an invitation, an opportunity. I could say yes and join with many other women who had enough of the erosion of our rights and freedoms. Or I could say no and continue to sit on my couch and watch the news and grow more hopeless and angry and distraught.

I answered MH’s text: Yes!

We discussed the possibility with each of our husbands. We weren’t looking for permission or even reassurance. We just wanted to make sure we had parenting coverage in our absence and no scheduling conflicts. When we were given the all-clear, I contacted my wonderful friend, SS, who lives near DC and is always happy to play host. He graciously agreed to house us, which meant we had the means and the wherewithal. We still needed the nerve.

I don’t want to say we needed the balls to join the march. We need to stop saying that balls equal courage. Balls don’t do anything particularly courageous. They just hang there and go along for the ride. You know a brave organ? A vagina. That thing is from where we all enter the world, and to where a large majority of people, mostly men, spend the rest of their lives trying to return. That is where bravery is born, where it perseveres, where it overcomes.

We didn’t need the balls to go; we needed to pussy the hell up.

As the date of the march drew closer, we started to lose our resolve. MH and I each had concerns about the crowd size and safety of the event. Around the same time, sister marches began popping up around the country. One was going to happen nearby, in Asheville. Another was scheduled to take place right here in our town. We debated heading to Asheville because it felt safer. We debated staying here, but it didn’t seem like taking a stand. Then we debated going to the beach because, well, it’s the beach.

One week before the march, we texted again. MH wanted to know what I thought. I said I thought the only thing stopping us was fear, and fear was precisely thing we wanted to protest against. The president-elect campaigned by exploiting fear. If we didn’t want to live in fear for the next four years, we needed to take a stand now. That being afraid to go was exactly why we should. MH agreed. She didn’t want to have any regrets. We felt it was going to be historic and more significant than we thought we knew, and someday, we could sit and tell our grandchildren about the time we marched in Washington to stand up for what we believe.

A few days before our trip, MH found “Thelma” and “Louise” t-shirts at the mall. We went back together to try them on, and thanks to serendipity, we found the right sizes with the right names.  While checking out, MH told our cashier we were buying the shirts because we were headed to the march in Washington. She thought that sounded fun, and then asked us if we were going to Washington State. MH maintained her smile and said, no, DC. She had no idea what we were talking about.

After we got our shirts, we decided to search the mall for fanny packs. We both thought they made the perfect march accessory; we could stash our IDs, some cash, cell phones, perhaps a tissue for uncontrolled emotions, leaving our hands free for protest signs, throwing punches, or rubbing the tear gas out of our eyes. Our first stop was Forever 21. We figured they would have fanny packs as an homage to the 80’s, but no such luck. We did ask a girl who worked there if they had any. MH told her we were going to the march. She too had no idea what we were talking about. We tried a department store, but they had nothing resembling a fanny pack. We finally stopped at the lone luggage store, where an older woman and gentleman were working. We asked them if they had fanny packs. The woman said yes and asked us if we were going to the march.

We confirmed our trip with SS, our host. He didn’t want anything but a pussy hat, but it was too late for me to get one. I baked him his favorite cake instead.

The next morning, MH drove to pick me up. I had my suitcase, the cake, a few signs my daughter made, and my favorite pillow. She too had her bag and favorite pillow. We both packed our anti-anxiety medication, our insurance policy if we lost our nerve.

We hit the road in our matching t-shirts, ready to join forces with like-minded Americans who also had no intention of sitting quietly. We felt empowered, strong, confident, until we had to stop to pee. Then we kind of felt dorky in our matching t-shirts. Clearly, we loved the idea in the car, but out of the car was another story. Some people just looked at us. Some people told us they liked our shirts. And some women, well, they asked us about the march. They got it.

When we arrived at SS’s place, we took a moment to relax, and then we changed clothes before dinner, just like Thelma and Louise would have done.

TO BE CONTINUED

Meditation Rumination

How are your New Year’s resolutions coming along?

I am not a huge fan of resolutions. I don’t need another reason to feel disappointed in myself, so I try pretty hard to avoid making them. If I do make one, I choose a goal that is relatively minor. I might decide to read a certain number of books, or maybe go to bed earlier, or make an effort to be more social.

On the other hand, I also realize that the New Year gives all of us the opportunity to check in with ourselves. The change of the calendar year is a good time to take a little inventory, to make a commitment to personal growth and self-improvement. Most of us could stand to be more forgiving or to eat healthier or to exercise more or to be less judgmental. Most of us also know that by the end of January, all that good living sucks the fun right out of a person.

After a rough end to 2016, I knew I needed to make an effort to find my mojo again. I have been disheartened by the state of politics here and abroad, and that hopeless feeling is not going to go away on its own. I discussed my concerns with my therapist, and she issued me a challenge. She proposed I meditate every day for the next thirty days.

She is fully aware that self-care, and specifically meditation, is not something that I do. I took a meditation workshop once, and it wasn’t just an abject failure, it was actually physically painful. I sat in a room with five strangers, one of whom a business associate of my father-in-law’s, who was in the midst of a bit of a rough patch in his marriage. I knew of him and his situation, and he of course knew my last name, and any attempt I made to clear my mind for the remainder of the workshop was met with massive internal resistance. My restlessness interfered with the rest of the workshop participants’ ability to meditate. I never tried that again.

Over the years, my therapist has recommended many things that I have found impossible to accomplish. No meditating. No journaling. No weekend retreats. None of those things that would be specifically for me, to give myself a break, to afford myself the same care and support I freely give to those around me. Me agreeing to meditate for ten to twenty minutes for thirty days is a big fucking deal.

This afternoon, I made my first attempt. I sat in a comfortable position, but not too comfortable so I wouldn’t fall asleep. I selected a guided meditation on my app for boosting self-esteem, and for eleven minutes, I dedicated myself to just listening to the words and not thinking.

My first thought while trying not to think was the girl speaking could not have been older than 14. How was I supposed to find solace in the words of an infant? I attempted to concentrate on her words and not how her voice sounded, but that grew more difficult as the drone of leaf blowers outside grew louder by every second. We don’t have a lawn service, so I knew it wasn’t even in my yard, but Jesus those things are noisy.

I focused on what she said, but I couldn’t. She would make a statement and then repeat it with emphasis by adding the expression “I desire.” For example, “I deserve to be loved, I desire to deserve to be loved,” or “I am good enough, I desire to be good enough.” All that desire was, frankly, disturbing me. Why desire? Why not yearn or strive or wish to? I was uncomfortable listening to what this woman desired; it was borderline voyeuristic.

I kept my eyes closed. My left quad began to have a small muscle spasm. She requested I join her for a round of deep breathing. I rushed through my breaths, concentrating too hard on the counting and the holding and the exhaling. While I was breathing, my cat startled me by jumping in my lap. She made biscuits on my arm, staring up at my face with her big saucer eyes, and I thought, I wish I felt the same way about myself that my cat does.

I glanced at my phone, since my eyes were already open and all. I had been meditating for approximately four minutes and 53 seconds.

I forced my eyes closed again and concentrated on petting my cat’s fur, hoping it would help me stay calm and attentive. I looked at my phone again. I heard the mail truck, that stopping and starting sound of the engine and brakes. The leaf blowing stopped. My cat jumped out of my lap. After what seemed like two hours, my eleven minutes of meditation were over. I have to tell you, it did nothing for my self-esteem.

Maybe tomorrow it will be easier, but I doubt it. I wonder if there is a guided meditation about meditation.

Just What I've Always Wanted

Did you get everything you wanted for Christmas? Yeah, me neither.

 I hate to sound ungrateful, but after a few trips around the sun, I have a pretty good sense of what I like, what I need, what I use, and what I appreciate. I do enjoy a surprise now and again, but at the same token, I am pretty expressive and have an inability to hide my feelings. My polite thank you is usually cancelled out by my face.

I come from a family of list-makers, and as such, we tend to make wish lists for birthday and holiday gifts. It makes life easier for everyone. You know if you get me something from the list, I will be happy, and you also know that you have not wasted your time and effort on something that may be returned or hidden somewhere until the appropriate amount of time passes before I can donate it to charity or regift it.

I realize the same handling applies to the gifts I give other people. I make a solid effort to think about what someone would like or use before I buy it because I want the recipient to be happy. I don’t give gifts out of obligation; I give them out of affection.

I’m really pretty easy to please because I like to be remembered. I also have a different set of expectations from close family members than for friends. And when it comes to my husband, well, I kind of wish he would just stick to the list.

This year, like most years, I wrote out my Christmas gift wish list. I didn’t have a ton of things I really wanted, which is great, because my husband and I decided not to buy each other presents. For the past few years, we have used Christmas as the occasion to take care of major things around the house. One year, it was a new light fixture for the foyer. Another, we redid most of the kitchen. Last year, we celebrated the birth of your savior with new garage doors.

For Christmas this year, we opted to replace our sectional sofa, but with the annual holiday break at the factory, we knew our gift would not be ready on time. We decided to get a few things to open to make the day feel special and set a budget limit that we both promptly ignored. I asked for a gift certificate for a massage, a better waffle iron that you flip and flip back like the ones in the 3-star hotel lobby breakfast bars, and Botox for my crow’s feet.

My husband asked for what he always asks for,nothing. I got him a cotton throw to match the new couch, a copy of his favorite holiday movie, and a new pair of ridiculously expensive sneakers to replace his worn-out ones that he still slaps around in after almost half a decade.

Cut to Christmas morning. The girls opened their gifts and enjoyed just about everything. My husband loved his blanket, was less than thrilled with the sneakers, and puzzled by the movie because he thought he already had it, which he did not, for the record. I loved my massage gift certificate. And then he had me open a huge wrapped box that sat lonely under the tree.

When I looked inside the shipping box, I had no idea what it was. I saw a manual with Japanese characters on it, and lots of packing material. There was also a large, round thing that looked pretty high tech.

“Do you know what it is?” he asked me.

“A Roomba?” I asked. I was really confused because I did not ask for a Roomba. I am not a stickler for a well-vacuumed house, and I doubted my ability to train my cat to ride it.
“Guess again!” He was so excited.
I looked a little closer and realized it had an almost oval shape, and a lid. “Is it a toilet seat?”
“Not just any toilet seat!” He could not contain himself.
“Is this one of those fancy Japanese toilet seats?” I asked.
“It’s a bidet! Remember when you said you wanted a bidet?”

Truth be told, I didn’t remember saying that, but clearly he did. He remembered it so well that it stuck in his mind for months until it was time to buy me something really special.

“Are you surprised? “He asked me.

“Incredibly,” I replied.

We finished opening all the gifts and went on to enjoy Christmas music and some fabulous cinnamon rolls. The toilet seat sat in its box, forgotten for the time being.

In the afternoon, I talked with my friend, MJS. We had that whole “what did you get” conversation. She told me about her haul, and then I told her about my toilet seat. MJS works with an assisted living community. She knew all about my toilet seat.

“We have lots of residents who have those installed before they move in,” she told me. “It’s great! All the residents should have them. When you get old, your accuracy starts to wane.”
“They miss the bowl?” I asked.
“Let me put it like this: it beats shit under your fingernails,” she replied.

A few days later, my husband offered to install it for me. “If you really like it, I can have an electrician come to the house to put a new outlet near the toilet.”

“This thing has to be plugged in?” I said.
“Well, it can’t very well run on batteries,” he said.

I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me it was electric. Perhaps it was because I didn’t know all that much about it.

“What does it do, anyway?” I asked. It was easier to have him tell me than to make the effort to read the manual myself.

“It does everything! It can heat up.”
“I don’t like a hot toilet seat. It disturbs me to know someone else sat there before me.”
“Well, it does other things too. It has a remote control and dual cleansing nozzles, for the front and the back.”
“At the same time? Dual action?”
“No, of course not. It also has a feminine hygiene setting.”
“I am supposed to douche with my toilet seat? Hand me that manual,” I said. “What is this? Pulsating action? Am I supposed to go the bathroom or get off on it?”
He grabbed the manual back. “It has a setting for kids too.”
“In case they have not yet been sexually abused by the toilet seat? To kind of loosen them up, break them in?”
He ignored that last comment. “It’s not a toilet seat. It’s a bidet. It can also air dry your holes.”
“Great. I always wanted someone to blow smoke up my ass. I guess this is the next best thing.”
“See? I told you you wanted one,” my husband said.

For now, the toilet seat is still in the box. My cats take turns sitting on and in the box every day. One of these days, we will get around to installing it and taking it for a test drive. I haven’t pushed the issue because it’s too damn complicated and also, to be honest, I am a little bit scared of it.

Out of Courtesy

Have you seen the news coverage of the brawls at malls all across the country? We have come to expect a melee at Walmart on Black Friday, but out and out mob violence at the local shopping center on the day after Christmas seems to be yet another new low for the US. It wasn’t just a mall or two; 12 malls in different parts of the country had to shut down to stop the clashes.

This level of discord is a concrete sign of the disconnect we have in our politics, our lifestyles, our wealth, really any area in which we can differ. With all the talk we have had about hope and tolerance and acceptance and coexistence, all we have really seemed to unite about is being against one another.

At the core of our dissonance is what I consider to be one of the key issues: a lack of civility. We are no longer a civilized society. We used to at least pretend to be polite to one another. We might have occasionally let someone in front of us in traffic. We would try to find patience in line at the grocery store. Hell, we used to wait in line. Now, we have devolved from a community with a sense of belonging to isolated beings with no regard for our fellow humans.

About a month ago, my daughter, E, stood at the crosswalk by her high school. There is a school crossing sign on the side of the road but no crossing guard to help older students safely walk from one side to the other. When E stepped into the road and walked, one car didn’t stop until it was mere inches from hitting her. She crossed the street in a clearly marked space during school hours when drivers should slow down and certainly stop for pedestrians, but that’s also a thing we don’t do anymore. So she was almost hit by the car.

The driver, who had to slam on her brakes, was also a high school student, a sophomore with a learning permit. Her mother was in the passenger seat next to her, ostensibly to offer guidance. The student put down her window and yelled at E.

 

This is what she said, with her mother next to her: What the fuck are you doing?

My daughter stood in the road, still shaking from her near miss. E didn’t respond verbally, but she did give the girl the finger. I have talked to E about flipping people off. It is one of those gestures that just makes people flip their shit. There is no turning back from the finger. She didn’t defiantly raise her hand in the air. She kept it discreetly by her side, where you would have to look closely to see it was an obscene gesture and not a nervous tic. The mother saw my daughter’s middle finger for what it was.

 

She leaned across the car and yelled this: Don’t you ever do that to my daughter again or I will fucking rape you in the ass.

My daughter told me this story when she got home from school that afternoon. E was still upset, not so much that she was almost hit by a car because that is an almost daily occurrence. She could not believe a mother, seated next to her own daughter, would yell such a vile thing to another female child. It was so shocking to both of us. I didn’t even know what to tell her, other than to stop flipping off people. Short of taking out her phone to record the incident or to snap a photo of the license plate, she really didn’t have any options.

We spent a week or so saying it to each other, to take some of the power out of the words. Do the laundry or I’ll fucking rape you in the ass. Pack your lunch or I’ll fucking rape you in the ass. Make your bed or I’ll…you get the idea. Humor, however inappropriate, took away a bit of the sting.

Here’s my point. If we are a society where women are comfortable threatening children with anal rape for crossing the street at a crosswalk in a school zone, then we are most definitely a society that will fight over a half-price hoodie at the mall. We will say whatever we want to strangers on the Internet. We will get ours before they get theirs. We believe we are entitled, more so than the other people may think that they are the entitled ones. It turns our that we are all wrong.

We may not like the outcome of the presidential election. We may not think life is fair. We may not worship the same, or any, god. We may believe respect is earned and not demanded. Can’t we at least agree to the golden rule? Can we not treat others as we would like to be treated? Can we not make an effort to find the common ground or at least follow some semblance of orderly politeness?

I, for one, make an effort in little ways. I observe yield signs and red lights.  I wait my turn for service at restaurants and in stores. I teach my children to be kind, not judgmental. It sure would be swell if some more of us could try a little kindness and a little less complaining. A touch of civility could be the secret to making our society better. It certainly couldn’t hurt, and it won’t cost any of us a thing.

Soup's On!

Are you enjoying this holiday season, or are you feeling the stress? If you are having a week like mine, you are probably doing a bit of both. Like many of my mixed-up friends, my family celebrates both Chanukah and Christmas. This year the lunar and Gregorian calendar collide, and the first night of Chanukah shares the spotlight with Christmas Eve. For those of us who overdo, it’s a level of excess unlike any we’ve seen in recent years.

I’m hosting my older sister and nephews this season and decided to make a nice Jewish dinner on Christmas Eve. I made two kinds of rugelach a few days ago rather than attempting homemade jelly donuts, also known as the difficult to pronounce sufganiyot. I even made my own applesauce to go with the potato latkes that will grace my table.

All we really want to eat is latkes. They are crisp and greasy and salty and truly delightful. They also sit in your gut, daring you to digest them, while you wonder why we celebrate a minor Jewish holiday by eating the equivalent of a Waffle House side dish. We have to have something else to balance out those potato pancakes, and I thought matzoh ball soup and a salad might help move things along.

I like to make my own stock. I don’t do anything unusual. I am not browning fatty backs and wings to bring out the flavor. I do not roast my onions and carrots to a delicious caramel before adding them. I just kick it old school with my chicken, veggies, seasonings, and water and let the whole pot simmer away on the stove.

With all the extra food in the house for the double holiday, I didn’t have room in my refrigerator for a big stock pot. I do have an extra fridge in the garage that is usually stocked with beer and old sodas that no one wants to drink. When we have company or holiday meals, our food overflow goes in the outside fridge. I had my husband rearrange his odd assortment of beer to make room for my stock pot and, interestingly enough, a honey baked ham that I plan to serve alongside the turkey breast for Christmas dinner. We don’t keep kosher, but we are also not big ham fans. Chances are good that thing is going to see the trash can Christmas night, minus a slice or two.

After the stock finished cooking, I let it cool for a little while before removing the chicken and pouring the broth through a strainer to remove the tired, old veggies that gave their all to the cause. With the stock safely transferred to another pot, it was ready to go in the outside fridge. I carefully lifted the pot of hot chicken stock and carried it towards the garage door. My daughter, S, held the door for me and scurried down the short flight of brick stairs to open the fridge door.

I took a step or two, and my heel caught on the third step.

Have you ever noticed that when you fall, you feel like it happens in slow motion? I lost my balance and fell back oh so slowly, trying to figure out a way to break my fall without spilling the stock on my daughter or myself. Make no mistake, that broth was simmering away mere minutes before. It was still plenty hot and ready to do some damage.

I fell down, landing hard on my butt and scraping my calf on the brick steps. I would like to say I didn’t spill a drop of soup, but I did. I spilled three drops. S was terrified, but honestly, other than the scratch on my leg, I was fine. I saved myself and the broth.

I perfected the art of falling with food when I was nine. A friend of mine had invited me to join her family on their boat, and we stopped at a sandy spot along a creek to play on rafts and have lunch. Her father grilled hot dogs for everyone, and I got it in my head that I wanted to eat mine in the small inflatable boat they had tied to the pontoon. It was moving gently with the current, and when I turned around to plop down in the middle, I fell, missing the little boat entirely. I landed hard in the water, in over my head. Somehow, I managed to save my hot dog, my right hand clutching it high in the air above the water’s surface.

That’s how I felt, holding that pot of hot broth. I was triumphant over tragedy, saving the soup, dodging what could have been not only an unfortunate loss of homemade stock, but also narrowly avoiding a severe burn a few days before Christmas Eve. It was a Christmas and Chanukah miracle, all wrapped into one clumsy fall.

Enjoy whatever holiday you want, however you choose to celebrate it. Maybe yours will cross over like mine, with a pot of matzoh ball soup right next to the honey baked ham in the fridge.

Empty Handed

I didn’t win the lottery.

To be honest, I didn’t really expect to win, but the Powerball had reached a ridiculous over 400 million dollars, and someone, at some point, was going to claim a buttload of Benjamins. Why not me? Why not my family? Why not now?

The Saturday after Thanksgiving was the last big Powerball, and my husband said in passing that we ought to get a lottery ticket. We were at the beach for the holiday, and we planned to drive home on a Friday. Our drive would take us by interstate and by small rural 2-lane roads, which meant we had the opportunity to pull over to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere and buy some tickets. It always seems the big winners get their tickets in some heretofore unheard of dead end, so there was precedence for our theory.

I want to throw out a disclaimer here about my life, which is, for all practical purposes, pretty damn cushy. I don’t work full time. We live quite comfortably. Our needs are met, and we have enough to travel and have nice things. I do appreciate what I have. We are very fortunate, and for the most part, I am generous and not materialistic.

At the same token, I would like to be able to do, well, more. My daughters will soon be in college, and how nice would it be to not have to worry about how to pay for their education? What if we had enough extra money to fix up the stuff we have been putting off around the house? What if we could take a trip to Disney World before Christmas? I recognize that I do not need over 400 million dollars. I would have been happy with a cool million, enough to handle that wish list and have a little left over to share with others in a charitable way. A million doesn’t go as far as it used to, you know.

We did go to Disney World before Christmas a few years ago, when at least one of our kids was still considered a child by Disney age guidelines. It was traditionally a slow week, which meant lower hotel rates and a free Disney dining plan. Airline tickets were a tad more affordable because we had more competition in our market. The temperatures were perfect for amusement, and the crowds were small, and we could ride almost every ride more than once without having to Fast Pass or wait in line. We refer to that as the Good Old Days.

Now my kids are considered adults, and there is no off-season, and we don’t have that kind of money to blow on an extra vacation just because it would be fun. I miss the Good Old Days.

So, yeah, I was thinking about college, but really, I wanted to go to Disney World. We stopped at a gas station between two towns, the names of which are irrelevant and instantly forgettable. My husband stayed outside to pump premium gas into my European crossover SUV, while my daughter, S, and I went inside the convenience store to purchase snacks and drinks and five dollars’ worth of lottery tickets.

After grabbing a bag of Bugles, our preferred car snack, and selecting the most disgusting version of Mountain Dew currently on the market, which according to my spouse is the grape-flavored Pitch Black, we walked up to the counter to pay.

“Is that all?” the cashier asked me.

“No, I would also like to buy some lottery tickets,” I told her.

This was the second time in my adult life I have purchased lottery tickets. Any other time we had a wild hair to lose some money, my husband was the one who did the deed. I don’t know the protocol for playing the lottery, as everyone near me was about to discover.

“What do you want?” the cashier said.

“I would like five tickets, please. And make them Powerball,” I said.

"Ten dollars.” she said.

I hesitated a moment, trying to understand how my five tickets turned into a ten dollar purchase. Then I remembered the Powerball part was an extra buck a ticket.

“That’s fine,” I said, and handed her my credit card.

"Numbers?”

“Hmm? Oh, um, I’d like quick pick please.”

She printed out a small receipt and put it on the counter. “Cash,” she said. Her irritation with me was visible.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Cash, not credit. You can’t charge lottery tickets.”

Did you know you cannot buy lottery tickets with a credit card? I sure didn’t. I took my wallet out of my moderately overpriced name brand handbag and dug around. I found two crumpled dollar bills and some pennies.

“I don’t have ten dollars,” I said. “Is it all right to wait and let my daughter run out to the car? S, go tell your father I need ten dollars to play the lottery.” I spoke those words. The whole thing was really happening. I was, in fact, this person.

A small line formed behind me. The cashier sighed and looked at me. The other cashier quickly handled the purchases of the other people waiting.

S came back inside with some money from my husband. “Here you go,” I told her, handing her the bill. “I’m sorry about that.”

She took my money and pushed the receipt in my direction. I grabbed it and our other stuff and went back to the car with S trailing behind me.

“I don’t think we are going to win, if the purchase experience is any indication,” I told my husband, handing him the slip.

“Everyone knows you can’t buy lottery tickets with cash,” he said.

“Apparently not everyone,” I said to him.

Two days later, the lottery numbers were announced, and out of our five tickets, we won four dollars for hitting the Powerball number. It was the only number out of all the numbers for the five lottery tickets that matched. Our four dollar win meant we only lost six dollars, so I guess that’s some sort of consolation. We planned on using our winnings to buy more lottery tickets. I think that’s how gambling works.

In case you were wondering, one person did win the entire over four hundred million dollars. One. Single. Person. I think it was a woman in Michigan. I don’t know what she is going to do with all that money, but I hope she goes to Disney World before Christmas.

Coming Right up

My younger daughter, S, told me yesterday that she has never seen a performance of The Nutcracker. I have to admit, I was floored at her announcement because I’ve seen it at least seven times now, as have my husband and my older daughter, E.  It has become a holiday tradition of sorts for the three of us to have a lovely dinner downtown and see the show.

S has never sat in the audience; instead, she has been up on the stage. For seven of the past eight years, S danced in a variety of roles. She has been a little mouse, a party girl, a toy soldier, a toy soldier on horseback, an angel, and a big mouse. Well, twice on the big mouse, and believe me, she is still disappointed about it. She has been on pointe and in ballet shoes. She has had her hair curled and her face covered with a mouse head. The one year she missed was due to an injury, and she volunteered to help with the production even when she could not perform.

The Nutcracker is a huge commitment for everyone involved. Auditions are generally held at the end of summer, and practices take place every weekend for months until that one weekend in December. There are many families way more involved and committed to the experience than mine, but we each contribute in some way to make it work.

Honestly, I love to watch the show. I love dressing up and going out and sitting in that slightly uncomfortable concert hall seat. I love when the lights dim and the musicians play. I love the grandeur, and the tradition, and I love when I see my child take the stage for roughly five minutes, knowing that she will have this special experience of realizing the reward of her hard work and dedication as well as the thrill of taking the stage with professionals from around the world for an audience of over 3,000 people.

This year, my sister, LK, joined us to watch the show. After our delicious dinner, we went to the concert hall and took our seats. We had good seats too, almost in the middle of the row, closer to the front, a great spot to see all the action. The first act went off without a hitch, and I was impressed as always by the quality of the performance.

After a twenty-minute intermission, the second act began. I love the second act because that’s when all the trippy stuff happens in the Land of Sweets. Spanish, Arabian, Chinese, and Russian dancers all perform, and the music and choreography and costumes are mesmerizing. Indeed, we were all engrossed when it happened.

Sometime during the Arabian or Chinese dances, we heard this horrible sound. It came from two rows behind us, and it was like a splash, only human. A human splash. It wasn’t a sneeze or a cough; in fact, it was so unusual a sound to hear in public that at first we didn’t know what to make of it.

About thirty seconds later, it became aromatically clear that the sound we heard was, in fact, the spew of vomit. My sister is notoriously phobic about vomit, and E is almost as bad, so the fact that the two of them were in such close proximity to someone else’s puke and powerless to flee made all three of us anxious. We had to turn around repeatedly to see if it was directly behind us. The large man seated in that row may have been targeted. He had an awkward look on his face and moved around, unsure if he should stay seated or get up and leave. We took comfort in knowing it was at least a row away.

We covered our noses with our fingers, but seriously, the smell. E, who was not in the greatest of moods, courtesy of being seventeen, decided there was no way she could sit through the rest of the show. She did that thing where she would start to stand and then sit and then sort of squat because she didn’t want to be rude, but really, it was too late for that, all the while with that look on her face that showed her contempt for other people and crowds and bodily functions. I told her to go, and so she did.

At that point, my sister took E’s seat. Apparently, the woman next to her made the mistake of putting her purse on the floor, as well as the bottoms of her shoes. LK leaned into me and we covered our faces with our collars because our fingers alone were not enough of a filter. On my other side, my husband sat and watched the show, oblivious to the panic and disgust we were experiencing. He later said he could smell it but chose to ignore it. I insist that smelling vomit is not a choice.

With E gone and LK next to me, we turned back to the show, and damn if we didn’t miss almost all of the Chinese and Russian dancing. After a bit, the smell dissipated, or we adjusted like my husband, but we were able to make it through all of act two and curtain bows.

We met up with E in the lobby. She told us that after cleaning the soles of her shoes in the restroom, she sat on a bench by herself. Soon after, an older woman sat next to her, even though all the other benches were empty. She held in her hand a large trash bag, inside of which was her vomit-covered coat. She gave E a sheepish look, and E got up and moved to another bench.

I debated asking for a refund for E’s ticket. The seats were over 55 a head, and she was too grossed out to see the entire show. I also thought for about a minute or two that they should have turned on the lights and thrown some cat litter or baking soda all over that puke, but the show, as they say, must go on. There was nothing to do but sit and watch.

After congratulating S on another successful show, we spent the drive home discussing what would cause a grown woman not to get up and leave if she felt that she was going to be sick. She certainly wasn’t a child who may not understand that nauseated feeling, but an adult? And in a formal theatre? Again, it wasn’t a heavy metal show or a football game; it was the motherfucking ballet. Have some class, people.

I wanted to have some sympathy for the woman. She didn’t set out to ruin everyone’s evening. She didn’t feel well, and for whatever reason, she wasn’t able to leave before she got sick. But then I thought about the audition and all those Saturdays of practice and the hundreds of dollars spent for everyone to watch the show, and I decided no.

You ruined more than your own night; you ruined the performance for at least two rows of people. You made me miss the Chinese dance. Perhaps you should stay home and watch it on DVD, or, at the very least, bring a discreet bag with you. Pick an aisle seat maybe. Wait and eat after the show. Go to a different show, maybe Disney on Ice. I’m sure you won’t be the only one puking there.