Tony Blues

Okay I'm not generally one to enjoy the misery of others . . . Schadenfreude is not my cup of tea, as it were.  And I'm a sucker for a good story.  So you'd think I'd be really into the award shows, especially the Tony Awards, where poor pot-bellied Audra MacDonald (her words) weeps for joy at her twenty-seventh award she's received for being the spectacular brilliant amazing talent that she is.  And I saw Porgy and Bess and she certainly deserves the award for that genius portrayal and her glorious voice and whatever whatever.  But last night, watching the awards, between screaming with delight at seeing an old friend in one number, and booing boisterously when a friend of a friend didn't win, and laughing at the brilliant and charming Neil Patrick Harris, and crying because the Steve Kazee spoke of his mother who passed away recently and the support he got from the cast around him, yeah yeah, all that . . . I was miserable.

I want a Tony.  Or an Olympic medal.  Or a Nobel.  Or a Pulitzer.  A Pulitzer would be very nice.  I'm not fussy.  Any major public acknowledgement of my contributions to the world around me would do.  It doesn't even have to be a cash prize, although that would certainly be nice.  Just an award.  Two minutes to make a speech thanking people.  And then the band playing me off.  Is that so much to ask for?

Technology Update

My phone.  Sigh.  I acquired a phone two years ago because my son, Bruce Wayne, won it in a silent auction but couldn't really afford the cost of the monthly upgrade it would require and gave it to me instead.  I used it for a while and just mastered the operating system (we'll just say it wasn't one of the more successful phone manufacturers we're dealing with here too) when my darling nephew (and he really is darling) dropped a can of spray oil from about two feet height onto the touch screen and shattered it.  I took it back and they offered to sell me for a very low fee a replacement phone of a more mainstream brand but I stubbornly refused feeling exhausted at the prospect of learning yet another operating system.  And now I have had this phone for quite a while, replaced the battery, and have been unable to be satisfied by so many of the features of this phone . . .

I'll not bore you with too many details, but if you're time is so darned precious you probably wouldn't be reading my blog anyhow so here we go: 1) several of the letters on the keyboard hit once will produce multiple copies of the letter needed--e and k most notably; 2) several other letters and the shift key and the alt key often have to be hit multiple times in order to work at all--c is the one that annoys me most as it is usually the first letter in the word and by the time I notice that it's not there, I'm three words down the line having never mastered the ability to watch keyboard and the screen at the same time on my phone.  On a computer I touch type, but one cannot touch type on a keyboard the size of a large postage stamp.  So I struggle between the pull of "typing" as fast as I can go, eyes glued to the keyboard, and watching the screen for errors that the keyboard is creating by its uneven response to my touch.  Grrrrrr.  3) Lately, sometimes, but not all the time, and never when the phone guy is in the room, my phone has developed this new and charming habit of going dark on the screen when the screen is slid back to reveal the keyboard.  In other words, I can't use the keyboard.  So there are a lot of things I can't do.

The good news, and I hesitate to characterize it that way because if it truly were good news, it would be that the phone company would out of some deep-seated guilt, gift me a much better phone from a much better manufacturer.  We all know that won't happen.

But I digress.

The good news is that the phone works perfectly fine so long as it's plugged in.  It texts, it calls, it goes on the web, it looks up stuff and slides back and I can use the keyboard (such as it is) to my heart's content.

A thought came to me today as I was contemplating this new phone "feature."  I have a phone.  It works.  I take a charger with me wherever I go.  I plug it in, it works.  I unplug it and it works.  I slide the screen back, it dies.  I plug it in, it comes back to life.  Everywhere I go I find a place to plug it in or risk its death.  I thought maybe this marks a minor return to a previous inconvenience of an old household phone that had a wire and had to be plugged in.  But then I realized that those old phones were actually wireless . . . the docking station had to plug in but the phone was "portable" as we would call it.  My phone, au contraire, is not portable at all.  It is not wireless, at least not literally, although the wireless signal still works.  But the phone itself only works when attached to a wire.  It has to be plugged in.

I have traveled back in time to remember my childhood days when a phone was a thing you had in two or three rooms in your house at most--kitchen, living room, and parental bedroom.  And you had to stay near it to talk on it.  It was a simpler life.  No voice mail, no answering machine, just calling and either you got them or you didn't or their line was busy so you might try again soon.

I want you to know this is not making me feel the least bit nostalgic.  It's not like Hostess Ding Dongs.  I'm just crabby.

Privacy

I don't think about privacy much.  I am somewhat cautious, and encourage my children to be so, on the web, about handing out personal information right and left, but I'm neither paranoid about it nor cavalier.  I shop on line, figuring that the dangers of handing out my credit card that way are at least as good as handing them out to the gas station attendant on a nearby "highway" who stole my credit card number a few years back.  And there's always the odds of getting mugged in Manhattan to think about and having my identity stolen that way.  I have had plenty of chances, after moving from a job in a "troubled" neighborhood to a "country club" neighborhood, of discovering that disloyalty and bad behavior and violations of privacy and betrayal are the purview of the wealthy moreso than the underprivileged.  No self-respecting drug dealer or gang member would violate individual privacy or even tattle.

But there is a new twist I discovered on the privacy issue last evening hanging out with Clark Kent.  I don't know if I've revealed this before about her, but she's a bit of a technology nerd.  Okay, maybe that's an understatement.  She's a colossal technology nerd.  She's the kind of person everyone I know goes to for help with their gear--laptops, iPods, phones, DVD players--whatever you've got, she's the most likely person in our circle to be able to make it work.  And she showed me a new privacy violation that has happened to her.  Not to her, but at her.  Her privacy is safe as long as I keep referring to her "Clark Kent" and not by her real name on this blog anyhow.

Last night she showed me the daily emails she is currently getting from . . . well, I don't want to disparage the inner-workings of an online giant like this one, but let's just say, a dating site.  And let's just also say that it's not a specialty site that focuses on a specific ethnic group or anything.  It's a monster huge gigantic site for everyone looking for a date.

Only here's the kicker: Clark didn't join the site.  Somebody else did and accidentally entered Clark's email address instead of their own.  And her (we think) daily reports from the matchmaking site are coming to Clark as to who might be perfectly suited for her dating hopes and dreams.  Which might be really fabulous if not for the fact that said matches are for the individual who put in the wrong email, who, as it happens, we can speculate, has little in common with Clark.

Clark Kent is my daughter, who graduated from an eastern college of note five years ago this month.  And although the graduation itself does not preclude her from being of a certain age, the odds are good that she is yet in her twenties.  And I will vouch for that being the case.  It's already hard enough for me to admit that I have a daughter who graduated from an eastern college of note five years ago this month, in that that makes me at least reasonably older than minimally 27 years by 20 some further years, given that I got married and had her after college my own self . . . but to suggest that the perfect "match" for her according to her daily emails, might be a gentleman in his seventies or eighties, is an insult to my slim grasp on middle age cause if she's that age, I'm 100 and change.  Which I'm not.

But the disturbing bit goes like this: her emails show little photos of gentlemen who belong to this site who are longing to find the perfect mate.  And a quick click on any of said photos will take you to a fairly detailed profile of said individual--location, age, career (or career from which he has retired), preferences about all sorts of very private and personal things.  It's beyond creepy.  Especially the shirtless ones.  But I digress.

What has happened here is that some dozens of elderly gentlemen in the midwestern portion of the US have unwittingly sent their fondest hopes, dreams, and best-foot-forward portraits, to a hip young techno geek who resides in New York City.  And she can't stop it, even though she might want to, because the mistaken email password on the dating site is unknown to her.

What are we supposed to do about this privacy issue, huh?

Credit Due

I don't know why I'm blogging.  I guess it's sort of a modern diary.  But it's not really.  I loathe the concept of updating people on the mundanities (is that a word?) of life . . . "ate tomato soup today; wish it was accompanied by a grilled cheese sandwich but I'm watching carbs" . . . This is really why I don't Twitter or Tweet or whatever it's called.  I'm trying to practice writing.  Practice expressing myself.  For no reason whatsoever.  I have no illusion of being a professional writer.  I think that career is now open to everyone with an internet connection.  But I do have to say that I read a few blogs myself . . . not anywhere near as many as I could, but still.  And I have to credit one of them with having an effect beyond the sheer enjoyment of them.  The Bloggess.

Regardless of how lousy I feel, and lately that's been pretty lousy, she makes me smile.  And laugh.  And cry with laughter.  And that's a gift.  And I want to thank her personally.

But as I mentioned in a recent post, I'm kind of withdrawn lately, compared to my old self at least.  So when my son, Bruce Wayne, and my daughter, Clark Kent, and I went to the event marking her book launch, I stayed in my seat while they stood on line to meet her, get her autograph, and take pictures with her.  My heart was full.

Roller coasters

I don't like roller coasters.  I wonder why anybody would like roller coasters.  I also don't like scary movies.  Unless they're really really funny.  I don't like jumping off the ground or being lifted.  I'm really just not very trusting when it comes to that sort of thing.  I want to have my feet on the ground at all times, except maybe when I'm sitting on a comfy couch with an ottoman or lying on a bed.  To be frank, I'm not even all that comfortable on a bicycle and any kind of skates or skiing or anything like that isn't so much fun for me either.  I'm a terrible swimmer and won't put my face in the water, except in a shower for about two seconds at a time and only if the water isn't too strong.  I prefer being the driver to being the passenger, which makes flying on airplanes really awkward for me.  I would rather do the cooking than be the guest too.  I even like throwing my own birthday party.

I don't really think of myself as a control freak, per se, although I might be interested to hear arguments on that from my family members.  Sandman is very forward about telling everybody that I'm "high maintenance."   I guess that means maybe I am a control freak.  So as I grow old(er), this seems to be manifesting itself in a general misery over doing much of anything.  I don't like anything anymore.  I prefer the familiar and comfortable.  I'm re-reading books and going to visit my favorite museum exhibits and seeing shows I know and watching reruns of old television series' and making dishes I used to like.  I've lost my will to experiment.  It's all kind of hopeless and a giant disappointment that I anticipate will ruin everything.  I only want to talk to old friends and then I prefer to listen.  I want to watch my children instead of doing things with them.

I used to be very trusting about loyalty and love and the bonds among colleagues and cohorts of various kinds.  That's all quite gone.  The more recent "friends" proved fair weather.  If I ask nothing of them, perhaps they won't disappoint.  A kind of personal "don't ask; don't tell" policy.

So being unemployed is really not my cup of tea.  I have no control.  Just anxiety.  It feels like I'm sitting at the top of the roller coaster, which I don't like to be on.  And I can anticipate only that unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach, approaching.  So how do I pick myself up by my own bootstraps now that I've given my boots to Peter Parker?  I need to embrace some adventure.  And it's just not in my nature.

Today, the president announced his support for same-sex marriage.  He clearly has a sense of adventure.  He likes the roller coaster.  I need to embrace that model.

Triumph!

So I find watching my children grow up that they have an interesting personality trait each: Peter Parker is the dawdler from hell--the last one ready and the longest in the bathroom; Bruce Wayne is anxious to be wherever we're going at least two hours ahead of time and gets so antsy about it that he will actually get himself places on his own to avoid waiting for the family, if there's any possible way for him to do so; Clark Kent tends to get places precisely on time.

So what?  Well, two things . . . one is that these traits align precisely with their births.  Clark was on time. I went into labor with her on her due date and she was born the next morning.  Bruce was early.  Peter was late and had to be induced (albeit by a midwife so using all herbal approaches).  But then, nurture not to be ignored, Clark and I treat punctuality in the same manner--wanting to be right on time for everything we do and hating to keep people waiting, but always equipped with a book and/or iPod to occupy our brains in the meantime.  Peter and her father, Sandman, are professionally sluggish about getting out the door and arriving on time.  I don't know where Bruce gets it.

Years ago I asked my mother in a fit of pique over Sandman's habits, what caused this lateness thing.  Sandman and I were newly wed and heading to his parents' for a holiday, if I remember correctly.  We had packed up the borrowed car (we didn't have one of our own at the time) and I was ready to leave.  We didn't have, as I recall, any children with us--one being with her biological father and the other two being imaginary at this point.  We were an hour or more late already for departing as we had planned.  I came back into our apartment to scream hysterically at my sweet laggard and found that he was carefully rearranging the cookbooks in the kitchen on the shelf.  Why?  I don't know.  So I asked Mom, the therapist, what was up with that and she said, "it's a control issue."  "That makes no sense," I responded.  But I think it is true.  It is an attention-getting device and a control thing that they both use--Peter and Sandman.

So Bruce's coping mechanism is brilliant--often he takes the bus to DC when we drive and meets us there.  I, on the other hand, have taken on the habits of 1) not scheduling anything at our destination tightly to an idealized arrival time; 2) meeting Sandman and/or Peter rather than traveling with them; 3) lying to them about when we are due somewhere (although this has to be played very carefully); and most practically, 4) playing Snood on my computer until they are actually completely out the door and yelling at me that I'm holding them up.

Snood is a dangerous thing, for those of you not familiar with it.  It is an extremely habit-forming game, involving a lovely combination of skill and luck and cuteness and shooting things without a time element which I find a problem playing at home where interruptions are fairly constant and only predictable in their unpredictability.  I hate losing a game because I'm distracted for three seconds.  (Okay, you snood-heads, yes, there is a time element to the highest level, but not any of the others, I know.)

So Snood suits me very nicely.  It tracks the top ten high scores on a number of different skill levels and allows one to type in one's name or a well-chosen pseudonym or a snarky message to one's competitors as one bumps them off the top ten list.  When I sit down to play, an hour or two can easily fly by without my noticing.  When I first got the game some years back, I played essentially continuously for an entire summer without realizing it.  Eight weeks of Snood.  I'm pretty good at it and I find it very therapeutic.

Although we have little else at which we compete, Sandman and I are brutal about Snood.  But these days, I really only play it rarely, and usually while waiting for him or Peter to get ready to go somewhere with me.  That precise situation arose the other day, where Peter had asked me for a ride and I was waiting for her to get ready to go to there.  I sat down at the computer, booted up my Snood, and tackled the laid back "Medium" level to which I rarely bother sinking.  Medium is the only level remaining where Sandman holds the high score of the top ten.  I've got him on "Child," "Easy," "Hard," "Evil," "Puzzle," "Journey."  But I've nearly given up on Medium.  It's too easy to hold my interest.  And yet, this day, I thought, "She'll be ready soon so I really only have time for the one round of something fairly . . . medium."

And this day, the universe smiled upon me.  The heavens ope'd wide and choirs of cherubim fluttered about.  Ta-da!  I own that Sandman!  Mammacita is #1!

Personal Climate Change

The weather has been unseasonably warm in the New York City metropolitan region this year.  We had one big storm back in October, one small storm, and several "flurries," as they like to call it, that didn't require shoveling or much of anything in response.  Pretty, but no impact.  It's actually so warm that, although I've been wearing my ski jacket, I haven't needed to zip it up at any point before sundown in weeks.  Some days I've had to carry it over my arm, rather than wear it at all, particularly on public transit.

I have mixed feelings about this condition--I like snow and winter and being cozy and cooking soup and stews and chilis, all of which have been feeling inappropriate somehow.  But nobody likes to freeze, and the wind around here can be bitter.  Bitter I don't miss.

So I find myself toasting (with my DDP, of course) global warming or climate change or whatever I'm supposed to call it, and Al Gore, and the polar bears who will be looking for a nice two bedroom in the neighborhood with good air conditioning if things continue on this path.  And satisfying my need for snow by looking at the storm pictures on weather.com.

But I'm not here to write about weather really.  I'm hear to write about the metaphor.  Weather is omnipresent and out of my control, as is my life.  I can't escape it.  I can't fix it.  I can't change it.  I might as well find something about it that I like.  Embrace the weather.  Embrace my life.  But I haven't been able to lately.

I have become something of a personal meteorologist (if we might continue the metaphor) however.  I've observed my personal weather and tried to dress appropriately for it, so to speak.  Like my daily routine of looking at weather.com so that I put on the right jacket or coat and make sure my gloves are in my pockets or aren't, I'm trying to check in with my "self" and see what I should be wearing today.

I try to make sure that I have stuff in my giant purse from hell that will sustain me through the day--my iPod (charged and updated with podcasts that I like), a novel (right now I'm reading The Hunger Games a week or so behind my youngest, Peter Parker and at the behest of Clark Kent), a can of DDP or two, a little cash if I can, an MTA card.  That kind of stuff.

I try to make sure that I have things to do, places to go, people to see, or some specific goals of job-hunting or socializing, designed to improve "the weather."  This past week I've been helping Sandman with his latest high school musical production for which he does amazing work at a quarter the appropriate pay taking up twice the amount of time I feel I can spare him.  I offered to lend a hand on a purely voluntary basis with lighting and stepped into an interesting hurricane (weather again) of good stuff in the eye of the hurricane--a great director, really nice kids, and some good gear--and really crappy stuff--a lot of burned out lamps, mysteriously "dead" instruments and circuits, and an overall lack of formal knowledge on the part of anyone involved in how things are supposed to be done so a lot of things done . . . let's say "interestingly."

But the fifteen or so hours I've put in there have yielded the most interesting and pleasurable of weather effects: I've felt rested and energized the entire time I've been working there and in a better mood otherwise; I've laughed at jokes and played with the pets; I've even applied for some more jobs, a task for which I had temporarily run out of steam the week before.

And maybe I've even lost some of my bitterness.  Bitter I don't miss.

So the warmth in the atmosphere has penetrated my bones for the moment.  Thought you should know.

Science

I have recently read a headline or heard a headline somewhere (CNN? NPR? Huff Post? NYTimes?) that indicated that drinking more than two "sodas" per day causes respiratory issues like asthma and stuff.  They didn't specify whether it was the carbonation or the corn sweeteners or the calories so I don't know if it is all about me and my Diet Dr. Pepper addiction.  DDP has no corn syrup or even sugar (unless you are taking on the new manly DDP, "Dr. Pepper TEN" and its 10 calories worth of real sugar).  But all versions are certainly carbonated.  Absolutely.

Of course I almost missed the lead on that story because I was obsessively considering the regional implication of the study referring to the stuff as "soda" and not "pop" or any of the other regional approaches to naming the common beverage.  

After spending a summer in Waltham, Massachusetts when I was nine or ten years old, while my step-dad attended a conference at Brandeis, and discovering that they called long sandwiches, "grinders," even though I grew up calling them "subs" and my Philadelphia cousins called them "hoagies" and Lord knows what other strange variations could be found in my travels, I have developed an eternal fascination with those kinds of regional variations related to food.  

In Pittsburgh a cheesesteak is a hamburger topped with cheese, french fries, and cole slaw on slabs of Italian bread.  In Philadelphia, it's chopped minute steak and Cheese Whiz mixed with peppers, onions, and possibly even pizza sauce on a long roll.  Both in Pennsylvania, that's hardly room to call it a regional distinction.  

I know that we could talk for days about the dramatic regional differences in barbecue from around the country, to say nothing of chili.  And how folks from Pittsburgh decided to call bologna, "jumbo" is completely beyond me, but still of interest.

On the other hand, I'm trying to be more healthy, and all of those foods are out of dietary appropriateness.   One of the keys to calorie control throughout my adult life has been to save myself from drinking anything that involves any calories whatsoever, by having my beloved DDP (or the emergency backup Diet Coke), or iced black tea with artificial sweetener as my beverage of choice.  They both have caffeine, which I feel I need, although seem to be able to do without in lots of emergencies that may arise--fasting, running out at home, whatever.  I even gave it up altogether at one point for five months to make a point that I could, but ew, I hated doing without that little pleasure in my otherwise disappointing existence.  So I have some most days.  And I have respiratory issues.  Don't tell me I have to give up DDP again.  That would be so so so so sad.

One of my favorite short-lived television shows, Kitchen Confidential (combining two of my favorite things--food and actors on whom I have crushes), has an episode where an older chef, aptly played by John Larroquette, offers the philosophical approach to the main character, based on Anthony Bourdain and played by Bradley Cooper, that he would rather die happy having eaten amazing meals, than live a healthy and stoic life.  

So that's what I'm thinking about.  Slim down drinking cucumber, kale, lemon, and green apple juice and eating egg whites for thirty days every so often.  And live forever.  Enjoy pasta with a cheese plate, and fresh raspberries with chocolate whipped cream, and a nice limoncello.  And die with a smile on my face.

Why?

The current mystery in my life is why it was so important to me that the Giants win the Super Bowl this year.  I'm no more or less attached to them than I've always been--a huge fan, yes, and since my childhood, yes, and also rooting for the Jets, which I know many New Yorkers find odd, yes, yes.  But having been born in New York City but lived elsewhere much of my life, one of the few ways I had to remain attached to The City, regardless of my whereabouts, was to be a Jets AND Giants fan.  Since being a tot, although I like the Mets and hate the Yankees, I have been a fan of both of the football teams that call New York (and New Jersey) their own.  I've also grown to have a secondary affection for the Steelers, the Redskins, and in times when the scene in New York was especially grim, I have been known to root for the Patriots and the 49ers too.  But my primary loyalties--the Jets and the Giants.

And also there's something about Eli Manning that I adore.  He's like a puppy . . . a little awkward, and a little shy, and a little sensitive.  I still can see his face a few years back when he would fail to make a pass or a play would misfire--not even an important play, just any play--and he would fall apart emotionally and it would be all over his face.  He's grown up now in that he no longer falls apart emotionally, as far as I can see.  Quite the opposite.  He seems as radically in command, especially behind in the fourth quarter, regardless of the size of the stage, as he used to seem miserable.

But still, I don't live or die by the success or failure of my teams.  I support them.  I follow them.  But I don't freak out either way.  This year somehow is different.  Maybe it's that failure seems inevitable and omnipresent in my life.  Since I can't succeed, I desperately need someone else to do so.  So I put the pressure I can't live with, on Eli Manning's broad shoulders.  Good call, as it turned out.

I usually will joke that my favorite kind of football game is a very close game that turns out at the last minute to have the good guys win.  My second favorite is a blowout where the good guys win.  Third, I'm okay, ultimately, with a game where the bad guys lose (have I mentioned my lifetime distaste for Oakland, Miami, and Dallas?).  And finally, I don't even mind a very close game regardless of the outcome.  The Super Bowl is rarely the first kind of game.  It's rarely close.  It's rarely my favorite teams.  But this time, it was both.  I really appreciate that.  Thanks Eli.

Say what?

I like to think of myself as a highly evolved and even enlightened being.  It doesn't take much these days, however, to dissuade me from that view and make me feel that I am a mere cockroach on the kitchen floor of higher thinking.  All around me are wealthier, happier folks.  They are better dressed and moving at a better pace, or they are slobby but clearly tourists enjoying a vacation (vacation? meaning . . . huh what what?), or they are what we used to call hip and probably students or artists or something cool.  Any of that would be an improvement on the state in which I reside.  Not New Jersey, by the way.  I don't even think of myself as living in New Jersey since I'm ever so close to Manhattan as to be able to see all of it from the corner nearest my house.  But it certainly doesn't define me, living in New Jersey.  It's just a fact.

I am not enlightened but confused much of the time.  It really hit me at my local grocery store when I stopped by to get a few necessities.  I take a list with me to the grocery store to keep from getting overwhelmed by needing everything and wanting to eat everything and cook everything and stock up on everything I might someday use.  This does not prevent me from thinking of things in the store, and even buying said things.  But it does improve my spending-to-needing ratio dramatically.  Let me say about my neighborhood that it has a delightful mix of folks of a huge range of socio-economics but a rather limited supply of people who are not either Italian or Hispanic--largely Cuban and Dominican.  So the grocery store caters to that clientele and for the most part that suits me fine.  If I need anything outside that world, it's not far to travel to get good organics, or Jewish or Japanese or Indian or anything "exotic" by Weehawken standards.  It's just a small town really.

When we moved to Weehawken, almost twenty years ago, the local supermarket was being renovated and we were a little nervous about the Beirut-like profile of the place--tiles missing on the floor and ceiling, wiring dangling from light fixtures also dangling, and sections of the place blocked off for a week or two at a time.  But let me be clear: regardless of the fixes being undertaken in the place, the basic layout of what was where remained completely identical.  And after all these years of doing most of my shopping there, even since the Trader Joe's opened not too far away, I know the place better than my own kitchen since people who live with or visit me like to put stuff where they think it should go rather than where it does go.  That's another post.  Remind me.

Now they are renovating again.  New meat counter, new freezer sections, new stuff all over the place and they are also . . . in the process of reorganizing where everything goes.  WHAT?  I had a little tiny list--pet food (most people would say dog food or cat food or dog food and cat food but our cat will only eat dog food and the dogs will eat anything so dog food it is and I know it's not good for the cat but she won't listen to me about that since she is a cat plus she seems to get all the extra nutritional value she needs stalking and munching on birds and rodents in the neighborhood, depending on their seasonal availability), milk, toilet paper, eggs, hamster bedding (we think one of them is still alive but we can't be sure), Mio, and two or three other things.  Unbelievable.  It took me three times as long due to three times as much back-tracking in the store to find most of the things and then I gave up.  There was a time when I was so organized as to have a computer-generated list of the main things I usually get, in order by the aisle in the store where one might find the thing.

I felt so idiotic, wandering up and down every aisle in the store that toilet paper should be.  What a ridiculous statement.  I was so confused.  I was distraught.  I was in a state of despair.

Many years ago the story was told to me thus: If you take a rat in a lab, you can teach the rat to go down the third lane every time by placing a reward at the end of the third lane and repeating the exercise often enough.  Much like training a human.  But with a rat, you can also teach them that the reward is no longer in the third lane by removing the reward.  It takes them a little while to "unlearn" the third lane as a place for rewards, but eventually they do quit looking down the third lane for their reward.  This is the difference between humans and rats.  Humans will continue infinitely to go down the third lane and instead of getting their reward, they will explain why the reward is no longer there.  But they will never give up on their attachment to the third lane.  Eventually they become nostalgic for the reward, sitting in the third lane, waxing rhapsodic about the good old days when there was a reward there.

This is what happened to me at the store.  I knew the toilet paper wasn't there.  But I kept looking for it where it used to be and coming up with idiotic explanations for why it wasn't there anymore.

This is a metaphor for my life.

Ow

I have a bunch of aches and pains.  My ankle, which I broke in multiple places when I was eight months pregnant with Clark Kent (years ago), hurts when it's cold, humid, or when I do too much.  My back, which I injured in middle school mistaking myself for a gymnast temporarily, hurts when I sleep on it funny or I lift things or I fail to stretch before bed.  My neck is sore and makes crunching noises when I turn my head, especially if I do head rolls to the left.  I don't do head rolls to the right so I'm not sure if it would make crunching noises going that way.  My knees take turns complaining to me about too much sitting without stretching and too much weight on them and especially if I try to crawl around on the floor or crouch or squat or go either up or down stairs.  My hips seize up if I walk up a steep hill like the one I live on.

I'm also getting wrinkly.  My hands are definitely wrinkly and every time I joyously succeed at losing a pound or two, I notice additional wrinkliness.  I may subconsciously be trying to fail at weight loss in order to avoid looking wrinklier and therefore older.  When I'm chubby, the fat pushes out my skin and the wrinkles are smoothed nicely.  My own personal botox treatments.  But it's just cheese taken orally.  So I'm chubby.  And the additional weight makes my knees and ankle and back and hips more achey.  So old I guess is winning.

I am torn at this mid-point in my life between trying to feel younger and admitting my age.  It's quite a tug of war going on actually.  I want to do things like ride merry go rounds and watch comedies and learn to ice skate.  I like to make faces at my kids and lick a lollipop and have pancakes for dinner and ice cream for breakfast.  And I want to, simultaneously, make a difference in the world and truly be cultured and avoid contributing to the overall decline in formal written language.  But I also want to say, "f--- that" and turn up the rock really loud and sing along at the top of my lungs.  But then I need to eat better and recycle more and get on a bicycle.  Or watch the complete works of Mel Brooks all in a row and have to order in Chinese food because I can't stop watching long enough to cook and learn to juggle and make that really loud whistle sound with my fingers.

Sigh.

I really don't want to do anything that requires any significant effort on my part.  And I want a feeling of grand accomplishment.  Or maybe I could be wealthy enough to hire someone to accomplish things for me while feeding me bon bons.  But I only want to be wealthy if there is nothing I have to do to get there.  I'm too achy and wrinkly for putting out an effort.

The Warmth of the Cold

So this holiday season, in lieu of money to spend on gifts, we cashed in on the points we had unknowingly collected by virtue of having our credit union account for . . . a long time . . . I'm actually not sure how long now that I try to be specific.  Maybe not quite but close to twenty years.  I didn't even know there were points involved.  I don't now know when they started awarding points for what on which card(s) associated with our accounts.  But anyway, there were points.

And so I got gift cards to buy a new coat. I needed a new coat because my old coat is actually a ski jacket of the type one should wear skiing which is something I've only done once in my whole life and just to give you a clue, Jimmy Carter was actually president at the time.  Remember Jimmy Carter?  He was the last president we had who was first and foremost a diplomat.  Sigh.  But the jacket was a gift from my father-in-law who is nothing if not generous and it was a color that brightly brought out my eyes and was incredibly warm even in windy nasty wet freezing weather for as much of my body as a jacket would cover.

But now I had gift cards to buy a new coat from what we used to call a "catalog" company but now I guess is an "online" company known for its outerwear seeing as how the company is actually in the northern reaches of New England where outerwear is quite important to everyday life.

I decided to buy a grown-up long wool overcoat.  I've never had one in my life.  I've always been a casual dresser and even well into my middle years have worn hiking boots (not that I hike or anything, just that hiking boots are very comfortable and support my flat flat flat eet nicely) or running shoes (not that I run or anything, just that running shoes are very comfortable and support my flat flat flat feet nicely) and my ski jacket and gloves that don't match my scarf and yet I decided that it was time to have a grown-up long wool overcoat.  So I did.  I accidentally ordered the wrong color--I wanted classic black--but ordered Loden.  What's Loden? I don't know.  But when it arrived it was a subtle shade of grey green that exactly matches my eyes and so I have kept it.

Last night I jumped at the chance to see a Broadway show that I couldn't afford to pay for and therefore would have missed with a dear old friend of whom I am so fond that she could ask me to see a show that I don't want to see and I would see it anyway just to be with her.  She is a Tony voter (an "occupation" of which I am completely jealous) and therefore sees everything.  She is also a long time member of the stage actors' union (Equity) and as such, knows a lot of folks in the business.  Nearly every time we see a show, she tells me stories about some or other cast member or the conductor.  She knows the box office folks and the house manager at every theatre and is always treated like royalty by the theatre staff.  I enjoy basking in the glow of her importance.

I put on my new coat and a plain white scarf and a pair of black gloves and a head wrap and shoes that matched my sweater and slacks that matched my shoes and socks and ventured out into the January chill of midtown Manhattan.  The wind was its usual island intense and it was certainly below freezing what with the ice patches here and there next to the curbs in the theatre district.  Tourists were crying out at every flash of breeze as I made my way to theatre in my typically way-too-early fashion.  I waited outside the theatre for thirty minutes toasty warm in my new disguise as a middle-aged woman who pays attention to her appearance.  My friend did not recognize me although she was standing about eighteen inches from me looking intently for me.  I tugged on her sleeve and she did a classic double-take and we laughed and proceeded to enjoy a charming evening of catching up, critiquing the show, visiting an old friend backstage, gushing over the "ingenue" whose performance was positively riveting but who seemed not to know, and then wine, cheese, french bread and theatre talk at a nearby bistro.

I am put in mind of that little pop tune that has been around for a few years now.  Hey, I put my new coat on and suddenly everything's right.

Where Have I Been???

So where have I been?  I don't know.  I'm not sure where I am now.  I definitely don't know where I'm going.  Stuff has been happening.  I've been living "one day at a time" as my colleagues in the multi-step thingie say.

I'm at work.  I'm on a break waiting for the next thing to do, which is how stuff goes at the new gig.  Busy, busy, busy; wait, wait, wait.  I don't mind that.  I actually find it to be my preferred method of existence.

I've been spending a ton of time applying for actual jobs (since this is a freelance deal and therefore not steady and therefore not appropriate for a grown-up like me) and all of the awkwardness that goes with that.

I made a new CV, which for those of you who don't know, is a long-winded academic boring version of a resume.  I've written about sixty cover letters, attempting to personalize each one to the exact job and location and yadda yadda yadda.  And some folks want "candidate statements" and others want "philosophical statements" and others want three references or five references or a list of the references' contact information--three or five--and some don't ask for references at all but might want a portfolio or DVD or to have followed me around for the significant moments of my life so they can tell whether or not I'm worthy of the $40,000/year one year or two year appointment available at the college I've never heard of in the town I've never heard of in the state I've only driven through which I could really describe as accurately as needed as, "not within spitting distance of Manhattan" or "what will I do with myself if I have any spare time?" and forget about describing any further.

The logistics are ridiculous.  I get a job somewhere else.  Bruce Wayne has to finish school where he is if he is going to manage good odds at the college thing, which I can't afford to pay for.  Sandman is applying for graduate school near here and won't want to leave if he gets in and they offer to cover his tuition.  And well, Peter Parker would probably come along with me because she hates everything so is always convinced that not only is the grass greener, but the new thing will change everything for the better.  And then we'd be trying to maintain two households on . . .

If I go down this path I am just flinging myself down onto the soft pine needles for lack of energy that might allow me to move in any direction.  That was an extremely messy use of the journey metaphor.

Let's talk about something better.  Did you know that people at work can be nice and friendly?  I had forgotten.