330 Days Until the Big Five-O

Bad Habits

I started smoking in high school. By time I began my career in the mid 1980’s I was smoking two packs a day. I figured I would quit when I got pregnant since I had worked at the March of Dimes Birth Defects Foundation and knew smoking during pregnancy was dangerous. But until then I was determined to feed my addiction, and I did.

I did not get pregnant until 1996. I immediately put out my last cigarette. This year marks my 10th anniversary of not smoking. I have never desired to smoke again. I wish the same could be said for the addiction that eventually replaced the cigarettes.

The very reasons I gave up cigarettes my children would introduce me to a new addiction. Being a stay at home mom can get lonely. One way to alleviate that feeling is a visit to a McDonald’s play land. And so it is there that my journey began. Like all addictions, I had to hit rock bottom and admit there was a problem before I could find a solution.

I can still remember the exact moment when I realized I was in deep water/oil. It was in the milieu of the McDonald’s on Lake Cook Road in Wheeling, which contained one of my favorite play lands. I was catching a break for myself while Reid and Blair safely disappeared into the tunnels. I could relax knowing exactly where they were and not having to keep my eyes on them. I happily munched on the fries while I wrote. While slowly reaching down to unbutton my ever tightening jeans, I started thinking about why I looked and felt 7 months pregnant even though I wasn’t. Then it dawned on me as I swallowed the last of Reid’s French fries and started in on Blair’s order.

The enemy was staring me right in the face. It was going to be a battle to the death, Me versus 2 orders of French fries. This scenario was like putting Robert Downey Jr. in a crack house. I had no will power. I could not resist the fabulous fries. Who will win? Me or the fries I finally asked myself this tough question while I slowly lowered the zipper on my jeans to give myself more breathing room. I certainly feel outnumbered. These happy meals had become my ticket to misery. The kids eat about 1/10th of the food, and the rest is an invitation to my cellulite to come out and play. My only weapon is the large blob of stomach uncomfortably protruding out of my pants.

Throughout the course of my life I have dealt with my stomach in a self deprecating way. It was the butt of many of my jokes much to the amusement of my shapely friends who had the good sense to carry their extra weight in their butt. A big butt can be seen as a sexy addition to a female body while a Pot Belly never helped anyone look more appealing.. My Buddha Belly would get smaller or bigger at various times in my dieting life. I use to tell my friends to rub it for good luck. It would never disappear completely but at some point after my first baby started eating table food, my stomach seemed to be growing exponentially. Suddenly it was no longer a laughing matter.

French fries have replaced cigarettes in my life. But I LOVE them even more. I look across the table at the half eaten cheeseburger and two nuggets, but it was only the French fries I saw. I sat with pen and paper as my only defense. I thought to myself I will have to keep my fingers busy as I suddenly realized the reason for my rapidly exploding tummy.

How can I fight this battle? Can having a smaller stomach be as much an incentive for changing my behavior as having a healthy baby was for my quitting cigarettes? As the fries and I sit waiting for my children who have found new best friends, my imagination begins to unfurl. I feel like Wyatt Earp at the OK Coral. If this were a movie, you would be hearing background music. The song from the movie “High Noon” would be playing and you would be seeing interfacing clips of Gary Cooper walking down a dirt road to “Oh Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling” flashing in between scenes of me sitting amongst a multitude of French fries. We were both individuals fighting alone against a group of enemies. There was still one order of French fries tempting me.

Perhaps history could help me. The French Fries were getting cold. Like the Germans who were defeated on the Russian border in World War Two because they had never anticipated the severity of the unbearably cold Russian Winters, I would freeze them into submission. The only bad fry is a cold fry. The colder they get, the less they will be able to tempt me into the abyss. I decided right then and there I would win this battle. At least for today my writing distracted me long enough to ensure the last ounce of deep fried heat dissipated. But, the battle will continue on another day, in another McDonald’s. The Hamburgler and Ronald are tireless and ruthless foes always armed to the teeth with fries.

It has been 10 years since my last cigarette and 6 years since my last French fry. Luckily I found out on McDonald’s also offers excellent low fat ice cream. Now if only I could stop stealing the candy from my kids’ goody bags I may actually be able to shrink that stomach that has been following, or should I say leading, me around.

It has been 14 years since my last Cigarette and my kids are too old for birthday parties with bite sized candy filled goodie bags. I have not eaten a French fry in 10 years. Time is marching. I need a new bad habit. Does anyone have any suggestions?

331 Days Until the Big Five-0

Okay, I finally got it. I am so proud. There is a difference between DVR and On Demand and I am in on the big secret. DVR is the same as VCR but you do not get to see a tape ever. It is all invisible like the lap top I am writing on. I use to have a typewriter and I could see the paper in front of me while the words magically appeared as I rat a tat tat on the keys. It made me feel like a piano player but I was the only one who could hear the music my words were making inside my head. If I want to see hard evidence that my words will last long after the screen goes blank, I have to add one more key stroke, PRINT. Once I have the papers in my hand, I believe the laptop has done what it said it said it was going to do. I need METAPHORS in order to understand anything from algebra to laundry. I bet that guy wrote about it in the book A Mind At a Time. We all learn in different ways. I learn by Metaphor. In order to grasp a new concept I need to compare it to something else that I already understand. It also explains why my writing is often criticized for having an overdose of metaphors. If you can die from an overdose of drugs, can your essays die from an overdose of metaphors? Are they the heroine of literature? I think they are and I am addicted.

Okay, I would now like to explain the Difference Between DVR and On Demand for anyone else out there who might be suffering from the same limited frames of reference and learning. . DVR is like VCR, they are threee letter acronyms ending with the same two letters. The V is for Video. The R is for Recording and the only difference is the D and the V. D is for Digital and V is for Videotape. You can hold a Videotape in your hand so you know it is real. You cannot hold a Digital in your hand (I think). I learned all this from my husband this morning. He opened my eyes to a whole new world when he figured out how to explain it to me. Up until now I thought On Demand meant I was recording things, but On Demand is something else entirely. I am not exactly sure yet, but It is sort of like a Library. You check out a book (movie) and return it when it is over. You have to go to the Library on your Television to look at the titles of what is available. So is it only movies or can I rent entire seasons of shows like the ones they have a blockbuster? I will have to ask my teenage son for the answer to that question. Some things are even beyond my husband’s knowledge in the rapidly changing television world. The Blockbuster by our store is closing down. Several months ago they changed from Digital to Analog (I have no idea what that really means) and I had to take my old television set and tie a white flag to the antennae before placing out on the lawn as a sign of my surrender to the Analog Invasion. Luckily, I had several television sets that did not have antennaes and were able to move through the transition gracefully.

I miss the good old days where we changed channels by rotating a dial on the set and the number of choices meant we spent more time actually watching a show as opposed to flying through channels with the greatest of ease. Hi Ho Silver, who was that masked man carrying a VCR Machine and a Television with Two Long Sticks protruding from its head?? He has gone into television lore back when WGN Morning Television meant the Lone Ranger, The Cisco Kid, Frazier Thomas and his wonderful Matinee’s starring Sherlock Holmes and Charlie Chan. Anyone catch the soft Porn on Melrose Place? Charlie would be appalled. You would never see his number one son strutting half naked across the screen as if he was auditioning for a Stag Film. Oooops, did I just end this little blurb with a metaphor???

332 Days Until the Big Five-O

Making Plans via Email, Names have been replaced by Initials in order to protect the innocent.

Hello!
The movie is at the Regal @ 7:15 or 10. Do we want to do movie and then dinner- I think that makes sense. Suggestions? I know PF Changg’s was thrown out there by RC and the No Mambo flag was thrown by SS. Both are agreeable with us, but any other thoughts? Nothing too heavy if we eat late…
We could do a Champps or Claim Jumpers. Where the hell else is there?
The movie is also at NB Court @ 7:30 or 10:20 but since the times are similar we F’s prefer the Lincolnshire. We could be swayed, but it would take some fancy arguing on your parts. I doubt you’re up to the challenge…
Anyway, that’s what I know- what do the rest of you bitches think?

You have got to be kidding me!
Kona Grill (great outdoor patio too), Big Bowl
MY FAVORITE: Cooper's Hawk (complete with WINE bar and lite food and I love it)
I think any of the above three would provide just the right atmosphere, convenient and close locations, alcohol choices and lite food fair.
You guys pick. Sincerely B

Just talked to the man and he prefers Claim Jumpers, since he is apparently tired of Champps. I’m not sure why, he must be going with someone else. Any objections? Insincerely RC

Ok- this game got old really quick. Unless B can come up with a better option, I am in for Claim Jumpers after 7:15 movie. Do you skanks want to meet @ the theater or at someone’s house for pre movie dry humping? LF

I say we meet at the theatre for pre movie dry humping!!! i am fine with 7:fifteen movie and claim jumpers for your digestive needs whatever they may be. Sincerelry B

See you at the theater at 6:45? We can meet in the parking lot, row J spaces 38, 39 and 41. (as I’m sure you know 40 is for a compact car)- see attached for map of the lot. LF

You forgot the attachment oh smart one. Try again. Good luck. Next time attach those illustrations of dry humping so I will be able to recognize you and your husband in the Lobby... Sincerely B

If you didn’t get the attachment, dumbass, it’s because I don’t really want you to find us. If you need an illustration of dry humping, refer to the magazines your husband hides in the toilet tank next to his Kleenex and lotion. Such a well groomed man. Love LF

333 Days until the Big Five-0

I wrote the following piece on August 11, 2004 when I was only 44 years old. How did five years fly by? It is now August 28, 2009 and I am searching for ways to fill up my Blog so I can get current on my countdown to the Silver Anniversary of my own Life. I am simply surfing through my documents treating my own words like an interesting website I discovered while flying through the internet in search of something else. What the “something else” is I never know. All this aimless wandering and all these tragic digressions lead nowhere… no book, no collection of short stories or essays, no job as a freelance magazine writer, no MFA Degree, no job at the Onion. Perhaps by re-reading my own words I will find out why I feel so stuck and suddenly a light will go off and a door will open and I will figure a way out of the maze. That would be A-MAZING!!

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“Nothing new or different” my mother says for the first time in months in response to my usual morning question of “how are you?” Typically, she moans and says “I don’t want to say anything, but I have been very very sick” and then adds one of the following:


a) “I was up all night urinating”.

b) “I had diarrhea something terrible” (as opposed to diarrhea something wonderful).

c) “I thought I was having a heart attack I had such pains in my chest.”

d) “I’m just no good anymore.” She says this as if she is a piece of fruit that spoiled or deli meat past the expiration date. Two things that would never deter her from consuming them, but definitely make most other people weary about the possibility of food poisoning.

Or, the most popular response since 1989

e) “My legs are killing me. I’m just afraid I won’t be able to walk much longer. Then, my life is over.”

I always respond to this lamentation with the logical solution which is “we could get you a wheel chair.” And, at that point she informs me she would rather die. I try not to take it too personally. Life in a wheel chair is worse than death. Even though her grandchildren and I are around I must admit there have been moments in my life when death seemed like a better alternative than life. But now, I have small children to think about. My mother has children too, but hers are not small. However, even when we were small, her talk of impending death warranted a daily mention/threat. We had to toe the line, or my mother might just collapse right there in front of us, life sucked out of her by our fighting, needs, complaining, demands, frustrations, etc. .

But today is a landmark day and I had even forgotten this particular “line” from my mother’s repertoire (script for life) so the moment she says it I start trying to recall the last time I heard it. I know it is not new, but it certainly has that new car feel and smell. “Nothing new or different” meant my mom was feeling pretty good. After all, what could be better than “nothing new or different?” It meant nothing has changed since the last time we spoke 24 hours ago. As if we had all been frozen in the matrix with Keanu Reeves – but instead of being caught mid flight in the splits, one arm bent back and one extended straight forward, Becky and I were frozen in our imaginations only. Physically, we could still both move even if one of us was in chronic pain.



“Nothing new or different” translated in our own mother daughter language to “no one died in the last 24 hours.” At least no one we knew or cared about. It also meant that even though interest rates were going up, so far the great old USA was able to keep a real economic depression at bay, only teasing us with a recession. No men jumping off buildings, no sad unskilled workers like my mother’s father being forced to walk along the rail road track looking for coal.

I savored the moment on the phone with my mother like a school girl savors a compliment from the boy she has had a crush on for years. I was walking on air. But I am smarter than some young school girl. I know it isn’t going to last. It may be tomorrow, or the day after, or next week and my mother will say the one line I have dreaded since the age of 18. It was the line that prompted me to write her a letter threatening suicide if she ever used it again. She stopped using the line for years after finding that note on her pillow. But by then she had already been saying it for 9 years, which is exactly how long my other parent had been dead. The damage was done. I was a head case. Eventually, she did start using the one line again, but by then I learned to treat it like the practical joke it was. Thus began the second phase of relationship as a comedic team, the likes of which had never been seen before.

I remember my mother saying the one line while semi-chuckling in response to a new tenant’s cheerful & rhetorical “how are you”. The young woman was coming down to the basement to do a load of laundry. She became just another innocent by-stander caught in the cross fire of my and my mother’s peculiar relationship . She walked in, laundry basket perched in front of her and found me and my mother cleaning out the shed for the 3rd time in less than 2 years. My mother sitting comfortably on the chair I had carried in from her kitchen across the hall while I dragged boxes and items being saved and sorted for some charity auction/bizarre at her synagogue. “Earning fund” was some crazy concept thought up by old people trying to keep their community alive. Bring in so many dollars “worth” of merchandise for re-sale at the annual fundraiser, and you get a “free” ticket to the annual dinner dance that only included dinner and not dancing. Things had to be divided up so she had enough donations each year for at least 10 years. My mother would not let me throw anything out. She sat there giving me orders as my 8 month pregnant swelling stomach held her first biological grandchild. I was 36 and she was 77. Not getting married until I was 34 meant I was already behind my mother Becky’s schedule. She spent her nights worrying about my status as an old maid until the day I wed at the tender age of 34, which was even older than she had been when she got married. The one thing my mother had convinced me of during our restless nights in separate apartments at 6242 North Rockwell was that my getting married and having babies would give her a reason to live and bring her more joy than she had ever known. So why would she say it in front of me as I worked diligently both externally cleaning the shed and internally making this baby ….but it came out just like it had so many times before.

“How are you.” The young tenant asked.

“Oh you know”, my mother replied “One foot in the grave and another on a banana peel.”

No wonder I eventually had to go on bed rest during the last six weeks of my pregnancy. Some of it might have been due to high blood pressure, but just like my mother always held her kids accountable for her various physical ailments, heart problems, high blood pressure, nerves, I have to believe my mother had something to do with my physical problems. It seemed only logical that 2 years later, after my first born would turn one, it would be me doing the splits… “one foot in Buffalo Grove, and the other in West Rogers Park, an old version of West Rogers Park that existed only in my sappy nostalgic memories having nothing to do with the dirty overcrowded neighborhood it had evolved into.

I grew up believing the concept of evolution meant things became better, more sophisticated. This was not the case during my initial exodus from the West Roger Park Shtetle I had grown up in. Perhaps gentrification would be happening some day soon, but in 1997, the neighborhood, along with my mother showed significant signs of deterioration. My regular visits between my new suburban home, and my mother’s apartment, that had once been my “home” often meant leaving a Polish cleaning lady on our bathroom floor in Buffalo Grove while I wiped the shit off the tile at 6242 North Rockwell. Only one of us was being paid, and it wasn’t me. Meanwhile, I thought of all my new acquaintenances, their money, their expensive homes, their young mothers who take their children on cruises, the way their snobby noses look down on my tired old face, and I can’t help but feel bitter. I was popular in High School. It never dawned on me that I would returning to high school at the age of 37, and coming back as less than my once glorious reign as a funny, loud mouthed girl well liked by all the a other girls and blissfully ignored by most of the guys.

*****************************************************************
Neither my mother nor I managed the balancing act very well. And I thought it was only a matter of time before she was going to slip into that grave, and I was going to slip into the Suburban Malaise.

Fortunately I was only half right. My mother Becky is 90 today and while I indeed slip into the Suburban Malaise, losing my “self” in the process. Luckily, the story is not over yet and I am beginning to believe a "self" is something that cannot only be lost, but can also be found.

334 Days Until the Big Five-0

Of course, the term “desperate housewives” now conjures up the very popular Television Series with that name. First, we are asked to compare ourselves with our real neighbors. Who has the bigger house, the better car, the nicest jewelry, the coolest vacations, the most toys, the most athletic children, the smartest kids etc. etc. What makes us feel “desperate”, without hope, fearless of danger, frantic, reckless, in hot pursuit of materialistic possessions so our neighbors will think more highly of us, and even better, envy us.

Then the mass media enters our lives and we are being asked to compare ourselves with fictional women whose bodies are sculpted by personal trainers and plastic surgeons. Or better yet the “real” Housewives from New Jersey which has forever changed the definition of the word “real” in my mind. I for one will not be sleeping with the landscapers, who by the way are not hunky high school students. My friends who are divorced do not find themselves living comfortably across the street from some gorgeous hunk. No one is being murdered, that I know of. We probably all have dozens of skeletons in our closets even when it isn’t Halloween. Things like stressed out marriages, not enough sex, mentally ill siblings and/or parents, illnesses we encounter, overcome or learn to live with.

But our problems don’t seem as “sexy” as the ones on TV, both fictional and non-fictional. I am going to take a wild guess that today’s “desperate housewives” have it better than those from 50 years ago. There are still two wars lingering out there (anyone talking about Iraq or Afghanstan at the local Starbucks lately??) I don’t see many stars in the windows like I did growing up in the City during the height of the Viet Nam War, or are we calling it an “occupation”? Gasoline is still costing a small fortune, yet many of the homes built in the last 20 years have three car garages. “Once upon a time” many housewives did not even drive let alone own their own cars. Now we complain about driving our kids around all day.

There are no more neighborhoods where the children are sent out to play all day until dinner time. We need, and appear to have plenty of, money for classes so our children will be able to compete with out neighbor’s children in a whole host of areas from sports to academics. The chase is on. Is that why we are desperate? Does it all boil down to having too many choices and not enough sense to make the wise ones?

I am truly blessed, living a life of relative luxury, the life of a so called “desperate” housewife. I do indeed have landscapers come to mow my spacious lawn. My mother simply told my brothers to do it. They were free as long as you don’t count the cost of a complaint now and then. I don’t “feel” so desperate. I guess it all depends on your perspective, or definition of the words “desperate” and “housewife.” After all, I did not marry a house, I married a man. Perhaps that is why so many of my colleagues get so desperate comparing their houses. They should be comparing their husbands.

33Five Days to the big Five-0

I count the usual suspects when counting my blessings, good health for myself and my family, a warm home to live in, a car that works, good friends, etc. etc. I am trying to remember when my sister-in-law Denise (Hi Denise, my most loyal, and perhaps only, reader) started changing people’s lives including my own. The procession is never ending. It just happened again yesterday. She brought a friend she met at a bookstore to a writing event and I could literally feel the surge of electricity as it left her friend and radiated throughout the audience. It was magical. Allow me to explain. It all started a long time ago in land far away. I think it was Skokie.

When I was growing up I knew my brother was a brilliant writer. I remember reading his homework for the sheer joy of seeing words and sentences perfectly strung together like fine pearls. Perhaps that was another reason I never felt comfortable trying to become a writer. How could I ever live up to being the sister of someone I thought was as great as Dickens or Hemingway. Why did I think I had to be as good? (Please refer to recurring “good enough” theme in other blog entries.) Luckily my brother not only knew how to pick the perfect word, he knew how to pick the perfect spouse, a woman who would bring out the best in our family. She just does that with everyone, brings out the best in them. I jokingly tell her she is a cheerleader, but it is so much more than that. I have seen her work her magic with so many people and I feel lucky to be one of them. You see, I had forgotten I wanted to be a writer. Oh, I always wrote in my journals, but it was more for my own mental health. I had stopped thinking about writing as a possible profession of any kind. I took a class in the late 80’s. It was part of a continuing adult education program at Northwestern downtown. I managed to write rough drafts for three short stories, file them away and quickly stopped writing after that. Probably because someone in the class told me she thought I was one of the best writers in the class. I usually run in the opposite direction of any type of encouragement or compliments.

About 10 years ago my sister-in-law decided she was going to start writing. I do not remember how or exactly when she decided to take up this new hobby. She was talented in so many ways. She can play two instruments, piano and flute, she can cook like a professional chef, she is a magnificent gardener, and no one decorates better than Denise. Yet, she started sending me things to read. Then she told me she ran into someone who told her about a woman who teaches writing out of her home and does free workshops at local bookstores. Denise asked me to join her at a Barnes and Noble bookstore at the Village Crossing in Skokie to go see this woman, Nancy Beckett. All of our lives would begin to change for the better. Denise and I started going to Lakeside Studio to learn from Nancy. And learn we did. For the first time in my life I had found a real “Teacher”. Denise also found a friend and a soul mate. Over the years she and Nancy have encouraged, inspired and motivated each other to new heights. Denise is a published writer having appeared in two major magazines. Nancy wrote and acted in a fabulous one woman show featuring a back up posse of three women characters including one based on Denise. Nancy continues to successfully impart her knowledge at Second City and Columbia and has a new book, Branches featuring the writing prompts she uses in her classes. Of course a blurb by Denise is on the back of the book!

I started this blog because I thought it might help me find a way to make writing more than just a hobby. Perhaps I can turn it into a way of life and a way to make a living. Wouldn’t that be remarkable, if I ever got paid for something I wrote? But my greatest accomplishment is I found a way to accept encouragement, and I have Denise to thank for that.

336 Days until the Big Five-0

I have spent my life wishing I was an artist like my father. He was a painter. He knew how to make beautiful pictures. He could also draw faces that looked exactly like the people he was drawing. He did not leave much behind in the way of work since his desire to be a painter did not meet up with the circumstances necessary to see his dream come true. I know very little of his life. He died before I got to dig into his stories the way I dug into my mother’s life stories. She and I had the benefit of time, but more importantly the benefit of her desire to tell, to let someone know as much as she was able to bear to speak of hard times, rejection, disappointments and abuse. She occasionally will share a happy memory or two as well. She may not be introspective and does not have the need to analyze or explore all of the reasons for how and why things happened the way they did over 9 decades, but damn the woman has a great memory.

What did my father remember when he crossed the Atlantic and brought his tortured soul to America. My mother did not have to carry her memories across an ocean. I wonder if memories are heavy. Could my father have told me how his father treated him? Could he have told me what it was like to see his mother miscarry numerous babies before finally giving birth to his sister who was 10 years younger than him? What is it like to be 10 and having to share your mother with a new born? Did my grandmother mourn the loss of the children she miscarried? How many were there? I know there were some because my aunt told me about them, but that was before she was born so she had to be relying on stories her mother told her. My Aunt was 18 when she was separated from her mother. My father was 28. Obviously they did not share much of their childhood together. My aunt’s memories of my father are locked away in a vault deep behind a thousand other stories so terrible and heavy it would be impossible to move them out of the way. Most of my father’s family stories and all of his relatives except his younger sister went up in smoke in World War II.

I wish my father could have taught me how to paint. I never did well in any art class in school so I assumed I had no talent in this area, but I wish I did. I think it would be easier to paint on a blank canvas, mixing colors and making images of the things I see in my imagination. Would a blank canvas be less intimidating than a blank page? See, I have always thought I picked up the pen because I could not handle the brush. Perhaps that is why I never got very far with my writing. I treated my writing like a step child, a second choice, a runner up in a beauty contest, not good enough. Ahhh, the theme of my life automatically returns to me like the carriage on my old electric typewriter, “not good enough.” Perhaps my father left me more than I realized…. To be continued somewhere in time. It is the novel hiding in my mind….

337 Days Until the Big Five-0

Technically this should have been written on August 9, 2009. The Truth is it is August 26, 2009. But what does The Truth mean these days in an era where Town Hall Meetings are met with uninformed people yelling about a government that they don’t trust, but would like to see implemented in every other country across the globe? It has to be the same extreme right wingers who were manipulated into beating the war drums for on an invasion into a country under the false premise of looking for WMD’s. who are now screaming about the government trying to help people who cannot afford health insurance. Makes sense I guess if you blindly believe in people who do not have your best interests at heart.

So, Truth Be Told, I have always run late. Please don’t tell my husband I am admitting to this because I will vehemently deny ever having said or written it even though it is sitting here for all to see on paper/computer (I still cannot accept something truly exists if it is only on a computer screen, call me an artifact). One of the main things holding our marriage together is our endless dispute on who is causing us to be late all the time. This unresolved matter ensures we can never part because then the truth would be revealed. If forced to go our separate ways, then surely one of us would be proven wrong when he or she showed up late and the other was right on time. However, there is no denying I am the poster child for Late Bloomers – they should cultivate and name a rose after me, the “late blooming Benita”. It would be a mixture of colors fighting for dominance on each velvety petal. I think the reason I have always been a late bloomer is because I am so petrified of making any decisions. But all that is going to change when I turn Fifty. I am going to roll the dice and let the cards fall where they may. I know, I can’t even decide which gambling game metaphor to use.

So, it only makes sense that I have to back track and catch up by posting 20 separate entries until this Blog is current and my countdown can continue on schedule and I will reach my launch date of July 12, 2010 with a total of 36Five (remember I don’t have a key for the number Five on my lap top) entries culminating in a one woman show where I will dazzle and entertain the intoxicated (and bore the hell out of the rest of you).

338 Days Until the big Five-0

Can you be self-concious if you don't know your self???

339 Days Until the Big Five-0

Whenever I spend time with my daughter I wonder about how much of our time together will she remember. What will she be saying about me when she is my age? How is our relationship shaping the person she will become? I know of all my experiences and relationships I always considered my mother and the relationship we have had as being THE thing that has shaped me and affected me. I blame my mother for everything bad and give her credit for everything good in my life. I always did. Objectively speaking that does not seem realistic or even possible. Maybe I need to go listen to some Pink Floyd.

340 Days Until the big Five-0

I sat at the window waiting for the rain. It did not come for 39 days. I watched the sun come and go always followed by the moon. If I stay in this chair I can imagine the moon is simply chasing the sun and will never catch up. I am waiting for the rain because I need an excuse to stay inside and write. Otherwise I just stay inside. If it is not raining and I have no excuse for staying inside then I feel horrible that I am wasting the beautiful weather. It is raining this morning. So I am returning to my blog. I was gone from the computer for a long time. My lap top got a virus. It was obviously contagious in someway and gave me a bad case of writers block (is there a science fiction novel in there somewhere?) I had to take my LapTop to the Computer Doctor. It was in the “computer infirmary” for about 3 or 4 days. So my countdown was interrupted by forces beyond my control. Yet, since it is so easy to lie on the computer, and I am suppose to be using my imagination, I will simply pretend that I never missed a day and place entries as if they were typed in chronological order.

So, technically (as my 10 year old daughter would say) my countdown will stay intact. Truth be told (a rarity in our present culture) I did write in my journal. Those spiral notebooks were my first true love. That is how I got started. I have gone so far as to actually take a couple of them and type them into my computer. Each one is a mixture of Diary, Fantasy, Fiction, Personal Essays, Rants, Venting., all done for no apparent reason other than I could. “What are you writing?” People would ask me, and I would always say “I don’t know.” And I didn’t. And I don’t.

I guess I am trying to figure it out myself and hope the more I do it that suddenly a purpose will present itself magically. It will be as if I had been using invisible ink which materialized in the form of a Map showing me the way to a Hidden Treasure. What is the hidden treasure? I often feel as if I have lived for 49 years without knowing a purpose. And, there is nothing I want more than some golden singular purpose of my existence to justify or explain what this life has been all about. I guess I am hoping my writing will reveal this purpose and I will have some sense of satisfaction and feel justified for having used so much oxygen, ink, paper, food, natural resources, time, money etc. etc. Do other people need to feel their lives are “justified”?.

341 Days until the Big Five-0

Okay, Bruce Sprinsteen is on the cover of AARP magazine. Is he the only person to ever be on the cover of Time, Newsweek, Rolling Stone AND AARP? I bet he is. I will be turning Fifty and he will be turning Sixty. What does this say about us?? Me and Bruce. I think we both still seem pretty young. Will his next album be Tramps Like Us Baby we were born to use Walkers?? Electric Scooters? I can hear the songs now.

Climb in back, heaven's waiting on down the track, no really, it is. It is a lot closer than we realize. We may really get there before the song ends, but I hope not. I think Bruce and I still have a few good songs and concerts left in us. If he can do it, I can do it. Luckily I no longer need to sleep in parking lots all night in order to score a ticket to a Bruce Concert. I will simply enter the AARP Contest and win them!

342 Days Until the Big Five-0

Is it Kaluki or Kalookie? It is the card game my mother raised me on and it has become the gift of distraction in her old age, a way for her to forget about her constant physical pain. But most of all, it is fun. For decades my mother was left alone in the kitchen playing solitaire as a way to pass time. Perhaps she was on the cutting edge. Now people spend endless hours playing all sorts of games on their computers including Solitaire. My mom played Kaluki with her best friend Bernice. They spent hours and hours with those cards and cups of coffee creating a friendship that would become standard by which I would learn to measure all other friendships in the world. Then my mother took Kaluki to her upstairs neighbors Bess and Sol, and their friends Hershel and Sarah. The five of them made every Saturday night a picture perfect evening.

Now, my mother has trained her two care givers, Jinky and Bonnie in the art of Kaluki. She has also taught the game to my daughter, her granddaughter, who absolutely loves it. I imagine one day I will be playing with my granddaughter and I will remember my mother just like she remembers her mother while we are playing. My mother has given me many gifts over the years, and learnng how the play Kaluki maybe the best one of all!

343 Days until the big Five-0

Go to sleep. That is how I avoid things. It is so easy. I just shut my eyes and everything disappears, problems, doubts, disappointments. I love sleep. It is the best medicine in the world. It is better than any drug. I can sleep for days. I can sleep on crowded L Trains. I can sleep standing up, sitting down, and unfortunately while I am driving. I have never been able to do a pull up, push up, or sit up. And I cannot keep my eyes open when my mind wants to shut off. I am the opposite of an insomniac. I must be a Maniac or some other kind of ac.

I knew I would get stuck at Fifth Grade. I should have known better than to include a recollection of the progression of my school years in the Blog O Sfear as I now think of it. What am I afraid of? The usual:

Failure
Water
Poverty
Looking Stupid
Sounding Stupid
Mediocrity
Becoming My Mother
Becoming My Father
Becoming My Self
Finding My Self
Losing My Self

Oh well, I could stay up and write all night but who knows where that would lead. So I guess I will go to sleep so I will never have to find out what words I have been hiding deep in the recesses of my mind. Ha and I always said Recess was my favorite subject in school.
I do not go to sleep per chance to dream, no I chase sleep per chance to forget my dreams, the ones that I have not been able to make come true.

344 Days until the Big Five-0

Sarcasm, who cares???

Electronic prose is not the place for sarcasm. You cannot hear the intonation, or see the sly grin. You cannot add a gesture with your hands to help keep the sting out of the words. So, when on Face Book or typing in emails, remember they can’t “hear” and simply read your words without realizing how they are intended.

I have always liked the fact that I am sarcastic. Actually I have been down right proud of my sarcastic nature. But over the years it has been pointed out to me on more than one occasion that too much of a good thing can be bad, and so it must be with my sarcasm. I must tone it down. Therefore, I am going on a sarcasm diet. I will limit myself to being sarcastic when in person and only 43 times a day (this is a DRAMATIC reduction).

However, I reserve the right to be endlessly sarcastic on MY Blog, besides we all know no one but you and I are ever going to read this. Hello D, my lone ranger reader. Hi-O Silver Kimasabe.

346 Days Until the Big Five-O

I am so embarrassed! Even though only one person may be reading this, I hope some day 2 or 3 people may actually come upon it, and think of it as the lost archives of some strange, yet fascinating civilization.

I confused the names of my second and fifth grade teachers. Originally I had Mrs. McCracken described as my Second Grade Teacher, but that was the name of my Fifth Grade Teacher. I think Kornacker was the Second Grade Teacher. Could my memory finally be failing me. I have so much in common with my 90 year old mother. We are unable to remember the names of the people we meet 10 minutes after we meet them. Yet, we had excellent recall for anything that occurred in the distant past, until now. These days we both seem to be struggling to remember the names of the tenants that lived in our building 40 years ago, the stores along Devon Avenue, the names of the children of the once large family which has dwindled to my mother and a couple of cousins. This is not good.

Also, I fell into an old bad habit this past week. I did something I have managed to avoid doing for a very long time. I totally offended someone I barely knew. I did this by saying something completely inappropriate. Even my writing is beginning to show signs of deterioration: Totally, Completely, Like Wow Man, I think I do need to go read that Stink and Write Book.

Why did I do it? I don't know but it has me so upset I can barely write. I did it on FaceBook. I poked my beautifully fixed nose where it did not belong and thought it was okay to say outrageously presumptive things to a someone I met briefly in a bar last week. I would like to explain myself (the dead dad, the mid-life crisis, the stress of raising children and taking care of retarded cousins and an elderly mother), but the truth is there is no Excuse. I apologized. My stomach hurts when I think about it, and maybe I really am back at DeWitt Clinton Grammar school where beginning in 6th Grade my Big Mouth became what I was known for.


I am not sure I am ready to write about Fifth Grade. It was the real turning point in my life. I went from a smart shy skinny 9 year old to a fat failing 10 year old in what seemed like a blink of the eye. Perhaps life was a roller coaster way before that but my ability to interpret the crazy house I was growing up in had not yet developed. Our age determines how we interpret our lives and how that interpretation is manifested in behaviors that we cannot understand. It is a complicated turn of events in our brain. This is WHY hindsight is 20/20. The older we get, the more layers we are able to lift and look under to see the real sleeping monsters beneath the covers.

34Five Days until the big Five-0

Fourth Grade was going to be very challenging. The teacher I was to get had a reputation that made Mrs. Masters look like the nice lady from Romper Room. Her name was Mrs. English. She had soft white hair, steel blue eyes and a nose that looked like it had been pinched to almost complete closure. Her long thin nostrils protruded like two dark alleys from the bony crooked road that was her nose. Everyone knew she was THE MEANEST teacher. It did not help that she was also very tall giving us the feeling of someone with enormous power and a wide open view of every thing in the classroom. Shrinking down in your chair would not help.

She would slap a ruler on her desk when she needed to jerk all our heads up and directly at her. She new none of us would ever misbehave in her classroom because we were so afraid of her reputation finding out if there was any truth to it was one test none of us was willing to take. So we sat. We read. We added and subtracted. We looked at books and did art projects and we sang when we were told to sing. And just when I thought I had almost made it out of fourth grade unscathed, a ball flies out of left field and hits me square in the forehead.

On March 8, 1970 my father died in a car accident. I had to miss one week of school to sit shiva. Mrs. English had the class make condolence cards for me which were hand delivered by one of my class mates and her mother. I still have them. I am not sure if everything I learned in fourth grade was instantly erased from my mind while I sat shiva, but I do know Mrs. English was particularly nice to me when I returned to school. She use to smile at me. It was the first time a teacher ever smiled at me. It makes me sad to think it took my losing a parent to see some kindness come out of one of my teachers. But back then I took what I could get in order to get through 4th Grade.