FEAR OF BEING WITHOUT BOOKS

I have to look up the Latin for this so I can sound more learned than I really am.  Since I have the marvelous app "Translate" on my Iphone (Don't those Roman dudes wish they'd had Iphones back in the day? Just think how they could have plotted during Senate meetings or while using the 6-holder marble latrine.), I found the words for my new disorder--fear of being without books.  Timor exsisto sine liber!

How did this come up?  I was recently asked to be part of our local paper's Hampshire Life ID where once a week they feature a person, interviewing him or her about likes and dislikes, the favorite go-to restaurant, who lives with you, and much more.

But here's the thing:  One of the questions was, "Tell which five items you cannot live without."  Most folks answer, "My Iphone, MacBook Air, hiking boots, ergonomic chair, etc." I started to answer in the same vein but then realized I could completely live without any of those devices.  They simply are not essential to my life.

My revised list included, and this will not surprise those of you who know me: "My family, God, nature, my faith community, and books."  Perhaps you wonder how "God" can be on the same continuum as "books."  Let's think about this.

As a writer and a person of faith, I spend what some might call a ridiculous amount of time reading: Stacking books by my chair, downloading samples of Kindle books then buying them with a happy cry, studying theology, reading English mysteries, and also sampling racy Regency romances.

Here's a family story which substantiates my belief that books are essential for life.  Over a decade ago I got a frantic call from our local Meals on Wheels that my step-mother, who lived five minutes away, was not responding to their knocks on the door.  The woman said Athena always called if she planned on being out when the meal would be delivered.  Would I please check on her?

With my husband and twelve year-old daughter in tow, I sped down to my step-mother's house, prepared for something dire.  We knocked on the door--no response.  We called her number--no answer.  Decidedly nervous, we went up to the living room window, and my husband announced, "I'll just vise it open from the outside, and we can climb in to see if Grandma is ok." *

"Ok" to me meant not dead on the floor or in the midst of some ghastly end-of-life attack.  My daughter gave us a horrified look and said, "Wait, wait, don't open the window yet!  I have to go back to the car to get a book.  What if Grandma's dead?  We'll be here for ages waiting for an ambulance and I need something to read."

I need something to read.  Or, Timor exsisto sine liber.  That's my girl, I thought.  I have the same craving for a book at all times and sometimes even experience mild panic if there is no book in sight.  When I picture the end of my life, preparing to go through that dark tunnel to the light beyond, I will probably turn back to tell my husband, "Wait, wait, give me a book!  I don't have anything to read."

* (Grandma was at a doctor's appointment and was perfectly fine.)

I CAN WATCH THE SUN RISE ON MY SMARTPHONE

So really, I have to ask myself, why go outside at all? Everything I need is in my hand--well, almost everything, except for human affection, food, wine, friends, and my dog.  But those are small necessities and easy to fix with my smartphone apps.

I remember when my kids were small reading the "Berenstein Bears" books to them.  One was about the week Mama Bear decided they should do without TV.  Papa Bear, in those ridiculous pants which stretched tight across his bottom, querulously asked his wife, "But how will I know what the weather is?"  She pointed to the window and told him to stick his hand outside.  "Ass-hat," she probably thought, but this being a children's book, did not say.

So I don't need to go outside anymore.  Think how much better it is for my aging skin to not expose it to all those dangerous UV rays.  And ticks.  Also biting creatures and psychotic, diseased bats.  Now, as I lounge on my couch sipping coffee in the morning, I press "Yahoo Weather" and with bated breath, wait for it to appear on my screen.  "There it is!" I murmur, looking at the image to make sure it is accurate and not showing a snowstorm in mid-June or hail when it is perfectly sunny out.  You have to watch Yahoo.

Then I scroll down to catch the forecast for the week, so I'll know if I dare go outside or not.  Also included in the forecast are the festive plump raindrops predicting rain for four separate times of the day.  Do I need to know all that?  At the bottom, below some weird map which screws with my brain, I see the sun digitally bursting out of the left-hand horizon and sailing merrily up the arc which represents the sun's progress through the day.  Why doesn't Yahoo show the Sun God, blonde hair streaming, racing through the sky in a chariot?  If you are going to do this sort of thing, let's get some Greek mythology in there.

In a happy, satisfied voice I declare to my husband, "Look, honey!  The sun doesn't set until 8:27!"  He nods and murmurs something about how great it is to have such a stretch of daylight.

But there is a part of me that is not satisfied.  In fact it is deeply, whiningly dissatisfied.  We should be out on blankets in the field (watch out for ticks!) watching the day go by. We should lie on our backs, seeing the clouds sail overhead, telling each other which shapes remind us of whales, unicorns, dragons, and one misshapen one which resembles Dick Cheney.  We should be sitting on the deck as the sun sets. sipping good IPA or a crisp Sauvignon Blanc, waiting for the bats to inscribe arcs around the house, looking for the first firefly who insists on appearing before total darkness, eager to get a jump--literally--on any nearby female.

Where did we go wrong?  I want to be held by the rhythms of the earth, the sky, sun and moon, birds and insects, and anything firmly tied to the natural world.  I want to stick my hand out the window to see if it is raining and share the news with whoever is nearby.  I want to be human in an old way--the way of delight, worship, and sanity.  And if that means no TV and wearing odd blue overalls covering a big ass, then so be it.  It's a decent trade.

FEMININE BODY PARTS

Have you ever noticed the feminine capacity to carve off bits of our bodies, as if we were--say-a joint at a Sunday dinner and pass judgment on them?  Do men do that?  Do they look in the mirror and say, "Crap! My nose is horrific."  I do understand there's a certain amount of nervous fussing about receding hairlines.  I get that. But this need to take inventory and cast aside body parts which don't meet our expectations?  I think this is more a woman thing.

And the stakes are higher, the cost is higher.  One day my college-aged daughter and I sat on the floor, backs against the couch, and had one of those conversations I think only women can have together.

"What parts of your body do you like?" I asked, knowing that she also carved bits off her corpus, putting some into the "okay bin," some into the "almost okay bin," and others into the "hideously unsuitable bin."  Notice there is rarely a "Fabulous bin."

"Umm, I like my feet."  She wiggled her toes.  "Nice and narrow, like yours.  Only prob. is finding shoes that fit."  "Yeah, I have that problem too.  Skinny feet."  They barely make the "okay bin."

"What about your nose?" I asked.  "Oh, crap, way, way too big," came back immediately. "Yeah, your grandpa Dick had a big nose, and I got it too," I said.  She gave me a look that told me she was definitely unhappy with this genetic inheritance.

"Legs?" I murmured.  "Yeah, I actually like them.  They have a good shape.  You have great legs, Mom."  Wow, I felt I should open a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate.  We both had found something we could toss into the "Okay and almost fabulous bin."

"Arms?"  "Not bad, as long as I work out."  She held them in front of her, turning them in the afternoon sunlight.  We both have fairly slim arms and wrists, hands and legs.  I gather the arms could go into the "okay bin."

By comment consent we did not mention the word "stomach," as just about no woman I know is happy with hers.  Although my daughter did mention the word "six-pack," as in--"I have been working out and I've got some muscles there."  So this can go into the "mostly okay bin."

"Hair?" I ventured.  "Ack!  Nothing more to be said.  Way too curly, way too thick, impossible to figure out what to do with it."

"Yeah."  I nodded.  I had spent all of my considerable adult life toying with, fighting, hating, sometimes accepting, but mostly disliking my hair.  It is only now, in my 60s, that I have almost, almost come to term with my very, very curly hair.  I now let it go natural(after a good cut, of course!), using fabulous hair products for curly hair provided by jessicurl.  My husband loves this look, as does my daughter.

Alors.  Body parts are scattered over the floor.  We need to put them together somehow.  I search through my tatty brain, looking for the right words, healing words, words of acceptance.

"I think," I said slowly, "that we come to love our bodies more as we age."  She gave me an unbelieving look. "Really.  As you get into my decade you are grateful for just being upright, on this earth, having teeth, eyes that work, hands that can grasp, legs that dance, and feet that still work.  The key is gratitude.  I remember something my mother told me three days before she died."

"She patted her own leg as I sat beside her and said, 'I don't say, Annie, I wish this leg worked better.  I say, blessings that my leg still works.  Thank you.'"

And that's what we need to do.  Maybe instead of little rubber bracelets that say, WWJD, we need bracelets for women which simply say, "Thank you." My daughter took this in, and I hope that someday when she is looking at herself in the mirror and disliking what she sees, she will remember this conversation and whisper, "Thank you," to the mirror.

TEN THINGS NOT TO DO BEFORE CHRISTMAS

The time of year is upon me which maximizes guilt, corrodes my sense of self-worth, and convinces me that I am actually sub-human.  While flailing about in this morass, I figured out that there are things I should never do as I approach Christmas.  Which did not keep me from making lists and attempting them.  Warning:  Do NOT try these at home.

1/ Go on a diet and join Weight Watchers.  I was full of fine resolutions, set to take off the 6-7 lbs. I'd put on when my torn meniscus kept me from exercising my ass off.  I won't mention that I went to my favorite Italian restaurant each week for awhile and ate Tiramisu for dessert.  Clearly, that had nothing to do with the weight gain.  When I went for the weekly weigh-in shortly after Thanksgiving I was shocked.  Shocked.  I had put on weight instead of taking it off!

2/ Give up drinking wine.  When I realized that the case of fabulous Sauvignon Blanc, Wither Hills from New Zealand my husband gave me was just about gone after only 6 weeks, I thought, "Hmmm, I should probably cut back on my wine consumption.  This will be good for me."  I'll let you know how she does with this.  Like Dick Nixon, it is a sign of my fragile mental health that I refer to myself in the 3rd person.

3/ Acknowledge that your life is self-indulgent, and it is way past time to start pulling in the reins.  Give up so much consumption.  Forget about the 1-click ordering from Amazon.com, even if the book you want is some hefty theological tome by N.T. Wright or C.S. Lewis.

4/ Resolve, after grabbing a cup of strong coffee and a biscotti or two, that the money you will save from buying less, skipping Amazon.com for a month, and reducing wine consumption can be given to the Survival Center.  This is a good idea, right?  It is truly something I want to do--to take in less and give out more.  But somehow, this feels like having a blister lanced on the bottom of my foot or perhaps a rectal exam...
I wish charity were easier and didn't require so much sacrifice.

5/ Exercise more.  This is a wonderful idea, particularly when you live on an icy hill that is over 1200 feet in elevation, your driveway is as steep as a foothill in the Alps, and your torn meniscus is still screaming, "Sit down, you dizzy broad!"

6/ Decide to make home made gifts for everyone on your gift list.  This is what I seriously wrote down: "Make apple butter and pack in sterile jars for friends.  Label with pretty red and green Christmas labels."  Really?  Then I had written down, "Make Grandma Warren's spicy cinnamon walnuts to give away.  Pack in festive bags from Michael's."  Do not pass Go; do not collect $200.  In fact, while you are about it, just go to jail.  You are locked into your delusional need to over-achieve and try to please everyone.

7/ Resolve that your dog needs to be better cared for, groomed, and cleaned before Christmas and before your daughter returns from college.  This entails:  clipping toenails.  Wait, that doesn't work with Jacks.  Brush daily.  Not a good idea.  Dog insanely circles around trying to bite the brush.  Brush her teeth.  While you are at it, wipe her tush and make sure she is truly clean.  Really?

8/ Make a home made wreath using stiff grape vines from the land and weave in clippings of hemlock and white pine.  Decorate with fragile little nodules of grass and dried thingys from the garden.  Two hours later, a glass of Sauvignon Blank is a necessity and completely blows #2.

9/ Join a choir.  Anywhere, any church, any faith that has singing.  Just join.  And sing your little heart out whether you actually like Christmas music or not.  Failing this, link up with a hearty band of middle-aged carolers in town to sing Christmas songs in sub-zero weather to people who are watching reruns of Dr. Who.  This will also blow #2.

10/ Decide to knit your husband a pair of socks at the last minute, never mind that there are only seven more days until Christmas. This would necessitate staying up until midnight instead of doing what I really want to do which is: collapse on couch, a glass of wine nearby, read some books I surreptitiously ordered on my Kindle, and hide the beginnings of a supremely drab gray sock under the couch.

Instead of numbers 1-10, here's an idea for all of us:  Accept yourself as you are, with all of your imperfections and odd little deposits of fat in places you didn't even realize could get fat, like the roof of your mouth.  Maybe cut down from 2 glasses of wine to 1, but by God enjoy it!  Burn the half-completed wreath in the fireplace.  It makes festive flames.  Send e-cards to people because they are so, so much easier.  Forget the apple butter and Christmas walnuts.  Buy something from your local HBA and wrap it in beautiful paper.  Put on a CD of Christmas Carols and get into the holiday spirit without getting hypothermia.  Merry Christmas!

GOOD OLD NOSTALGIA

Would it shock you to discover that I am nostalgic for bed jackets? Barielle products? Tangine lipstick? Evening in Paris? Stockings with seams on the back? Handwritten letters? Typewriters that don't plug in? Phones that weigh at least 5 pounds with no capacity to record messages, interrupt conversations, or do anything more strenuous that carry two human voices? (Although there were those old party lines which I remember at my Aunt's house up in New Hampshire.)

Recently, I have discovered a lamentable tendency to dream about older times and things I loved. (Forgetting the horror of petticoats bunching in my behind on hot days, waiting to be asked to dance, spit mascara and more...) Perhaps this is related to my being 67.  Could it be?  At any rate, I find that sitting with a cup of hot tea (cream and 2 sugars) and flipping through The Vermont Country Store is tantamount to some people ingesting hydrocone. (I know this from having a total hip replacement 5 years ago.) I immediately feel a sense of relaxation and calm sweeping over me, a lifting of the mood, a sweetness tinged with nostalgia.

And this all came about because I was reading a book in the "Aunt Dimity" series (Nancy Atherton) which is about as cozy as you can get without actually melting into brown sugar and frightening the children.  An elderly lady in the book was in bed wearing a bed jacket, of course, padded and satin with a bit of lace at the wrists.  This reminded me of my beloved maternal grandmother Henrietta Gray, who also wore bed jackets when in bed.  I believe they were pink.  Somehow they conveyed to me an aura of security, not of sickness at all.  It's what one wore when in bed.  To keep warm.  To show that you were cared for and relatively secure.  I actually went online to the Vermont Country Store to look at them this morning and was sorely tempted to order a purple velveteen quilted version that just looked--cozy.  My husband, who usually supports most of my purchases, was happy that I hadn't fallen prey to this one. "Bed jackets!" he moaned, as if I had suggested I was about to become a pole dancer.

But just think.  Online I could have ordered one of those cool blue glass bottles of "Evening in Paris," which I remember Mom's cleaning lady giving to her for Christmas.  At the time, we did not consider it the most wonderful perfume in the world (ah, the nostalgia of judgment!), but I'd give anything to have one of those bottles resting on my dresser now. It doesn't matter if you like the smell or not, it's what it represents.

And what about Tangee lipstick while were at it?  Remember that violent orange color, sort of like the backs of certain poisonous lizards which would kill you if you so much as tapped their backs?  You'd put it on (I did use it when 14 years-old) and by God, it would never come off.  You'd go to bed with these day-glow lips shining in the dark, and when you woke up and went in to brush your teeth, there they were again, like rubber clowns' lips that you couldn't take off.  I feel a certain nostalgia for Tangee lipstick.

Must I remind us of dusters or house dresses as my grandmother called them?  You can order these, too, from my favorite Vermont Country Store.  I'm not quite sure how the current owners envision their customers using these "Dusters."  Is it a more complete form of lounge wear, after you've cast off the bed jacket and propelled yourself out of bed?  Or is it more how I remember my grandmother changing out of her good clothes to pull on a housedress for dusting (see, "Dusters"!), or puttering around, putting her beloved flowers into vases or watering her vast collection of sprawling green plants.  It meant you were up for business.  In a sort of cozy Victorian way. I just loved the comfort those dresses implied.  But what did I know back then?

Any more nostalgia floating about?  Oh, yes.  Typewriters that just type and don't have to be plugged in.  I had one of those once.  A Smith-Corona which took me through college and my first early attempts at writing.  It made a satisfying clacking sound which assured me that I was, in fact, busy; that I was accomplishing something; that perhaps someday I might even be a writer.  And if the power went out during a thunderstorm, no problem!  You could keep writing.  Perhaps you're thinking, "What about a pen and paper, woman?"  Well, I used to do that about two decades ago, but my handwriting is getting a bit slip-shod these days.  Maybe a sign of age?  Or maybe a sign that I simply don't write much by hand any more.

My first editor at Harper & Row, Charlotte Zolotow, used to say that she could always tell when her authors switched from writing by hand to computers.  The writing was not as sharp, she told me, not as clearly thought-out.  I don't think I'd agree with that, but it was her own form of nostalgia.

So, as I used to do when writing pictures books for children, circling around at the end, while we're talking about nostalgia here's some memories: Thunderstorms crackling over the dry-board porch at my grandparent's summer home; ice cream made in a hand-cranked tub; lemonade made with real lemons, sugar and lots of ice; playing kick-the-can in the lawn with my brothers as the dark descended and the fireflies came out.  It was a good life.  For some of us.

Ok, surprise ending: The N.Y.Times Science Section today has a piece on "Fond Remembrances," by John Tierney, about the uses and value of nostalgia! If you want to listen to nostalgia-inducing songs, go to: nytimes.com/science.  Looks like fun.

MORE HORRIFYING HEALTH NEWS

It must be some kind of virus, a disease that makes my eyeballs skitter towards health news in various publications, online news feeds, etc.  Why, oh why, do we need to know anything else about protecting our bodies?  I hate to tell you but--WE ARE GETTING OLDER.  SHIT HAPPENS.  FEET GET GNARLY.  BLADDERS BECOME TESTY.  HAIR TAKES OFF FOR JAMAICA LEAVING US BEHIND.  AND LET'S NOT EVEN TALK ABOUT THE BACK OR THE KNEES.

So now one of the biggest pieces of "I am going to kill any possible shred of joy left in your life" news is, "Sitting is the new smoking."  Yes indeedy do.  Sitting consecutively for more than 3 hours at a time (some say 6 hours) contributes to: Diabetes 2, obesity, heart problems, and a host of other things including extreme crankiness and an inability to understand James Joyce.

As I sat in my Weight Watchers meeting two days ago (yes, those last few stubborn pounds love my belly and have no intention of ever leaving), the leader chirpily informed us of this horrifying news.  We came up with fabulous ways to keep moving, as in: keeping hand weights near the TV so we could do reps while watching "American Idol"; parking far away from the center of town to make us walk; getting up each hour to waltz around the room etc. etc.  I suggested buying a Jack Russell Terrier as my method to get up and moving.  It works, trust me.

Not content with practically ruining my happiness at sitting at the computer and writing (Dear Lord, I am actually dying as I sit here and write...), some other health organization whose name I have forgotten, probably due to overconsumption of twinkies when I was young, now tells us that egg yolks are terrible for our health.  Bad, bad, bad with a severe wagging of the finger at those of us who happen to like the occasional egg on a morning with some great coffee.  Where were these people ten years abo when the news first came out about these dangers?  Egg sales plummeted.  We got used to eating other things for breakfast--like steak.  I kept consuming modest amounts of eggs because they are a terrific source of lutein.  This is a fine phytochemical which helps those of us with Macular Degeneration (probably caused by watching too many "I Love Lucy" reruns). Lutein is marvelous for your eyes, and though I hesitate to contribute to yor physical collapse, I'd suggest you just not listen to this latest health bulletin.

Here's my informed and wise advice:  Walk at least 15 minutes a day, 30 if you have a dog, preferrably a Jack Russell.  Drink red wine.  Not a lot of it, mind, but at least one glass daily with perhaps a small top up.  Use olive oil on your food.  Put tumeric and cumin in your beans and other recipes because they are anti-inflammatories and very good for you.  Eat lots of veggies and fruit and moderate the red meat.  Here's the important part--laugh a lot, it's good for you, and keep up with your friends.

And, of course, being the religious nut that I am, it's clear to me that faith is good for you.  As long as it's not the kind of faith that tries to strong-arm the rest of the world into its own belief system, or the kind that takes out assault rifles and...you know the rest of the story.

We need to take ourselves way, way less seriously, and enjoy our short tenure on this beautiful and precious earth.  I believe it was Thomas Aquinas who once said, "Do you know why angels can fly?  Because they take themselves lightly."  Do I hear an Amen, anyone?

NAMES WE'D RATHER BE WITHOUT

Ok, fellow aging broads and broad-ettes.  Or, broaderinos.  If you are like me, you tend to cruise along occasionally reading the N.Y.Times Science section and getting horrendously guilty afterwards (I am not single-handedly saving the world from climate change!  I have not given 2 billion dollars to the eradication of malaria!  I could use my cholesterol numbers when playing the lottery, they are so high!), then let go of all that blamed information that is making us crazy and go have a glass of wine, or two, on the deck.  Or perhaps download a new crappy romance onto your Kindle--with the exception of "50 Shades of Gray," which doesn't qualify as writing.  Ever.  Or erotica.  Ever. Don't make me go into details.  It's too embarrassing.

So, I tend not to worry too much about my health, with brief episodes of sweaty dismay, but every now and then something rises up to slap me in the face.  It could be something like a disheveled and olive-sized parathyroid which had to be removed.  By a man with an English accent!  It made it all bearable, trust me.  Or, it could be an operation for carpal tunnel syndrome, which did t'job, as the Brits say.  We won't mention colonoscopies.  I am not an admirer of those.  But recently, I decided to do something about the fact that I peed somewhere upwards of 20 times a day.  Yes, that is right--twenty, as in, please don't ever drive too far away from a bathroom, or perhaps we could put a clivus multrum in a little trailer and tow it along with us wherever we go, even if it's only10 min. down the road to pick up the N.Y. Times.

I ordered lots of books over Amazon, my favorite addiction; read up on OAB, and decided I had that.  OAB.  It should mean: "Overactive Amazing Broad."  Or, "Officially Amazing Bitch."  Or something of your choice which is way sexier than, "Over Active Bladder."  What happened to partying naked?  Dave Barry brought that up years back when he spoke of his cronies getting together at parties to discuss their degenerate gums, crowns, and painful dental procedures that attempt to keep teeth inside your mouth.  Then they would josh each other and say, "Remember partying naked?"  Doctors tend to rear back when you bring up something with the word "naked" in it, also "partying."  As I did with my new doctor who was going to help me "retrain my bladder."  (This involves tiny whips and lots of treats...) That is about as opposite to "partying naked" as you can get, I think.  I left the office thinking that he probably has summed me up as a slightly crazed older lady who has swiftly read through the entire "50 Shades of" horrendous series.

I realize that you probably already know more about my body than you ever thought you wanted to know.  I am aware that keeping a "pee diary," except we call it, "void diary" (as if you had just lost part of your brain and were wondering where it had gone to...), and scheduling your pee visits is not something you really, really had to know. I just don't see all of this as me.  It doesn't fit my inner image of me.

The tragic thing is, all the substances I love most in the world--fresh orange juice, zesty tomato salad, chilled Chardonnay, frothing hot lattes, dark magic coffee, and chocolate--are not kind to the bladder.  Perhaps we need a new name for that little disobedient organ, something slightly sarcastic and amusing like, oh, Mr. Rumsfeld.  Or Cheney.  "How are you doing today, Cheney?" I could ask, and no one would know.  Wouldn't that be cool?

In retaliation for going from Over Abundant Blessed Broad to that....other name....I am going to go get my toes painted and my fingernails at the marvelous Cambodian nail place over at the mall.  I go there to relax.  I can't understand a word any of the young women are saying, but it sounds as if they are cracking each other up with witty jokes, sharing news of desperate boyfriends, and maybe talking about luscious food they are planning for the evening meal.  Instead of actually talking about their very own...Mr. Cheney.

And after that, maybe I'll buy a motorcycle so I can convince somebody who is at a distance with rather poor eyesight (think Mr. Magoo) that this hot dame in black leather is about to take off.  With her very own Mr. Cheney in tow.

GET OFF MY BACK, HEALTH-NUTS!

Ok, I am officially tired of people telling me I am going to die.  If I don't eat soy beans, drink almond milk, avoid sex, love my dog, participate in community, avoid red meat, give up, yadda-yadda-yadda.  You know the routine.  Here I am sitting on the slouchy couch at night, suitably tired from a day of wrestling with my new adult novel, which causes great swaths of uncertainty and self-loathing to wrap themselves about me. I am enjoying a glass of crisp, chilled Toasted Head Chardonnay when I read what awaits me if I eat hamburger or steak.  Or hotdogs, also bacon--which I don't actually eat that often.

The Chardonnay goes up my nose as I spit it out, exlaiming to Rick, "Another damn forbidden thing.  Joy-killers1"  I consider whether this is on the same plane as Rush Limbaugh excoriating Ms. Flute--decide it is not--but feel somehow diminished and bullied by people who insist on overseeing my health.  Even though I am disguised as an adult.  Of a certain age.

How is one to craft a life free of this kind of bullying, masked as helpful advice?  I mean--I do want to live as long as possible without horrid diseases corrupting my flesh.  I want to be healthy, also loving and compassionate, and something more than an aging broad thinking about taking up Spanx to make me slimmer, and overseeing every bloody bite that enters my body.

What else do I remember from bleak health news?  Oh, yeah.  Statins impact memory.  My memory is a shattered train wreck, but can I blame it on the Statins which actually help keep me alive by controlling my cholesterol?  What else:  Mmm, wine.  How bad it is to drink right after you exercise.  Who does that?  Not me.  How, if we are watching our weight, when we drink the body first metabolizes the alcohol, and the cheese fries you just ate go directly to your thighs, only losing their color on the way.  Well, doh!  But then another article appears telling me that one glass to one-and-a-half of white wine daily reduces my risk of heart attack by--do I remember?--17%.  That's a good statistic I think, sipping my Chardonnay and mopping up the drops resting on my bosom.

Damn.  Is nothing just fun anymore?  Have we turned into some kind of joyless Puritans, contemplating the sorry state of our immortal souls, except now it is the state of our mortal flesh?  Isn't it the same kind of impulse?  To fend off disaster by controlling everything that surrounds our bodies?

Ack.   The problem is that this flood of health articles, meant to keep us on the straight and narrow path, just make me want to break out and do something silly.  Also unhealthy.  Such as rush right down to the Miss Florence Diner for a plateful of eggs, sunny side up (but watch that uncooked egg white, babe), with three strips of meaty bacon, and two pieces of wheat toast (I'm not a complete fool here...) buttered.  "No, not dry," I'll tell the waitress in a guilty voice.  Then I plan to return home and sit unmoving in a chair with the windows closed, reading steamy romances on my Kindle (sure to be bad for me), and contemplating taking up chewing tobacco.

God.  Save me from health advice.  Let me be like my Jack Russell terrier, alert to life, eager for whatever is around the corner, be it a fat squirrel, something rather disgusting hiding in last year's wood pile, or a nice bit of rainwater in the ditch.  I'm going to take her as my health guide and throw over all the self-righteous health Puritans.  And if I die early?  So be it.  At least I'll be one happy broad.

Resolutions, or Whatever....

It's that time of year again. When we make silly resolutions, slap our too-full bellies, think about never drinking again, swear we will feed the poor and rescue people by the side of the road, resolve to give up laughing in a way that resembles a stark raving mad whinnying horse, and in general--despise our present selves for some unobtainable future self. It's sort of like being put into hell in the person of a teenager who only sees what they HOPE they will be, and not what they actually ARE.

Why do we do this to ourselves? From whenceforth cometh this self-loathing? For that is what I think it is. I can remember being a young teen and looking at some hairstyles in "Seventeen" magazine and thinking, wistfully and urgently; "Well, if I can just get some ROLLERS, and put them in THAT way, then, damn, I will be beautiful. Or, maybe just prettier." It had a magic about it. Like not stepping on cracks in the sidewalk, throwing salt over your shoulder (boy, does that date me!), or wishing on a star.

I just read an article in today's Sunday "Boston Globe" (this being New Year's day, 2012) about making resolutions, how human it is, how far back in history this goes, and how ultimately self-defeating it is. Apparently, there is something about just the making of a resolution which keeps us from meaningful change. Don't ask me what the "something" is because I didn't finish the article. That's a resolution I mean to make--to finish things I've started. (Like the two pairs of knitted socks for my husband which are sitting in a basket because some stupid LADY who works in a knitting store told me I had been knitting the wrong way for over 40 years. "Surely not 40," I whispered, full of self-loathing.) So those socks are just sitting there while I stare at them, flushed with defeatism and the conviction I will never knit again. I resolve not to make a resolution about finishing things I've started.

So what's an aging broad to do? Sitting in the UCC church today listening to absolutely mind-blowing beautiful Gospel music that made me want to get up and dance (and why didn't I? Let's resolve to dance in church this year, just not the Catholic Church....), I thought--with my heart and not my brain--"I want more music in my life. More liveliness. More dancing." I sat there some more, and when Rev. Andrea Ayvazian talked to us about letting go of our wounds and grief and regrets, I tossed a stone into a big empty metal cauldron listening to it clank with all the other stones, representing the griefs and regrets of others. "I want to let go of guilt," my heart said. "I want to let go of worry." Deep in my heart I felt that rattle of my own stone and the stones of others.

It seems to me, from the vantage point of being newly turned 66 (gasp, wheeze), that this is a good time to let go of things and also invite other things in. That's my take on the resolution business, which I am trying to give up: Simply invite into my life some activities I want more of--music, dancing, friends, and being outside. And let go of things which keep me from living fully--guilt, remorse, fear, and worry. I have been known to worry about our neighbor's dog, for God's sake, that she wasn't getting enough water in her crate. Also known for worrying about: the state of the world, conservative Republicans, climate change, my thighs, my low bank account, my eyes, my grown "kids", the health of my friends, and the lack of birds at my feeder. (Was it something I said? How about I buy you another feeder? Isn't this taking worry to a ridiculous extreme?)

So, without putting any time to this or sense that I have to make things happen now in the New Year, I am just going to do a little slidey dance which incorporates some cooler more lively things, and at the same time, I'm throwing some crap over my shoulder as I dance. Want to join me?

Integrating the Inner Italian

My husband and I have just come back from a refreshing one day, one night away at our favorite Gateways Inn in Lenox, Mass. I'm not quite sure how such a short stay can manage to rearrange my neurons so that they are far more pleasant than normal, but I'll try.

Imagine a very large room, beautifully decorated, with a gas fireplace in the corner and a deep tub with jets to soothe your aching muscles. Imagine sinking onto said beautiful, immense bed and taking out one's kindle to read truly trashy romances. (I have confessed to this before, I believe; I do not, almost never, read current adult fiction. I find it far too depressing.) Imagine the comfort of having one's husband of 44 years (gasp!) nearby, not far away at work, not on the computer, just there--available for hand holding and other good things, which the trashy, steamy romance could certainly lead to. Imagine this aging broad lowering herself carefully into the tub (well, maybe better not to imagine this part...), pouring in mineral bath liquid, and winding up with so much foam that I could totally have done a nude scene without annoying the Catholic Church or any other censors.

Then imagine going downstairs to sit on high stools at a bar--something we almost never do--and staring at the sparkling bottles containing more single-malt scotch than you could possibly imagine. Seriously. There has to be almost $50,ooo worth of liquor back there, maybe $100,000. (And everything on the shelves is polished with furniture polish every three days, in case you are interested.) Fabrizio, co-owner of the inn, suggests various malts to us, telling us which is more "peaty" than another. All I know is which ones make me cough the most. "Peaty" does not mean anything in my vocabulary. In the list of drinks, Rick notes one 25 year-old scotch which costs $875 per SHOT. Seriously. Fabrizio tells us about the man who came in, perched on a stool, and proceeded to have two shots of this amazingly expensive brew. "So, he had $1700 worth of malt at one time?" Rick gasped. Fabrizio nodded. "And then what do you do after that?" my husband persisted. Fabrizio spread his hands in a familiar Italian gesture, pursed his lips and said, "Enjoy."

What a concept. Enjoy. It seemed like a blessing for the entire time of our stay. Enjoy the bed. Enjoy the meal cooked by his wife Rosemary (who trained with the famous Italian cook, Marcella Hazan), including a beef tenderloin so tender it could be cut with the side of your fork. Enjoy the other guests in the small dining room--a man who works for a record company and at one time helped manage both Alex Rose and Courtney Love (who was not remarkably stable at the time, big surprise...). Laughter, wine, and good stories ensue, and the basic word is, "Enjoy."

It reminds me of another word which is frequently in my mind--"savor." It is a word that Fr. James Martin speaks of in his wonderful book, A Jesuit's Guide to (Almost) Everything. The whole concept of "savoring" is to let life's experiences rest in one--to almost rest on one's tongue, if you will. We will not gulp down experience, or gobble people and events, but just--taste them, savor them, and enjoy. It leads to a different stance in life, I do believe. We're not just consumers, rushers-through of our days, but people who wisely take things as they come, enjoying them when we can, and--if some events turn out to be painful, which they inevitably will--there is always help at hand. But then, I'm deeply religious, so my stance is not for everyone.

Enjoy. Savor. Good words for this season of excess and hurry, but also a season of friends, family, home baked goodies, fine wine, beautiful music (I've developed a taste for 16th-century Spanish Advent music, thanks to my brother's recent concert), and maybe a Midnight Mass or two.

And so I hope for all of you that this will be a time of savoring and enjoying; that you will feel as refreshed and nourished as we did after a day and a night away of supping on wonderful food, bathing in foamy baths, being together, and just celebrating this beautiful time of year.

Aging Broads and Droids

Hello, fellow techno-boobs. This aging broad succumbed to a wild impulse last week--brought on most likely severe light deprivation over this ghastly winter, and possibly a lack of fine red wine--and bought a Droid Veizon phone. What WAS I thinking of? I only do a few measly texts per week to my "kids", and usually send them off half-baked with wandering letters scattered across the pages, so that they have to call me and gently ask, "What DID you mean, Mom?" So to have this vibrating hunk of electronic gadgetry in my hand that speaks to me in a Martian voice--"DROID"--when I turn it on (hell, that's enough to make me have to use the bathroom and go back for a third cup of rich coffee..), and then offers so many possible apps and functions that it makes my mind wobble.

For example: trying to text my son who is in L.I. visiting his girlfriend, I sent a text saying I'd meet him at the bus station tomorrow after three. Somehow my pronged finger touched the wrong button, or pressed too hard on the right button, and my poor offspring continued to receive the same text ad nauseum. Over and over and over. Did I know how to stop it? No, indeedy do, I did not. I had to turn off the Droid and go fan my face, trying to assemble some semblance of sanity. Perhaps some progesterone would help.

Then I turned it on again and checked into the News and Weather section. An old "Berenstein Bears" book came to mind, when Mama bear (in her oh-so-cute androgynous flowered blue hat) decided the family was watching too much T.V., so they would turn it off for a week. Of course, the predictable ensued: Papa bear was found sneaking down at night for a T.V. hit, or lurking in the electronics section of the Mall, getting his TV fix. When asked how he would know about the weather, Mama pointedly opened the casement window and said, "Stick your hand out, baby," or something to that effect. Did I need to check the weather on my Droid when a quick glance out the window would have shown that it was snowing on the first day of Spring? No, I did not. But I did.

Then I went to the News Stories, containing enough bad news to send me straight for the Single Malt Scotch bottle: Libya in flames (I actually felt we should have gone in about two weeks earlier, but it was good to have the Arab League invite the U.N. in); Japan looking devastated; and more. I have to spread my shaking fingers about ten times on the teensy screen to get the print large enough for this aging broad's eyes, but finally I did it, enjoying reading about death and disaster as I sipped coffee and put off work, yet again.

Will this make me a better person? Probably not. Will my offspring call with barely concealed anger to tell me to stop sending them endless loops of texts from last year? Yes, they will. Will my darling husband patiently try to walk me through the various functions? Yes, he will. Then I will put down the tiny device which rattles me with its alien voice, open a book with pages that spread out, and probably light a candle somewhere. I secretly belong to the world of "Little House on the Prairie" (with, of course, indoor plumbing, advanced dentistry, antibiotics, and perhaps some percocet for joint replacements), and like the idea of reading aloud by candlelight. Only, those cold beds in the attic with the roofing nails tipped white with frost are not something I want to become acquainted with. With regret, I bid Laura goodbye, turn on my Droid again, and think about texting somebody far away who can't be angry with me when the same text appears over...and over....and over again.

Tell Me To Do What???

Ok, I have had it with gurus. Up to here. Both the spiritual kind and the health and physical fitness kind. Watching GMA this morning, the ever-present Dr. Oz was on (and he's a good guy, you can tell--anyone who does a whole show on what you can tell from human feces has got to be good, right?) telling us about our circadian rhythm and the optimum times for eating meals, snacking, and going to bed. Huh? Did I miss something? Isn't this what PARENTS used to do for us, and now that we are grown, do we really, really need this intense and scratchy oversight of our personal lives?

So, here's what we're meant to do: Get up at 6:30 a.m. each day (Oh, please, I stopped doing that when my kids graduated from High School; I am not a pretty sight at that hour of the day, and have been known to heave things off of the deck in disgust...); before you go out to exercise, he tells us (because this exercise burns fat and not the calories from just-eaten breakfast), do #1 and # 2. Really? Do I need to have you in my bathroom? I thought that ended when I was four years old. Then we eat breakfast at 7:30, after heaving our bodies around in some form of pre-dawn torture; make it 'til 11:45, have a high fiber snack (I assume he does not mean twinkies which have sat on my shelf for twenty years and look just as fresh as the day they were baked...), then lunch. Thankfully, he did not tell me what to eat. I probably would have thrown a stoneware plate through the plate glass window (something I have been known to do in the past...). Manage to contain yourself without adult oversight until supper at 6:30 p.m. Really? What about the folks who don't get home until 7:00? Leaving that question dangling, he then advises us to go to bed promptly at 10:00 p.m. Ok, I can see how in an alternate universe this would be a good idea, but not in this universe!

There's something so annoying in all of this--the idea that we cannot manage our adult bodies and lives on our own, thank you very much. And whatever the hell happened to common sense? Ok, ok, I know that many of us binge out on huge hamburgers and think flipping the remote control qualifies as exercise. But I don't. I push my body up the road when I walk our Jack Russell; I've been known to do the Wuss's Yoga Routine; I cook delicious things for all of the people I love who live in my house; I try to be in bed pretty early and not read a delicious novel until 12:00; but gimme a break--I am not going to follow this guy's pattern for a healthy life. I'm using my common sense, the smattering of rules my parents laid down in the pleistocene, and respond to the needs of my family, including the pyschotic cat who throws up almost daily on my bedspread. What would Dr. Oz have to say about THAT? Maybe she needs more fibre....I'll get back to you on this. Damn. Whatever happened to just having fun in our lives, without hurting too many people, including ourselves? Thomas Merton once spoke of throwing our "awful solemnity" to the winds, and that's what I'd like to do here. Just-throw-it-away. Have fun instead. You'll live longer, I know it

Oh, the 50's!

As I peered in the grimy mirror this morning, plucking my aging eyebrows and attempting to look 30 again, or perhaps 40, I thought about how long I have been trying to look "good." Do others out there have this painful realization?

It started in my early teens, as the vision of beautiful movie stars flitted across my vision: Rita Hayworth (ok, she was a LOT older than I am), Jayne Mansfield, and of course, Marilyn Monroe. How did they get their faces--not to mention their gorgeous bodies--to look so luciously perfect? I started with a small Maybelline mascara box--red. It opened to a narrow mirror on the top lid and a small cake of solid black mascara below, with a little groove for a brush. Oh, heaven! I remember spitting on the brush (who knew about hygiene then?), rubbing it on the mascara, and spreading it on my lashes. How killingly dashing. I was clearly well on my way to Marilyn Monroe-hood.

Then there was the bra. Is the bra. A torture device invented by some deranged person long ago. Never possible to actually drop one's breasts into it and fasten the closures behind. It had to be dragged around one's waist, fastened, and then sweatily shrugged up to enclose said breasts. Thank God there was no flesh sneaking past those rigid panels!

Then came the girdle. Did I need one at the slim age of 14? Clearly not. But I thought I did, and it meant I could wear stockings and fasten them at the top with those little nubby things that are only enchanting when someone is undressing you, preferably slowly.

Have we progressed since then? Have I progressed? Nope. Here's the drill. Wash face with expensive Patricia Wexler facial wash. Pat dry. (Rubbing might encourage wrinkles!) Spread on hideously expensive thick pink cream--also from Patricia Wexler--and wait for it to sink in. While it is sinking in (at least a ten minute proposition), spray water and conditioner on recalcitrant, short, curly hair, plus something expensive and stinky from Marshall's cosmetics section. Unwind hair dryer, which has almost plunged into toilet, and start to blow dry, using an enormous brush to straighten said too-curly hair. After 10 sweaty minutes of this, push into an assemblage of style and spray on some carcinogenic spray to keep it in place.

Pluck eyebrows, squinting busily into the grimy mirror, wondering if I should order one of those magnifying mirrors from catalogues for old people which contain products for hammer toes, urinary incontinence, and bathtubs which swing out vertically for the mobility-impaired. Sigh. Stroke black onto eyebrows to thicken them; afix glaze (my daughter uses vaseline) to keep thinning eyebrows in place. Dip eyeliner brush into green eye color and paint it at base of upper lashes as well as delicately below eyes. Try not to notice how much hand trembles. (Did I drink too much wine last night? Or is it just general debility...) Put a dash of glowing cream eye color above the green. Spread mascara carefully.

Now expensive Patricia Wexler pink cream is dry. Then spread P.W.'s day cream with factor 30 in it over face. Hmmm--is that a new splotch on my left cheek? Remnant of sunbathing in the Caribbean at noon wearing factor 2 suncream decades ago? Dot pale concealer under eyes and spread gently. Then take expensive Aveda toning cream and spread over face. Almost done. Line lips carefully and put on expensive Aveda rose lipstick, wondering if I should invest in one of those creams meant to plump out aging lips.

Are we done? Oh, say it ain't so! Not yet. There's the underwear, the bra (same problem still encountered), pants, and shirt. Then tape the vulcan-salute separating left toes, snuggle into sandals, and--what did I forget? Oh, right. The perfume. I know. Fragrance-free meetings defeat me. I know others suffer from my scent, and I feel for them, I do, and try to be sensitive to this. But for someone who all her life has felt she is unacceptable--that major construction work is needed to look even modestly acceptable--dabbing scent on wrists and neck is part of the essential reconstruction job. It makes me feel loveable. Just a tiny bit.

And the soul? Well, that's for my other blog: www.itsthegodthing.blogspot.com

Bite Me, Holiday Expectations!

Hello after a long absence, mostly due to a crushing deadline with my novel about a bipolar girl alive during the Salem Witch trials, The Father of Lies, but I'm back--brain a bit reamed out, and body fluffier from sitting too long in a chair.
I tried something different this year in our annual Christmas gathering with pots of food and goodies. We agreed first of all not to exchange any presents ("No, Presents?" my 19 year-old daughter exclaimed mournfully) which took away a lot of the pressure. (Will they like this? Will they think I'm OK to give this? Would they really rather heave this over the bridge into the rushing river because it is such a depleted and sad gift....)
I also did not send out Christmas cards, much as I love them, because they are such a time-suck. I recommend signing up for www.jacquielawson.com for her terrific animated cards, which can be sent for any occasion during the year. They are imaginative, cool, and original, come with music, and are full of motion--rather like the wizard photos in the Harry Potter books.
The third thing I did was open my hands and let go of my expectations of our family gathering: that we might put to rest uncertainties and tension; that everyone will be pleased with me; and that we will sally forth full of good cheer and bonhomie. Alors! We picked up my frail, aged stepmother (who still manages to be astounding and cranky with a certain Sicilian sharpness) and ferried her down for the gathering. Just helping her up the stairs made me realize how blessed I am to be steady on my own two feet; how easy it is for me to navigate stairs, changes in levels, and more.
When we sat down to supper, I just tried to listen for a change, instead of insisting that I have the last word or be right about everything (a theme in my natal family). Interestingly enough, by doing that the "I" that is "me" simply receded into the background. Somebody else was present, named Ann or Annie, but that person just occupied a chair and looked at the marvelous people assembled around our table: my two brothers (we're all in our 60's now!); my nephew and his lady from California; my younger brother's brilliant wife; my older brother's long-term girlfriend, musician, and speaker of French with her two girls; my husband (known for being witty); and my niece who, with great practicality and vision, manages a large apartment complex, as well as being an avant-garde musician.
So much talent at one table! And by the simple act of letting go and falling backwards, just a little, I was able to truly see people and appreciate how hard they work, the deep goodness within, and the wild humor which binds us together.
It was a good Christmas. Jesus was born in the stable, the Magi have come and gone, and the star I follow now has more to do with the brilliance of others than my own flickering brilliance.

Bite Me, Gay-Haters!

Ok, I tried to keep this sort of light and funny, but in the light of a recent hateful ruling passed by the state of Connecticut (the jowly Governor seemed to be right on-board with this one), I have to rant. Really. And bless Steve Colbert who brought this to my attention with a hard-hitting and hilarious show about this. According to Steve, this ruling prevented a man in Connecticut from retrieving the dead body of his LOVER. Somehow, loving someone of the same sex when they are dead seemed to be part of the whole gay-marriage imbroglio, where people trumpet the "one man-one woman" rule, as if hoardes of animals (somewhere over 300 I read) never get it on with species of the same sex. As Steve pointed out, we musn't even have cemetaries where gay couples can be buried side by side. Only one man and one dead woman are to be allowed. He also had a riff about "gay zombies" which was wonderful, but which my feeble and shattered brain has lost.
Why so afraid, oh, jowly-chinned governor with the little mean eyes? How can it possibly effect you to have either same-sex marriage or same-sex deaths and cemetaries? Somehow, in our need to pander to the fearful Christian right and folks who support DOMA, we have let cruelty seep into our veins, our mouths, our eyes. As a wildly liberal Christian, I always find it sustaining that Jesus not once--not ever--said anything against homosexuality. Lots about the evils of money. Lots about the evils of rigidly adhering to rules which are impossible to follow. A great deal about letting go of fear and anxiety. So I'm about ready for some light-imbued mystic from another dimension to crash through the doors of this culture and say, gently but firmly, "Fear not." And, "Peace be with you."

Bite Me, Dating Scene!

I must confess that I am not in the current dating scene nor have I been in it since I was twenty years old, which was a gazillion years ago. I've had friends who divorced and then tried getting back into the dating scene, including one thing which amazed me--High Speed Dating. It's sort of like musical chairs with potential dates; you sit at a table with one guy (assuming you're into guys, that is), talk rapidly about anything you can think of (I would probably blather about my dog) , and when the buzzer sounds, you leap to the next table for another intimate encounter. Wow. Talk about spending time trying to get to know someone! Whatever happened to that?
As a child of the 50's (with a grandmother who was an actual, certified Victorian of great innocence, charm, and education), I was led to expect that one should put a little time into this business of getting to know someone. Especially someone with whom you might lie down in bed--or the grass--and investigate the perils and the marvels of human love. I actually wound up marrying the man I dated when I was sixteen-seventeen (gasp!), and by some magical alchemy and luck, we're still together. We took some time. Emphasis on some.
Each Sunday I read with fascination and trepidation the Globe Magazine spread on dating called, "Dinner With Cupid" (or, "Dinner With Stupid," my husband jokes) where they match up a guy and a girl, they meet for supper and wine at some cool place, and try and figure out if they have anything in common at all--other than belly buttons and screwed up feet. So they go out: they assess each other immediately; they judge each other's sense of humor, looks, friends, interests, sex appeal, and work. How can you possibly get to know someone in the space of 2-3 hours over a dinner? Did it work that way for you? I think this is basically insane, and we need to go back to the concept of actually getting to know someone. As in that fine old tune, "Getting to know yoouuu..." I'm not for going back to the repressed sexuality of the 50's, but I'd like to see people taking their time--savoring their dates--and being willing not to make a judgment in five minutes.
A dear friend of mine, after his divorce, met his current love-to-be, and they dated for four months before becoming intimate. Astounding. Not sure when the first kiss occured, but here's what's novel about these souls--they took their time.
Here's to savoring getting to know you--here's to holding back on judgment--here's to enjoying the unfolding of another human being, petal by petal, like some slow-blooming delectable rose. Bite me, speed dating!

In Praise of Small Dogs

Ok, I know this isn't a rant. "Praise" somehow doesn't go with "rant." But I'm not in a ranting mood, particularly when I view the object of my current affections--a small (12 pound), longhaired Jack Russell terrier named "Nita."
I used to be very scornful of anyone who owned a small dog. (Hell, I used to be more scornful in general before life and events scraped a little mercy into my soul.) How could they cradle that disgusting, furry creature in their arms, bringing them up to KISS them (ugh!), murmuring sweet nothings in doggese--"Wittle sweetums! Wittle yum-yums!"
But a few years ago my generous sister-in-law presented us with a white dog with a brown eye patch who unerringly tasted the moods in our house: if someone was sad, Nita would plant her front paws on our chests and lick our eyes. (This should be an "ugh!" but, trust me, it isn't.) If we were a tad manic, she'd out-manic us by performing what came to be known as "bullet-ass," running around the house, bounding over the sofas, and careening under the kitchen table, with her ass tucked under. It didn't matter how bad a mood you were in, bullet-ass would kick you out of it.
Then there's the wordless murmurings and furry kisses. I admit to inventing some new sound which I can only approximate as, "Wmmm-mmm, umm-meee," repeated at cozy intervals as the dog cocked her head and seemed to appreciate it. I hate to admit that I probably kiss this dratted dog more than any other significant other in my life. (Sorry, Rick!) There's something so loveable about a creature who does not ask for love, who puts up with great dignity a deluge of kisses and odd murmurings.
So, bite me! I am besotted of a tiny creature who has no language and cannot read Proust. Or directions. Or open child-proof bottles. But she sure is an expert on love.

Bite Me, Pseudo-Girdles!

All right, I've reached that age. It used to be that my mother-in-law would assess my hip width with a strict gaze, making little motions with one hand, pursing her lips, and then saying--"You know, Ann, you've got good hips for child-bearing!" Happy to know that, mom-in-law! And these hips did happily accomodate two babies. But somehow, we have gone from the fruitful-of-loins category to the needing-to-be-reined-in category. I rammed up against this a few weeks back when I was shopping at my favorite high-end store which I can no longer afford to shop in. I think I had managed to find some garment under $100 (perhaps it was one sock, not even a pair), when the saleslady gave me an assessing look, and with a little purse of her lips mentioned that, "I wear this tightening pair right under my dressy pants, say, if I'm going to a wedding or something." What in hell was she talking about? "Tightening pair?" "You mean GIRDLE?" I replied in a bitter voice. She shook her head. " Not really that, just--tightening," she made the same motion with her hand as my mother-in-law had done years ago. But this time it was clear: the width of my body was no longer to be celebrated and acclaimed--it was to be reined in and reduced.
Hell, I know I shouldn't be going downstairs to make chocolate chip cupcakes. Or oatmeal scones. Or Earl Grey tea with cream and one sugar. (I have my limits, after all!) But this "tightening" thing triggers all sorts of warning signals. Such as; scenes of ladies in the late 50's standing stock still on an exercising stand with some sort of elastic tubing whipping back and forth against the butt, hopefully to reduce it. And all without any effort on our parts! Second warning signal: Memories of real girdles which were made with some sort of fossilized mamoth skin, devoid of elasticity and rigid on the body. Meaning--don't eat or drink when wearing this baby! I'm sorry, those days are gone, simply....gone. We know that a smaller stomach would probably be a good thing, for all sorts of reasons. But I've developed a fondness for my second stomach, my marsupial pouch. Sure, I've almost forgotten what it was like to sit down and not have my front half fold into separate layers, with a whisper of sound. But the good news is this: come to my house any afternoon and I am sure to have something freshly baked to go with tea. You get taken care of as do I. We share tea, talk about our lives--the parts that work and the parts that don't--and lave ourselves with fresh goodies and companionship. Forget the tightening thing--it's for people who care. And people who are trying to look like something they aren't any longer.

Sexy Older Men, Unite!

I am getting tired of smooth-faced men in movies and on the television, as if all of us women out here were in our twenties and looking for amorous partners of the young persuasion. I'm not sure when this happened--when I stopped looking at gorgeous young men and turned my gaze, instead, to older men, preferably with a lot of gray on their heads, and with faces seamed with laughter and years of personal history. It is unutterably entrancing to see a man with a lived-in face: I can almost trace the lines with one finger: there, those are from your first divorce; there, those around your mouth are from laughing at your toddler going fishing in the toilet bowl one day; there, that dent in your chin is from clenching your teeth when you had a teenager driving on the freeway; and there, on your forehead, lines of concentration, from working long hours, studying, and just--showing up, day after day after day.
That's what I find sexy. A lived-in face and a lived-in body. And someone who remembers the same generation of music that I do, similar jokes, and foods that no longer grace the supermarket shelves, like cereals with Sergeant Preston decoder rings. It makes me feel at home.

Kindergarten Boot Camp

From watching my kids go through school, I've been aware of the increase in high-stakes testing throughout the grades, starting in elementary school. I've always thought standardized testing to be a piss-poor way of assessing kids' abilities, but things have fallen to a new level (don't get me started on No Child Left Behind) with kindergartens and what is currently happening. In last week's Boston Gobe magazine, I was horrified to read about kindergarten kids being not only assessed for "kindergarten readiness" (what? You can hold a pencil upright without falling over?) but judged on their performance in "class." Recess now only occupies 30 minutes in many classrooms, says the Globe, and 2-3 hours are spent on instructing kids in reading, writing, and being tested in said areas. Wow, what the hell happened?
Here's my theory: having just finished a book set during the Salem Witch trials of 1692 ("The Father of Lies", 20011, HarperCollins), I am saturated with Puritan culture and all of its wonderful abilities to bring out the best in children. I think we've never left this behind, no matter that we have girls piercing their bellybuttons, and TV shows with gyrating participants. This need to probe the depths of our children--to assess whether they are "worthy" and "saved," a frequent occurence in 1692, has not left us. We just dress fancier and flashier, have more cash, but certainly don't drink more. (Little known fact about Salem: lots of drunkenness occured there, and I won't mention bestiality....) Why the hell can't we let kids just be....kids? And get on with the business of climbing ladders, sailing down slides, twirling on ropes, playing tag, and all of the other wonderful activities that let children develop into the great people they will be? Why must we continue to measure, assess, and weigh? Puritans. Still alive. In us. In our culture. Bite me, testing firms, destroyers of childhood!