My Red Coat

On Saturday I arrived on vacation without a book to read. Any book from the stack on my kitchen counter would have done nicely, sure, but for some reason I never threw one in my carry-on. Hard to believe. I was without a book on vacation. Harder to believe.

Nothing caught my eye in the airport. Mostly “Orange Man Bad” tomes. After I landed, I popped into the local Walgreens hoping to find a light memoir, maybe a biography. Nope. Just junk-food literature. You know, stuff by Nora Roberts and Danielle Steele and Robyn Carr, who by all rights shouldn’t be able to sleep at night, and who should be arrested for the petty crime of hooking lonely women on the mindless drivel that they pump out every thirteen weeks. While writers with real talent, those of us who understand real dialogue, and how real men and women speak and act, stand firmly beside our literary morals and watch these amateurs, these half-wits, rake in the big bucks.

But I digress.

I browsed the romance novels, just for fun. Sexually suggestive titles like Long, Hot Texas Summer, Virgin River, Laid Bare, and Beasting Beauty featured scantily-clad women in mid-embrace with tan, buff pec-blessed studs, implying that maybe the women gave in to their desires, maybe they didn’t.

Who knows and who cares?

One particularly insipid title, Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake made me so angry, I grabbed all five copies and placed them on a shelf in the gardening section. I hoped I at least gave someone a laugh for the day.

I have to have at least one book on vacation. I mean, when you wake up at 5:00 a.m. in someone else’s home, you’d better be able to entertain yourself for four to five hours. I’ve developed a routine here. I brew a cup of coffee from her Keurig, I pet her cat, I post on my blog, I pet her dog, I check my phone notifications, I pet her other dog, I brew another cup of coffee and then watch the desert sunrise from her back patio. Then I read. This routine has served me well.

(Wait, what do you read? You still don’t have a book!)

Oh, right. Thanks for reminding me.

When I arrived, my friend handed me a book she thought I would like, at least until she could get me to the local Barnes and Noble. It was a motivational book titled On Fire, by John O’Leary, who had been burned in a gasoline fire as a young boy. So ashamed of his deep scars, he wore long-sleeves and long pants, no matter what the weather, well into his twenties. Since his face hadn’t been burned, he did a pretty fair job at keeping his story a secret from anyone outside of his family and his close circle. He didn’t even date, in fear of being found out.

No nookie for John.

And while the story of his recovery was courageous and inspirational, it was a little too cheesy, a little too maudlin for my taste. I mean, the anecdote about the little girl with the red coat, who walks into the classroom, and throws her coat on the floor? Please.

Please pick it up, the teacher tells the little girl.

The little girl shook her head.

Pick your coat up, honey.

It’s not mine, the little girl answered.

I just saw you come in with it, the teacher answered. Please pick your red coat up off the ground and place it neatly in your cubby, the teacher admonished.

It’s not mine, the girl screamed.

We saw it, we saw it, we saw it on you, the other students screamed.

No, no, no, no, no, she screamed. It’s not mine!!!!!!!!

The point of the story?

Own it. If it’s yours, own it. You can’t just throw your shit on the ground, make everyone have to walk around it and step on it, and continue to pretend it didn’t happen. If it belongs to you, PICK YOUR SHIT UP.

Your life story, that is.

Oi, I thought, as I closed the book On Fire. Off to B&N.

After an hour of perusal, I picked up No Happy Endings by Nora McInerny. Nora’s widowed life parallels my own in that she is a widow, a writer, and a blogger. The description of her abject sorrow and frustration when a tricycle she had ordered for her young son arrives in a big box resonated with me deeply. She was so happy ordering that bike for her son. It had made her feel empowered, that she could take care of him herself, the way she had promised her husband she would. But when that box arrived, and she realized she would have to assemble it herself, she flopped down on her floor and wept. How can she do this herself? Her husband always did this stuff.

She wept as she opened the box. She wept as she read the instructions. She wept as she put the pieces together. She wept when she thought she was done, but then the handlebars fell off. But eventually you know what?

She did it. Herself. It took her eight hours, but when her son came home from school, there was a shiny blue tricycle sitting in the driveway. His joy at seeing that bike was the first time she ever thought, “Yes. I can do this myself.” And any widow can attest that this is both an empowering and sad moment. When you realize you are on your own, and you must figure things out on your own. And when you do, you feel pride. But you also feel sad that other women have men in their lives to help them with stuff. And you don’t.

(Brief pause for Pity Party……)

O.k., all done.

But something more struck me as I read Nora’s memoir.

She discusses her penchant, her attraction, to people with stories. People with miles on them, miles they wear proudly. People who have been through shit, tough shit, and who have emerged, stronger, wiser, kinder. People who have walked through the fire and come out smarter and cleaner. People who own their life stories, who wear them with pride, who…

Wait, fire? Recovery? Stories? Baggage?

Have you heard it yet? A lot like John O’Leary’s book, right? Turns out John O’Leary’s real healing didn’t start until he decided to show the world those scars. Until he started talking about the accident, his guilt, and his intense pain, he couldn’t even entertain the notion of loving or being loved. Once he owned up to his story, all good things began to happen.

Hm.

So if you will forgive my journalistic transgression of burying the lede so deeply in this post that it may be unforgivable, let me leave you to ponder the metaphor. And as I wrap up my week here, I think of O’Leary and McInerny’s messages and hope that with my blog posts, I do the best I can to own my stories. And that I wear my red coat with pride and dignity.

That’s the best I can do. Have a great weekend. You bet your ass I will.

Twenty Things People Have the Shocking Capacity to Be Surprised by Over and Over Again

This is in homage to my good friend the late Nora Ephron, who I have to thank for the title of this post. Her version of this list is included in her book I Remember Nothing, but the following items are mine (*these are Nora’s. They were too good to not include).

  1. People who claim to understand nutrition still refuse to eat the egg yolk.
  2. Cameron Diaz and Nicole Richie are sisters-in-law.
  3. Hollywood and its vacuous celebrities have absolutely no influence on any voter in the country.
  4. Democrats vote Democrat. Republicans vote Republican.
  5. Pornography is mainstream.
  6. Bagels contain the same amount of carbs as four pieces of toast.
  7. If you like bagels, the carbs are irrelevant.
  8. Women like the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition too.
  9. *Howard Stern is nice in person.
  10. Big houses are expensive and will eventually be too big for the people living there.
  11. Men like nakedity. Period. You’re beautiful.
  12. We have never, and will never, deserve animals.
  13. We will all eventually get old, gray and lumpy, no matter how hard we fight it.
  14. *Freedom of the press belongs to the man who owns one.
  15. The stock market and golf scoring are impossible to explain to someone who simply doesn’t care.
  16. *The Democrats are deeply disappointing.
  17. Everyone has secrets they have never told anyone, and never will.
  18. The importance of a Presidential election is always about the Supreme Court.
  19. Dietary cholesterol has nothing whatsoever to do with your cholesterol count. Enjoy the hell out of that butter.
  20. Busy used to be the new thin. Now masks are the new busy. People used to post pictures of themselves on Instagram doing various activities- travel, school events, 5Ks. Now they post pictures of themselves wearing a mask while working, cooking and playing from home. Food porn seems big, too. Big colorful pictures of jambalaya spread across Instagram with the caption, “Look what we made!” Not sure how I feel about any of it, not sure I even care, but I know this: masks don’t do shit.

Tabula Rasa

As I sipped coffee at sunrise, Castle Rock loomed over the simple Sedona resort, the light hitting the massive structure at different angles. At first the edifice showed me an angry face, complete with furrowed brows and a downcast scowl. Suddenly, it transformed into a castle stronghold. Then in the instant it took me to greet a fellow guest out on her early morning hike, Castle Rock had become a series of buttresses.

That’s the magic of Sedona. It never shows you the same thing twice.

As I considered the seeming implacability of Castle Rock, for some inexplicable reason I thought of Alex Honnold. A fan of the sport of rock climbing, I have followed his career from when he was 23 until his most recent stunning accomplishment, a free solo climb of El Capitan at Yosemite National Park. I knew if Alex were here, looking at Castle Rock, he would not see just a majestic rock. He would certainly not be content to look at it with awe as I was doing this early morning.

Alex would see untapped potential. A tabula rasa. A rock face to be scrambled on and conquered. A series of footholds, handholds, and crevasses. Small indentations in the rock that would allow him to scale it, and ultimately summit.

Probably in ten minutes.  

(Alex’s friends see him staring intently at the rock.

“No, Alex. You’d better not.”

AH: “I have to.”

“Don’t.”

He pulls on his climbing shoes and begins to run through the desert brush, yelling back at them.

“I have to. I’ll be back before you’re out of the shower.”)

I envy him. I envy all rock climbers. They are a different breed. They drive around, show up to these rocks with some rope and carabiners, in some cases nothing, and just scale stuff. To hold onto a smooth rock by one finger and dangle hundreds, sometimes thousands of feet in mid-air reliant only on their own body weight defies everything that is natural.

But it’s what they do. It’s what they love. It’s what makes sense to them.

It’s their tabula rasa.

We all create in our own ways, don’t we? Possess the ability to make something out of nothing? To see space, air, an object or an odd assortment of miscellaneous objects and put them together into a creation that makes sense? To gaze upon something and see what it can do, what it can look like, what purpose it can serve?

Like waves. When I look at a wave, I see water. But my sons see undulations, tubes, crests and lips, and how they can potentially use the movement of that wave, the energy of it, to glide effortlessly over it and through it on their surfboards. If you’ve ever seen a surfer checking the waves before a session, you will notice they are quiet. They are intent. They are studying. So that once they are on their boards in the water, they already know what that wave will do before it does it, and how they can react to it.

This is their own individual brand of art. Their creation.

A professional golfer doesn’t just see grass. He sees undulations in the course, slopes and grades. He sees what to do with his body, his hips and his wrist to make his club hit the ball in such a way that it avoids that sand, that copse of trees, that water hazard, in order to make it into that little hole in four shots. That’s his art.

This goes for any artist. You may see a pile of roots, powders and strange vegetables, while chefs see heat, pounding and reduction, eventually a stew. You see an empty space in a house, while an interior designer sees color, and angles and lighting necessary to create the perfect living space.

Trainers create elite athletes from body movement and weight training. Fashion designers create a beautiful dress from five yards of silk. Teachers create challenging and charismatic lessons out of arcane and basic knowledge. Builders use tools and drills and nails to build mansions. Parents transform tiny helpless infants into walking, thinking prescient adults.

My tabula rasa is creating stories out of everyday life. You see an empty piece of paper, I see a story. My tools are a buttery-soft journal, the small red notebook I carry everywhere, an extra-fine tipped pen and a new document opened in Microsoft Word.

My tabula rasa is also silence. Observation. Anticipation. Confrontation. A five-minute exchange at a coffee shop. A laugh shared with a friend. A crackling fire. The excitement at the thought of seeing someone I love. A mountain cathedral. A painting by Andrew Wyeth. The dignity of an old dog, the laughter of a small child. A sunrise or a sunset. The ocean, the mountains, the desert.

The world.

What is your tabula rasa?

Whatever it is, feel gratitude that you can wake up fresh every day to a clean slate and practice your art. Whatever is it. Because the art that you create is unique, and no one can see it, build it, or practice it quite like you.

Here’s to scaling rocks the best way we can. Every day.

Snippets

I’m brewing my coffee and waiting for the desert sunrise, and have no blog prepared. I could tell the story about how my friend and I got into our car after lunch yesterday, and that it took a full five minutes to realize it wasn’t ours. Or the story about how after my sunset hike yesterday, I entered my chalet, and it took me another full five minutes to realize that wasn’t ours. Or the fact that I hiked alone yesterday, and really and truly believed at one point that my worst fear had come true: that I was lost and alone on the trail. But that’s the end of the stories. Not funny, just kinda dumb. We all have dumb stories like that.

I have a few snippets left from my flight that don’t rate a whole blog on their own. And the sunrise is minutes away, and I don’t want to miss it. Wherever you are, no matter what your situation, I hope you are able to get up and enjoy the sunrise. If that is all you are able to do in your life, that’s not a bad life. To able to wake up, walk to the bathroom, brush your teeth, brew your coffee and watch the sunrise.

That’s a better life than most have. So remember to practice gratitude. I’ll have something better tomorrow.

“Group 1 Guy Who Has to be First in His Seat No Matter What” Starter Pack:

            Traveling Solo

Bald

            Baseball hat

            Whippet thin

            New Balance sneakers

            Windbreaker

            Khakis

Group 1 Guy hovering near me waiting to board asks me if I mind that he is standing so close to me, considering the “social distance” sign right near us. I felt like asking him that if he saw the sign, then why stand so close? But instead I answer, “You could crawl on top of me, and I wouldn’t care.” He looked at me funny, and I began to tell him I didn’t mean it like that, that it was simply my way of applauding his non-conformity. But I was bored, and I tend to say and do crazy shit when I’m bored, so I let him think what he wanted. He asked me where I was headed when I got to Phoenix, and I told him I was beginning my novice training in a convent. He left me alone after that.

What are people talking about at that counter when I’m waiting to board my flight? I’ve never stood at that counter in my life. Is it an information desk? Like, are people asking about what kind of plane it is, what kind of engine is inside it? If they can get discount coupons for water parks? Where the bathrooms are? The risk of crashing? The conversations seem so intense. And the attendants are always on the phone and always look like they’re ignoring the person asking the questions. It looks so one-sided. I never want to have any reason to stand at that counter.

I’m pretty sure my young seatmate is texting someone that “the woman who is sitting next to me is a total bitch.” Everyone always thinks I’m a bitch because I don’t engage in conversation. It’s o.k. Introverts of the world unite. Society needs to understand that we only have so much juice in our social batteries, and we can’t possibly squander any of it on a young twenty-something girl wearing a jean jacket. It is tragic. And I’m sorry. But It Is.

I’m considering asking Avis if they have any convertibles when I get to Phoenix. I have always wanted to drive a convertible through the desert, and I think it would be fun to sale through Sedona with my friend like we’re Thelma and Louise. At this I pause, remembering I need to be able to drive sober, and wishing once again that plane alcohol burned off faster than ground alcohol.

Finnster

While walking through the terminal of Philadelphia International Airport on Saturday, I was happy to see that private lounges are open again. I like them for the quiet. I like them for the comfortable chairs. I use them to catch up on email, maybe listen to a stray podcast, send last minute texts, write and think. As I took the empty elevator up to the lounge, I marveled again at how quiet the airport was.

The joys of traveling when schools are in session are boundless.

The lounge was fairly empty, only a half dozen or so people sitting quietly and trying to work. I grabbed a cup of coffee and some fruit, but no sooner had I settled in the back corner of the lounge, all hell broke loose. Because in walked the ever-present Mom and Dad with the Four-Year Old Kid to shatter my early-morning reverie. The Mom and Dad with the Four-Year Old Kid always show up to shatter everyone’s reverie. It was almost comical how certain I was that it would happen. That they would look around the almost empty-lounge, spot me working quietly in the corner, and then plunk their act right down next to me at the adjacent table.

(If I’m on an empty beach, some jack-nod will plunk herself down right next to me. If I’m in an empty movie theater, some nimrod will sit down right in front of me. If I’m parked in an empty parking lot, some ass-stick will park right next to me. I’m sure it has something to do with energy, physics, and time-continuum. But it happens to me everywhere I go).

Don’t misunderstand me. This is America, money is money, and those parents have just as much of a right to be there as I do. But I can’t think of an occasion in my life when I would have ever felt it necessary to bring my pre-school aged child into a private lounge where people are trying to work, network and engage in business. I would have been too embarrassed, and way too respectful of business people. Eggs Benedict, croissants, special Wi-Fi, mimosas? Really? For a kid who eats Cheerios off the ground? Your four-year old needs this luxury?

It is a different time.

The kid’s name is usually Hunter, or Noah, or Liam, and he’s usually crying. He is an only child, and since he is used to having his needs met immediately, he doesn’t fuck around. He wants what he wants the way he wants it, and he wants it yesterday. He has his own personalized luggage, and a Paw Patrol backpack. Or Doc McStuffins. Or whatever character that the Disney channel is selling as cartoon-crack at the time. Hunter/Noah/Liam is always precocious, he is always adorable and he is always naturally manipulative.

On this recent morning, the child’s name was Finn, and mom and dad ran back and forth to the buffet a minimum of twenty times. Dad, who looked wistfully towards the bar he so keenly wanted to patronize, kept chanting. “Isn’t this special place cool, Finn? Isn’t this awesome? Isn’t this fun, Finny? Are you happy, Finn? Are you happy?”

Mom, wearing mom jeans and sneakers, with her hair in a thin, blonde, stumpy ponytail, rapidly fired a series of rhetorical questions at Finn.

“Did you like those special eggs, baby? Do you want oatmeal? How about toast? A bagel? Fruit? Apple juice? A sweet? You can have anything you want in this special lounge, Finnster.”

Money and luxury thrown away on a little kid with plastic light-up shoes and snot running down his face, and who will never remember it anyway. All parents have done it. We’re all guilty of it. The spacious rooms with jacuzzi tubs, the fancy Disney hotels, the character breakfasts, the all-inclusive park passes, and all they remember is the hotel pool and the time when dad pushed them to the elevator on the wheeled luggage rack.

The Finnster threw grapes. The Finnster threw hummus. The Finnster spilled his apple juice, twice. His loud, messy act took over the whole lounge, and pissed off all the businessmen who pay fees in order to have the right to sit in this lounge and avoid kids like Finn. The parents apologized over and over to the lounge attendant (whose job isn’t crappy enough, now she had to get down on her knees and scrape chickpeas off the expensive carpet).

“We’re making such a mess, we’re so sorry, we’re so sorry,” mom said. “Finny, thank the nice lady for cleaning up your mess, and promise her you will be more careful.”

That beautiful baby boy smiled malevolently and answered, “Finn is gone. You can call me Damien Thorn.”

Damn, what happened to the good ol’ days of traveling with little kids? I’m not even talking about the trips I went on with my parents, those free-falling unsecured spirals into space without seatbelts in the family station wagon with my head up Barbie’s butt and my feet on the grill grates. I mean the days when Mom and Dad waited at the gate and let their kids nosh down on Cinnabons and Skittles and candy bars and Coke, while they took turns watching the baby and doing tequila shots at the bar?

Now THAT’S parenting.

By the time Finny/Damien gave his parents clearance to pack up and make their way to the gate, I had by that time moved away from them. But as they walked past me, highly disgruntled and crumpled with sweat and ire, with Hunter’s shoes lighting up with every step, I heard Dad mutter to Mom.

“Great idea. He would have been just as happy with a doughnut.”

There’s hope.

Airplane Peanuts

A friend texted me to tell me she had enjoyed my blog post that day.

“Does this stuff really happen to you?” she asked me, laughing.

“Unfortunately,” I said. “If you read it, it happened.”

“But HOW?” she said.

Dunno. Maybe I’m more keyed into the human condition than the average person. Maybe my life force draws in the nonsensical. Maybe I see the ridiculousness of life easier than most. But it’s more likely that this stuff happens to everyone, I just happen to have a blog where I can write about it.

“I doubt it,” she answered. “Crazy shit like that doesn’t happen to me.”

Point taken.

So as I prepare to fly out this weekend, I feel it’s an opportune time to talk about my preference for first-class travel. Only a handful of people know this story, and now all of you will. The implication is not that first-class is so “elite” that crazy shit doesn’t happen there. No. It’s that crazy shit is less likely to happen there, and if it does, the big seats will hopefully keep it further away from me.

To begin with, my first-class trip to Iceland spoiled me. It sure did. I was in a fragile, confused, and anxious state, I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and there I was, in this luxurious spacious seat, being handed fuzzy slippers, warm cookies, champagne and soft blankets. I never felt more pampered in my life outside of a high-end spa.

I was hooked.

So if the price for a first-class ticket is reasonable, I buy it. Not for the food. Not for the drinks. Not for the status. For the comfort. Flying can be intolerable for an introvert, the close quarters of airplane seats just too close for comfort. First-class provides that little bit of extra room that affords us the privacy we need.

So the story.

Last spring, in 2019, I was planning a trip to Boston. I was taking my son and his girlfriend to look at some schools, and since I had so many frequent flier miles, we decided to fly. The flight from Philadelphia to Boston is only ninety minutes, and since my miles did not cover first-class anyway, I booked three coach tickets.

By this time, I hadn’t flown coach in two years, and it was immediately an assault on my senses and nerves. “Only ninety minutes,” I told myself, and I settled into my seat, turned on my music, and tried to relax. My son and his girlfriend had seats in the row behind me, and they quickly snuggled into their phones and each other. The seat next to me near the window was still empty, and since it was a full flight, I wondered what kind of specimen would inevitably end up next to me.

Shame on you, Mary, I thought to myself.

Finally, she arrived, late, a polyester-red panicked heavy-breathing flurry in the aisle. She was making quite a scene, so I glanced at her in my peripheral vision. Big. Sweaty. Ill-fitting business clothes. Lots and lots of bags filled with papers (my guess was she was an elementary school teacher transporting reports on the water cycle across state lines). Clutching a 72-ounce Dunkin Donuts coffee confection. You know, the cup of “coffee” that poses as coffee but is really liquefied donuts.

She turned to the flight attendant.

“Would you mind holding my coffee while I settle in?”

“Of course,” the attendant said. “Take your time.”

(Hah. Boy, did she. Take her time, that is. That flight attendant had to stand in that aisle holding that woman’s coffee for five minutes).

She excused herself to me and apologized for being late. I smiled, and politely stood to give her access to her seat. She had a lot of girth and bags and lifeforce to cram into a small space, and I felt bad for the effort it took for her to jam herself in. As I waited patiently in the aisle, I tried to catch the eye of my son and his girlfriend. When I looked, I saw that they were already staring at me and smiling, amused at the spectacle and my barely-hidden distress (is there any better feeling in the world than looking at people you love and seeing that they are already looking at you, because they know exactly what you are thinking and feeling?).

I smiled back at them and nodded.

Yes, I said to them subliminally. She is mine. All mine. They shook their heads and began to laugh silently as if to say, “Sucks for you,” and went back to their phones and their worlds.

Once she was finally settled, she thanked me, and we waited for takeoff. Our departure time came and went, and through the Mozart playing softly in my ear buds, I heard an announcement that our takeoff was slightly delayed due to the queue on the runway.

Great, I thought, and I tried to think of pleasant things. Grey Goose martinis. Puppies. Seared scallops. Boat rides. Boston Common. I smiled and began to drift into that zone where things are soft and fluid. Not sleep. Just contentment. It was then that I was jarred out of my nirvana by the frenetic energy of my seatmate.

It wasn’t just frenetic. Or nervous. It was something I had never seen before. She re-arranged her bags. She played with her phone. She fixed her hair. She dug in her purse. She removed her coffee lid and snapped it back on. She touched the window. Pulled down the screen. Pulled it back up. I was able to watch this entertainment not just in my peripheral vision, but by looking straight at her, because her body was turned completely to the outside. She was turned full-on towards the window, her back to me.

Her bizarre behavior continued. She wouldn’t stop. I wondered if she had done crack before she boarded, or if she was on her third or fourth 72-ounce jug of coffee. Maybe she is afraid of flying, I thought, but that didn’t explain why she was turned and staring at the tarmac. Not my problem, I thought, and I decided to mind my business and give her the privacy she so obviously wanted. At least she’s not trying to talk to me, I said to myself. I shut my eyes and blocked her out.

Fifteen minutes became thirty, and we were still sitting on the tarmac. Ugh, my son texted me. I know, I answered. Finally, after an hour wait, the plane began to taxi. As we ascended, I felt a shift in energy, and Miss Coffee Confection changed strategy. It is at this moment that the story really begins.

(If you would like to look up the term “dermatophagia,” you would be well-advised to do it at this time. I apologize for the following paragraphs, but it happened. I’ll try to make it quick).

She began to drag her nails over her face, through her hair, and over her skin. Then she would raise her nails to her mouth, and suck. This went on for the entire 90-minute flight. Scratch, suck scratch, suck. I know she was doing it because as I said, she was turned completely to the window, and couldn’t even see that I was watching her. I don’t think. Anyway, who would blame me?

My horror and disgust cannot be described with the written word.

I squeezed my eyes shut to get the image of her out of my mind, and it occurred to me how much Chuck Palahniuk or Stephen King would like to write about this. How sad, I thought, to be so bat-shit crazy. Suddenly, my constant hair-twirling seemed cute and innocuous. I dug deep, deep down in that place inside, where I go for complete peace. I intoned. Om. Om. Ooooooom. Ooooommmm.

She refused the bag of airplane peanuts. Go figure.

When we landed, I was the Asshole Who Stands Up in the Aisle Even Though There is Nowhere to Go. When I caught the eye of my son, he told me later that he could tell I was frazzled, but thought I was traumatized because of the sixty-minute delay in takeoff.

Ah, naïve youth.

I practically ran off that plane. While walking through the terminal, I was in such obvious distress that the kids peppered me with questions.

What happened, they asked?

I’m not ready, I answered.

I didn’t even share the story until a few days later, when I was well into my second martini at dinner. The kids insisted on hearing it, then yelled at me for telling them such a disgusting story right before they ate.

But you made me! I rebutted.

After the flight, in the terminal, while I waited for the two of them to use the lavatories, the Skin Eater emerged from the ladies’ room, gave me a big smile and said, “Have a great day!”

“You, too,” I answered, shell-shocked, and as I watched her walk away, I wondered if she would have lunch, or if she was full. And I vowed to never fly coach again.

“Only you,” my friend said, when I told her this story. “Only to you could this happen.”

Yeah. Tell me about it.

10.22

It’s amazing isn’t it, how much we think we know about death, but how little we actually understand? We prepare for it, and then it crushes us anyway. Someone is here, breathing, and then, they’re not. And that empty space where that person resided, breathed, existed, is just empty space. But what is the saying, energy can neither be created nor destroyed?

It has been three years since the death of my late husband, and people still approach me to tell me they can’t believe he’s gone. People still expect to see him driving around in his truck, standing on the sidelines at football games, and working the table at wrestling tournaments. But he is gone, and those who remain are left bewildered.

I don’t remember much about his funeral. But what I do remember are the buses. Entire buses belching out sports’ teams, fire departments, police departments, board members, council members. Lots of people in uniform. My college roommate being right there, never more than an arm’s distance away. To be honest, the memory is a blur. But I remember feeling gratitude and awe, that he lived a life so many felt worth celebrating. I daresay he never made an enemy in his life. Good grief, I made three enemies already today.

Lol.

I also remember grown men weeping. Ever see that? Grown men on their knees, weeping? Grown men, reduced to tears at the loss of someone who for them defined strength, perseverance, and courage. Grown men who, when facing problems in their own lives, would persevere because “if Tommy can do it, so can I.” Grown men who considered Tom as a litmus test of survival and positivity. Grown men who could barely summon the courage to approach the front of the church. Grown men who hugged me and said, “Now who do I have to look up to?” Grown men who admitted, “I wasn’t sure I could come up here. But then I looked at you and the boys, and saw you were fine. That gave me strength.”

(We were happy about that).

I’m sorry, I’m not trying to make anyone sad. If I wanted to go there, trust me, I could turn it on. But that is not the intention of this post. Let’s relax and have some fun. So as promised to many, here is my celebrity interview, one-on-one, with the General. I will include only memories, not the names of friends or family.

Nickname: General.

Favorite quote: Jimmy Valvano. “Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.”

Favorite band/musical artist: Yes and David Bowie.

Favorite things to watch on television: Fox News, “Storage Wars,” “Airplane Disasters,” and “24.”

Favorite sport: Golf. Damn, I’m good. I’ll be ready for the senior tour by 60.

Favorite memory: (“You mean besides the birth of my sons?” “Yes,” I reply, “of course.”) Biking cross country after college.

Favorite candy: Circus Peanuts. Smarties. Boston Baked Beans. Good-and-Plenty. Mary Janes. Bit O’ Honey. Wax bottles.

Favorite movie: “Animal House.” Or “The Patriot.”

Favorite hot celebrity: Heather Locklear, in her heyday. Then Kathy Ireland. Now? Laura Ingraham.

Biggest regret: Not being able to travel more because of my health issues. I also wish I could golf with my sons and see them get married.

Favorite thing to do on the beach: Cross it to get to the water.

Favorite book: Not a big reader, but Lonesome Dove stands out.

Favorite vacation: Honeymoon in Hawaii and finally seeing the waves on the North Shore. Or every single Myrtle Beach golf trip with the boys.

Favorite Halloween costume: The year I didn’t have one so I wrapped myself in tin foil at the last minute to be the Tin Man.

Favorite day of the week: Sunday football. E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!!!!!

Favorite Art: The Starry Night by Van Gogh

Favorite ice-cream flavor: Breyers Butter Pecan. Or Breyers Butter Almond. Or Breyers Vanilla. Or Breyers mint chocolate chip. Or sherbet. Tough one.

Favorite food: My mom’s stuffing.

Favorite complete dinner: Chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, green beans.

Favorite dessert: (“Besides ice-cream?” “Yes.”) Lemon meringue pie.

Favorite fruit: Grapefruit

Favorite vehicle: My blue Chevy pickup

Favorite season: Football season

Favorite sport to watch my sons participate in: Wrestling. Or surfing.

Favorite bathroom reading material: Trains Magazine

Favorite thing that distracts you when you’re driving: Looking for trains

Favorite You-tube videos: ESPY speeches. Big wave surfing. And trains.

Morning or Night? Night.

Trump or Biden? Trump.

Coffee or Tea? Coffee.

Toast or Eggs? Eggs. Both.

Over or scrambled? Over light.

White, wheat or rye? White.

Cake or pie? Pie.

Big party or small gathering? Big party. Bigger the better.

Laundry or dishes? Laundry.

Train or plane? (Silence. “Seriously?”)

Save or spend? Save. Except on travel. Spend on travel.

Ocean or mountains? I live at the ocean, so mountains.

Beer or wine? Beer.

Me: One final question

Him: Shoot.

Joy or Grief? Joy. Always joy.

Lights Out

Thank you for considering these beautiful Hampton Bay cabinets sold in your local Home Depot. It is our greatest hope that these cabinets will bring years of joy and luxury to your kitchen. In fairness to you, the consumer, we want to issue the following warning before purchase:

These Hampton Bay cabinets come complete with little tiny obscure lightbulbs that provide recess lighting. In a few years, they will eventually short out, and provide pyrotechnics for your family parties. After a few years of this entertainment, they will then burn out.

You will seek help, but no electrician will return your calls. No electrician will agree to come to your house to check them out. No electrician will ever know where to get the tiny lightbulbs. Electricians will ask you to send pictures of The Lights to their email, and once you do, you will never hear from them again. Even your trusty handyman will stop responding to you once you ask him about The Lights. Even if by some miracle you manage to get an electrician to walk in your house and check The Lights out, he will look spooked, make excuses and then run away, like a priest fleeing from a demon-infested house. You may want to consider re-wiring your whole house, so that the job is big enough for an electrician to agree to. You could also consider attaching 105,854 balloons to your house like in the movie “Up,” and lift your house up and away to an area that is not so dependent on the help of contractors, a place where you can get The Lights fixed by an electrician who actually needs the work.

You can then fly the house home.

Now prepare yourself, this is the scariest part: One day you will think you have finally found The One. He will be friendly, and receptive, and humble. He will diagnose your problem, even place the burned-out bulbs in his pocket, so he can “pick some up” when he goes to Home Depot later. He will even quickly and efficiently reset your faulty landscaping timer, so that the floodlights come on at night, instead of the daytime. You thank him and become vulnerable with emotion, confessing to him how painful have been the years of rejection. He will laugh, pet your dog, reassure you, and agree to “come back tomorrow.”

You never see or hear from him again.

He has made off with your bulbs and your dignity.

The ridiculousness of the situation actually starts to becomes fun. You make phone calls when you’re bored, just for the hell of it, and log how long it will take to get a response, or whether you get one at all. You leave crazy bold requests on Yelp, on answering machines, on Angie’s List. You use different names. You go outside your town to neighboring electricians, and try to trick them by saying you have a newly constructed house that will eventually need wiring. They will ask you when. You tell them probably in 2040. They will hang up on you. You will eventually become paranoid and start to think The Lights have blacklisted you from every electrician’s calling list.

You have become Elaine Benes with the bad medical chart.

Without The Lights, your kitchen will be dark, and you will no longer be able to work at the counter or see when you are cooking. This will be unfortunate. We strongly suggest that when purchasing these fabulous cabinets, you also enroll in Pennco Tech. This way, you can get your electrician degree so that when the time comes, you can actually fix The Lights yourself. Enclosed in the cabinet boxes will be an application for Pennco Tech, and because we so highly value your patronage of Hampton Bay, the application fee will be waived.

Again, we thank you for your purchase of our beautiful hand-made cabinets. We hope they provide you with years of satisfaction.

i’m actually smiling

On Sunday I was at Target scanning my items in self-checkout when I surreptitiously glanced up at the security camera. You know, the one where you can see yourself? I’m always tempted to look, but I try not to. Besides being vain, the act of a woman my age deliberately checking herself out on a video camera is just inviting self-criticism. I work out, I eat well, I hydrate, I still look good in a bathing suit, let’s leave it at that, I figure. What are we trying to be, the skinniest corpses in the cemetery?

Good luck with that. I choose life.

But on Sunday, I looked, and I looked again. I looked good. Youngish. I turned this way and that, pleased with my reflection. Left side, check, right side, check. As I inserted a twenty-dollar bill into the slot, I gave my best glamour pose. It was early on Sunday, and no one else was there, I figured I might never have another chance again to preen in front of a video camera.

(“Ma’am. Ma’am?

Still checking myself out.

“Excuse me, ma’am?

I turn away from my own fabulous reflection towards the Target employee.

“Yes?”

“This is a credit-only line.”

Drat.)

As I loaded my bags into my car, I wondered about my pleasing appearance on the Target video camera. Was it the mask? Do I actually look younger with half my face covered? Wah. Ever read Nora Ephron’s book I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman?

Yeah, Nora, now I feel bad about mine, too.

I was annoyed that I had to give my mask credit for something. I hate wearing a mask. I am no sooner walking out of a store and I am ripping it off my face. Friends have told me to “have fun with it. Buy pretty colors, pretty patterns, match your mask to your outfit.”

No. Never. I will never normalize it. Ever. I will wear it. But no amount of pressure will ever get me to normalize it. I have one ugly mask I have been using since this started in March. One. I will not spend one penny on buying more.

Since the subject of masks is so contentious, know that I am not an “anti-masker.” I don’t even know what that means. I wear a mask because I’m asked to. I wear a mask so I can have peace in my life. I wear a mask so I am not yelled at and subsequently arrested. It has recently come to my attention that I live my life right on the brink of just not quite getting arrested.

It’s quite something to be me.

The fact that my mask made me look ten years younger on video camera led me to think of other possible benefits there are to mask-wearing. Fighting COVID? Yeah, no. See yesterday’s post. Statistics say I have a better chance of getting charged by a hippopotamus than contracting COVID. Yeah, go ahead, look it up, see if I care.

I Follow the Science.

So in the spirit of generosity, let us give credit where credit is deserved. My mask:

  • Hides my chin and makes me look ten years younger (as stated earlier).
  • Provides me with the freedom to chew and snap my gum without looking and sounding like an 18-year old cashier in the Bronx wrapping muzzarel in an Italian market. I had a lot of fun with this in Target. I was chewing and snapping, chewing and snapping. Just delightful.
  • Makes it easy to talk to myself. I wandered through Target in full self-dissertation, and no one batted an eye:
    • To leopard print jeggings: “Yeah, like I would wear that.”
    • To Target Starbucks: “I miss the old Target snack bar, the popcorn was banging.
    • To cosmetic case: “How is it possible that Burts Bees tinted lip balm is SOLD OUT?”
    • To seasonal aisle: “Back away from the Halloween decorations, Mary, you don’t need any more Halloween decorations.”
  • Gives me license to sing. I was shamefully belting out “Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” from The Lion King. Sir Elton would have been proud.
  • Gives me freedom from having to smile at people all the time. It can get exhausting.
  • Keeps me from buying Monster Mix and chowing it down while I shop. This bagged treat tries to pass itself off as trail mix, but it’s really chocolate and caramel candy with two nuts and one raisin thrown in. Monstrously caloric.
  • Prevents me from feeling the need to apply Burts Bees lip balm every 8 minutes, which is per usual for me. When your face and lips are hidden behind a mask, a mask that just wipes it off anyway, who cares?

Remember, the great Nora Ephron once said, “Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth.”

Edible Distancing

We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.

-Charles Bukowski

On October 15th, Governor Phil Murphy of New Jersey announced that indoor events “are increasingly becoming the starting points for outbreaks.” He was referring to holiday gatherings, of course, (read Thanksgiving), and he comments that “sadly, we’re seeing more and more family gatherings” as being problematic.

I’ll rephrase that.

He feels that it is unfortunate that we feel compelled to get together with family, because we could all be infecting each other with a virus that we don’t have, that we probably won’t get, and that has a ridiculously high survival rate. Let me provide some statistics. These come courtesy of Fox News, but before you libs get your panties in a wad, you can find the same statistics on CDC.gov, or the WHO website. Of course the latter two outlets won’t just blurt out these statistics. You’ll have to wade through a phenomenal amount of rhetoric and science-speak BS before you reach these same numbers. Without further ado, here are Covid survival rates:

0-19 years of age: 99.997%

20-49 years of age: 99.98%

50-69 years of age: 99.5%

70+ years of age: 94.6%

I like these odds. I like them for a test score. I trust them for a weather report. I respect them for an admittance rate into a program. But then again, I’m a glass half-full kind of gal.

Let me change tack by discussing air travel. Elite Runway says, and I quote, that “the probability of your plane going down is so slim it’s almost pointless to quantify.” But for the sake of argument, please know that the odds of dying as a plane passenger are 1 in 11 million. To put that in perspective, you have a 1 in two million chance of dying when you fall out of bed. A 1 in 4,050 chance of dying when you hop on your bike. Oh, and when you get in your car? You have a 1 in 102 chance of a one-way ticket to the Pearly Gates.

You scared of your Jetta?

If the idea of hovering 35,000 feet in the air unnerves you, maybe it would help to know that the deadliest plane crash in history happened in 1977, when two planes collided on the runway, killing 583 people.

Terra firma’ll get ya every time.

This is a jolly good time, so I’m going to keep going. Without even mentioning cancer or heart disease, here are things more likely to kill you than an airplane crash:

  • Food poisoning: 1 in 3 million
  • Death by ladder: 1 in 2.3 million
  • Having your flesh eaten by flesh-eating bacteria: 1 in one million
  • Hit by a meteorite: 1 in 700,000

I have a million of these. But brevity is the soul of wit, as Polonius says.

The following statistical jewels come courtesy of medRxiv, and although the website states these findings should not be reported since they have not been “peer-reviewed,” this site is sponsored by the very snobby, the very prudent, the very liberal Yale University (statistics change slightly when it comes to the elderly and those with co-morbidities. But only slightly):

Say you live in a normal size city, not too big, not too small- the chances that you will get infected by COVID is one in 40,500. As in, to even have the chance of getting exposed, you would probably have to come in contact with 40,500 people.

That’s like, two-thousand trips to Starbucks. Or one Eagles game with two beer runs.

Oh, and let me add this little baby: to even be sick enough to require HOSPITALIZATION, an adult aged 50-64 would have to have engaged in a 1 in 709,000 person contact experience. So adults aged 50-64 have a better chance to die by a falling meteorite than to be hospitalized due to COVID. You gonna give up grandmom’s stuffing for THOSE ODDS?

Well, shit.

Before you send me hate mail, I will state the obvious. This is not a political blog. I am not a scientist. I am not a doctor. I am simply sane. I am rational. I hear over and over on the news, “Follow the science.”

Isn’t that science speaking in the above statistics?

Of course we want to keep our loved ones safe. Of course we don’t want to expose and endanger our elderly or compromised. Of course if you invite family from out-of-state, a COVID-test could put everyone’s minds at ease. Of course (if it’s a real concern in your family), you can have guests arrive early and quarantine for two weeks.

But regarding Governor Murphy’s advice: Mom has a better chance of dying by falling off the pantry ladder while reaching for the canned yams than she does dying of COVID. Uncle Jim and Aunt Alice have a better chance of perishing on the highway. Little Billy has a better chance of getting sick from underdone turkey. The twins have a better chance of getting injured playing around on the bunk beds upstairs.

It’s just math.

And you know the spirited game of touch football everyone enjoys before dessert? What are the odds that cousin Ralphie will die of a bee sting? (one in 79,842). Isn’t it fair to say that when you go home and draw yourself a nice relaxing bubble bath before bed, you have a better chance of drowning in the tub (one in 685,000) than dying of COVID?

I’m sorry for the gallows humor and sobering statistics. They are what they are. Anyway, Governor Murphy started it. Nanny-nanny-boo-boo.

Everyone has to do what they feel it’s safe to do. I, for one, Governor Murphy, am going to drive safely to my brother’s house, hug my family, talk without a mask, stuff my face, enjoy my nieces and nephews, and drive home. Further, this coming weekend I’m going to hop on my plane and enjoy my flight, because I am a sane and rational person who knows how safe air travel really is.

The odds are in my favor.