They Walk Among Us

“When you are a real queen, there is absolutely no reason to try and make people believe that are one. Because you just are. Life is lived with grace, courage, and serenity. If you must dedicate any amount of time and mental ability to making anyone believe that you are one; you’re not!”– C. JoyBell C.

I get a kick out of watching animal rescue videos on the Dodo and the Kiwi.

I recently watched a video that spotlighted the rescue of Millie the dwarf horse, a spunky little horse no bigger than a golden retriever whose collapsed front hooves made it hard for her to walk. At the start of the video her depression was evident, and she seemed to want nothing more than to be left alone. But as she began to respond to love and warmth and good food, her depression seemed to lift. By the time she recovered from her foot surgery, she was prancing through the pasture and comforting other new dwarf rescues.

Be still my heart.

But as I watched the video, there was a point when Millie no longer held my full attention, because I realized the head rescuer was a total and absolute Queen.

She was undoubtedly wealthy, judging from the fancy stables, the rolling impeccably-kept grounds, and the multitude of employees grooming, training and riding the dozens of expensive horses throughout the many clean well-lit barns. She was tall, blond and statuesque, looking classy in her simple black yoga tights, black long-sleeve turtleneck, and athletic sneakers. Not overdressed, not underdressed, just understated and elegant.

Her three beautiful grown daughters all participated in the rescue of precious Millie, while her good-looking burly husband stayed mostly off-camera (if you watched and listened carefully you could just catch of a glimpse of him looking adoringly in his wife’s direction and answering quietly to the name “Darlin’).

But what struck me the most was her glow and quiet demeanor, her “in the momentness.” She had nothing to prove- Queens never do. Although you see her beatific smile, you hear her infectious laughter, and you see her cuddling Millie and carrying her from room to room and to-and-from doctor’s appointments, Millie is always the center of attention. All you see on the woman’s face is her unabashed love for Millie, which just spills out all over the camera. Have you ever watched a mother watch her baby, and she forgets you are watching her watch her baby? Gone from her face is any trace of affectation, self-consciousness, or ego- all that is left is a mother’s pure, unadulterated love for her child.

That was the expression on this woman’s face.

That’s Queensense.

Once you know what one looks like, it’s easy to spot a Queen. Think about a woman you admire for her strength, independence, beauty, talent, or simply her “I don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think-about-me-ness.” Maybe you have always loved Audrey Hepburn’s impish style, Grace Kelly’s poise, or Jackie O’s shades, or Beyonce’s ability to transform into Sasha Fierce. Maybe (like me) you are dazzled by the brilliant Helen Mirren, who has re-defined not only female hotness, but the timetable of women’s LFD (Last Fuckable Day. Answer? Never. Dame Helen will never not be fuckable. Ever see her red bathing suit shot? Good God). Maybe you admire the scarfing talent of competitive eater Sonya “The Black Widow” Thomas, who chose her arachnid nickname because of her desire to eliminate males in competition. Maybe you crush on violinist Sarah Chang, or CEO Sheryl Sandberg. Tina Fey, Melania Trump, Angela Sheldrick, the list could go on and on.

 (Let’s not forget Oprah. I’m not a huge fan, not since she started trying to tell me what to read and not to read, but it is indisputable that if a woman is recognized by her first name only, then she’s a Queen, end of story).

Now close your eyes and picture her looking badass. Got the visual? Keep envisioning her, and ask yourself: Is there a man standing next to her in this visual? No?

Then she’s a Queen.

A Queen doesn’t have to be a celebrity. Most Queens aren’t celebrities, and most celebrities aren’t Queens (they just think they are, which is a most un-Queenlike quality). Queens are in grocery stores, libraries, hospitals, the office.  A Queen can be your single mother, who put three kids through college on her own. A Queen can be your best friend from college, who flies to Sri Lanka once a year to do mission work but doesn’t tell a soul. A Queen is your co-worker who remains joyful and kind despite her husband’s cancer battle. A Queen is any woman who defies society’s expectations and sort of floats and glides through life’s successes and failures with that enigmatic smile on her face. She asks for no applause, no attention, no validation.

She’s one scary beautiful bitch.

Here’s a handy list.

A Queen:

  • Never looks neither right nor left, only straight ahead.
  • Lives her life low-key and does not announce her moves.
  • Never worries herself with what other people are doing.
  • Does not act superior or inferior to anyone.
  • Never chases people or situations.
  • Always maintains a semblance of calm.
  • Loves to be surrounded by luxury.
  • Believes in the beauty of the body, mind, heart and soul.
  • Takes care of herself using the same effort she uses to care for others.
  • Practices gratitude for all that she has.
  • Never makes too much of herself.

A Non-Queen:

  • Envies others their “stuff,” and is rarely satisfied with her own.
  • Suffers from feelings of superiority for what she has, or inferiority for what she doesn’t.
  • Has a constant need for attention, always broadcasting her achievements (and failures) on social media.
  • Is loud and abrasive in public, desperate to get the attention of everyone in the room.
  • Lets the slightest life obstacle derail her.
  • Looks consistently unkempt or cheap.
  • Is unorganized; thus, so is her life.
  • Finds it difficult to find the beauty and simplicity in life.
  • Is clingy and desperate, constantly chasing people and situations.
  • Takes care of others but neglects to take care of herself.

Queensense is living on purpose. It is having a reciprocal relationship with the planet, the people in your life, your own body and mind, which makes you complete, full, and content. When a woman connects with her heart and soul and mind, when she connects directly with the world and the universe, that vibe is magnetic, and will pull whoever is meant to be in her life right in. Improve and love yourself, and keep your mind, body and heart occupied.

Celebrate the Kings and Queens in your lives this holiday season.

A Team of Little Atomies

Every spring, I would ask my high school seniors to complete an activity. I like to believe that they looked forward to it, even though no high school senior really looks forward to anything in the spring except prom, senior trip and graduation. But senior teachers try to keep it lively.

The activity was to write a letter to themselves, their future “selves,” the selves they would be in five years. Who are you now? Where do you see yourself in five years? What are your hopes and dreams? What silly things did you go through in high school that don’t matter now? I made it a quiz grade. Do it, you get a free 100. Don’t do it, it’s a zero. No brainer.

Then I had them seal their letters in a pre-stamped envelope and write their name and home address on it. If they weren’t sure it would reach that address, I had them put the address of a close friend, grandparent or sibling who would definitely be able to get it to them. Then I’d collect the letters.

“I’ll mail these to you in five years,” I would tell them.

General laughter.

“Well, we’ll never see those again.”

I feigned shock. “How can you say that?”

“Mrs. Oves, you lose your keys, like, every day.”

Hm. Salient point. But every New Years’ Eve for ten years, I have mailed a stack of senior letters. I have never lost one stack. And now, there is only one stack left on my office desk. My last class of seniors who completed the assignment, the Class of 2016, will be receiving their letters in a few weeks.

Retirement didn’t feel like the end of my teaching career. This stack of letters does.

I like to imagine what happens the day they receive them. Their confused reactions when they pick their letters up from the table, as their memories furiously try to place the familiar yet strange penmanship. Their laughter when they open the envelope and realize what it is. The texting to their former classmates to see who else received letters. The posting of letters to social media. Their memory of that fun day in class, laughing together with classmates as they completed the assignment. The sadness of those who don’t receive a letter, because they decided in class that it was a dumb assignment, that they would rather take the zero, because they were already accepted into college, and it didn’t matter, anyway.

Mailing these letters will be the end of an era. I taught English for thirty years. Besides being a writer, it was the only thing I ever wanted to do.

I’ve tried to articulate in writing what it’s like to no longer be a teacher. To describe the absence, the maw that retirement creates. That’s why you see so many retired teachers working as substitutes, or coaches, or youth advisors. They’re hoping it will fill that hole.  I can’t imagine another career that creates such a void in your heart when you stop doing it (Law enforcement? Nursing?), to suddenly have nowhere to funnel that intense daily energy and brain power that goes into teaching.

Retirement is great, don’t get me wrong. The golf, the travel, the time to read and write and exercise and network. To not be tied into a structured schedule. To be able to pee whenever I want, rather than between the ringing of two bells. To not have to suck down hot coffee before class, or wolf down a sandwich before a meeting. To not have Sundays ruined by paperwork. All wonderful. But the rest of a teacher’s life after retirement is a search for something. You don’t where or what it is, but it spins around you like a top every day. It’s mild discontent, a surfeit of energy, or lack of it. Like a food craving, but you’re not sure what that food is.

I once wrote an op-ed about a day in the life of a high school teacher. I wish I could find it. I’m going to try my best to re-create it here, before the standard “teaching day” is so lost in my memory that it is irretrievable.

5:30 am: Wake, shower, pack lunch, water, and coffee.

6:30 am: Departure. Plan lessons in your head as you drive and drink coffee. Think of copies that need to be run-off upon arrival. Dread seeing that kid in period 8 who makes your life a living hell, and make a mental note to try and get him transferred to another class so he can make someone else’s life a living hell for awhile. Remind yourself to move the seats of the two Chatty Kathies in period 2, to call three parents about low test grades, and cut out snowflakes to decorate your bulletin board.

7:00-7:30: Arrival. Sign-in. Greet administration. Retrieve mail from mailbox, read as you walk to classroom. Read flyer about unannounced impromptu assembly happening period 4 during which you have a major unit test scheduled. Read note from guidance department that you have yet to fill out paperwork for senior schedules. Read note from principal’s secretary, reminding you to schedule your mid-year performance report meeting. Read note from custodial staff that you need to pick up your new key. Read reminder of after-school faculty meeting. Read announcement about holiday fund drive, reminding yourself that you still need to retrieve cans from your car and will do so during lunch. Realize that your lunch is still sitting on your kitchen counter. Read five “New Student” forms, wondering where in the world they are going to sit, since all desks are filled. Realize there are no more textbooks to give these new students, and you try to remember the online textbook code. Wonder if it’s too late to call out sick. Get drawn into several conversations in hallway, trying to cut them short so you have time to make copies, check your school email, and sneak in one more cup of coffee before homeroom begins at 7:38 am. Pop your head into library, reminding librarian that you are scheduled to use the computer lab with your seniors for their papers on the Harlem Renaissance. Get informed that the internet is down, but “can you come in and do that thing you know how to do to get back online?” Get to room to see a student waiting outside your door to talk to you about the reason she missed the deadline for the latest essay. Listen as she explains a difficult home situation. Arrange for her to type and print her essay during your class in the computer lab. She thanks you and says she understands she will be issued a late grade, then gratefully accepts your offer of a clementine and cereal bar. Grab worksheets to copy and walk towards the copy room, when a substitute teacher asks you how she can get into the faculty washroom. Return to your room to get your keys and let her in, then walk into copy room to see that it is miraculously empty. Approach the copy machine and see units A-G are jammed. Go to work on copy machine, and in five minutes extract torn and stained copies from jammed areas, taking note that the copies are tenth-grade algebraic equations, and hope that the Algebra teacher in question burns in hell for jamming the copier and leaving. Copier works smoothly now, and you start to brew yourself a cup of coffee using the teacher’s Keurig. You see that the reservoir needs water, so you fill it while your copies run. Copier jams again with only ten left to copy, but you need them, so you unjam the copier again. Last ten copies run and coffee is brewed. You walk in your room to see that dreaded eighth period kid sitting in his seat and reading, early for homeroom. He bids you “Good morrow,” then thanks you for letting him read the part of Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet. He tells you he studied the Queen Mab speech the night before, because it’s tough reading, and he didn’t want to screw it up. You feel shame for the thoughts you had about him. You love him. You remember why you became a teacher.

Bell rings for start of day.

This scenario is not unusual. By 8:00 a.m., your basic high school teacher has already acted in the roles of philanthropist, IT person, counselor, parent, nutritionist, locksmith, copier technician, barista and many others before even teaching a lesson, calling on a student, or taking attendance.

Greatest profession in the world.

Sick Bae

A few years ago, after a full-teaching day, I was doing some autumn decorating. We had dinner plans that night and I was in a rush to finish, and when I stepped sideways off my patio to avoid stepping on my dog, my already compromised ankle, the one I sprained playing tennis in college, re-sprained, ballooned and turned purple.

My son helped me hobble my way to the couch and fetched a pair of crutches from the attic while I called out of work. As I sat on the couch icing my cankle, I pondered. Not about how best to take care of myself. Not about how to delegate household chores. Not about the throbbing pain.

I pondered how much teaching material my students would miss. I worried about the laundry that still wasn’t folded. I worried about how I was going to get to my son’s football game, how I was going to make him dinner, how I would get to my elderly father’s house to check on him.

How in the world was I going to walk my dog?

I sat and I stewed,

didn’t know what to do,

and I noticed my dog

stared at me too.

(A little Teddy Geisel for you).

Odd, Mojo thought to himself, as he gazed upon me, that Mom is sitting on the couch on such a lovely October evening. And highly unacceptable. This is the time we go to the beach. This is the time we always go to the beach. This is not the time for couch-sitting!

And Mojo waxed on:

And he puzzled and puzzled ‘till his puzzler was sore

Then Mojo thought of something he hadn’t thought of before.

What if Mom’s foot, he thought, even if sore,

What if Mom’s foot can still get me out of the door?

Indeed. With my son at a team workout, Mojo did that dog thing that all dogs are good at, when they want something. That cute thing. They make their ears really big and fluffy, their eyes soft and limpid, and their noses wet. Then they sit politely with their haunches facing front, poking a hole in the universe with their cuteness. And they simply wait until we agree to do their bidding.

Which we always do.

I was in no shape to move, but did I do what a rational human being would do? Did I call a neighbor to walk him? Wait until my son got home?  

Of course not. I took him to the beach. Like a moron.

Don’t ask me how, but I managed to get him and myself into the truck for the drive to the beach. And here’s the really embarrassing part. Since placing my grotesquely swollen foot down on the unstable beach sand was impossible, guess what I did next?

I crawled. I crawled across the sand. I’m not proud of it. But I crawled, and Mojo scampered around me, trying to figure out what the hell kind of new game this was that he had never seen before. And when it was time to leave, and I began to crawl back across the sand towards the truck, I saw a man sitting in his truck staring at me. To this day, I wonder what he thought I was doing.

Hardly my proudest moment.

What is it about mothers not wanting to admit when we’re sick or injured? Why can’t we be like our kids and spouses, and just let ourselves be coddled? Why can’t we enjoy being brought cups of tea, ginger ale, hot soup and dry toast? Why can’t we pour what little sick energy we have into just napping and getting well?

Is it because our children think we are superheroes, and we don’t want to shatter that image? Is it because when we are sick things don’t get done, or even worse, get done incorrectly? Is it because we can’t give up control? Is it because we can’t admit even to ourselves that we are fallible?

I can’t speak for other mothers, but I ignore being sick until I’m either foaming at the mouth or praying to the porcelain gods. When I am sick on the couch, my sons gawk at me like I am some kind of depressed zoo animal that has been taken out of its natural habitat and plopped down onto concrete. They stare at me with a mixture of disgust and pity, not sure how to handle my lassitude, and disgruntledly ask me every hour on the hour, “You feeling better yet?” They keep at this until their questioning is more agonizing than the illness itself, and I finally say what they want to hear:

“A little.”

When I finally get up, they become buoyed to see me moving slowly around the kitchen or doing laundry, because their zoo animal is once again looking and acting like the familiar productive creature that has been placed on Earth solely for their viewing pleasure. This is not meant to castigate my boys. They are like all boys who think their mother is a demi-god, and has no business laying around on the couch, drinking tea and watching “The Dog Whisperer” marathons.

And if I’m actually in bed during the day? That is a serious cause for alarm. This has only happened maybe three or four times in their entire lives. If I’m in bed, that means noise hurts me. Light hurts me. Cooking smells hurt me. Telephone calls, doorbells, symbols of life and love and laughter need to be kept away from me. If I’m in bed, their look of disgust and pity turns to one of worry. They whisper dramatically outside my door. They make meals. They load the dishwasher. They do the laundry. They take messages. They tidy up, they keep their noise volume down. They make homemade get-well cards, they bring me broth and Tylenol and ginger ale. They become protective and nurturing. They are wonderful boys. Always.

I once spent Christmas day in bed. There is something that happens to the human body when so much adrenalin and energy gets expended preparing for an event or a holiday or a vacation, that when preparations are finally done, and you let your guard down, the teeny-tiny bacteria or germs in your body that have been lying in wait for just this moment, attack your healthy cells and say,

“You’re mine now, slut.”

That Christmas day hit me hard. Stomach flu, fever, exhaustion. I could hear my extended family arrive, followed by boisterous Christmas noise. I was told that everyone poked their head in my room at least once to wish me a “Merry Christmas,” but I don’t remember it. I managed to crawl downstairs by 5:00 in my pajamas and lay in front of the fire for a bit, but I still feel a measure of guilt that I missed that Christmas day.

But why? Why couldn’t I just enjoy a sick day in my warm, comfy bed without feeling guilty?

A question for the ages.

If you’re a mother and wife, and you are able to accept and embrace the times in your life when you fall ill, times when you can’t do it all, times when you need to step back and take a breath, times when you willingly accept help you so desperately need, I applaud you. You’re stronger than I am. I have no problem taking care of myself when I’m well, but sick is a whole different animal.

I’ve walked on sprained ankles. Skied with a dislocated thumb. Finished a workout after throwing out my back. Ridden horses while feverish, given lectures on Shakespeare while sick with a stomach flu, prepared meals, diapered babies, and vacuumed while dizzy and nauseous. I remember being so worn down the week before one Thanksgiving that after hours of dry heaving in our upstairs bathroom, I called my dad to take me to the hospital while the Hub stayed home with the boys. I was given fluids, and my doctor came in to tell me I was severely dehydrated.

“Are you taking care of yourself, Mary?” he asked. “You have to put yourself first sometimes, you know. The people in your life will not disintegrate if you can’t do it all.”

I’m pretty sure I laughed out loud, darkly. Do any mothers put themselves first? Not one I know does. I went home, got a few hours of sleep, and was back at work the next day for parent-teacher conferences, pale and weak as a ghost.

It could also be genetic from my relentless side of the family. We don’t stop. We keep going. Productivity. Movement. Purpose. No such thing as free time. Always something to do, always thinking, “What can I do right now to better myself, my home or my family?”

So today, although I’m feeling a little under the weather (no, it’s not RONA), I am going into work. They need me. They’re counting on me. My absence would not only negatively affect every person there, but also the fluidity of the programs. I can’t be selfish, and it’s only a few hours.

No problem.

Christmas Photo Shop

I stopped sending Christmas photo cards three years ago.

It’s not out of meanness, or laziness. I’m not trying to snub anyone, and it’s not because my husband passed away, either. Oh, people figure, it must be because her husband is gone. Poor thing.

Good try, but no. It just feels good to not have to do it anymore.

 It?

You know, the posturing.

Admittedly, Christmas cards with family photos are effective. With one glance and no need for conversation, people can see how their friends and family have grown through the year. Where they’ve gone. What they’ve done to their hair. But for me, sending Christmas photo cards was always a source of irritation. You know, the whole “gotta get that perfect picture to display to friends and family,” right?

We all want our Christmas card snapshot to send the right message. Here we are. Look at where we’ve traveled, look at the sports my kids play, look at how good-looking and cool and smart and accomplished and awesome we all are. I dare you to send me a better card than the one I sent you.

And game is on.

There are people who downplay their message, too. The kids are dressed way down. They’re in their backyard doing something candid. Or they’re not looking at the camera at all. This message is: My kids are so amazing, that we took this picture by mistake and made the card by mistake and mailed it by mistake. Whoopsies! Oh, and my family is so mysteriously awesome that I’m not even going to treat you to any glimpses into it. Oh, but here we are in our kitchen, doing nothing.

(And those who send a newsletter with their cards are in a category all their own. Isn’t that what Facebook is for? For people to read that stuff?).

Good grief, Mary, you must be thinking, it’s just a Christmas card. Get over it. If you don’t want to send one, then don’t.

I know, you’re right. I’m overthinking it. But I’m a writer, that’s what I do. I overthink. Christmas cards always felt so contrived to me, so antithetical to the true nature of my own family. Vacations, sports, awards, honors are all well and good. But the true nature of our family, the crux of what makes us us, is pretty fucked-up.

Don’t misunderstand me. I mean “fucked up” in the best possible sense. Because the fucked-up part is what makes a family a family. The fucked-up part is the juiciest part of the steak. The fucked-up part is the crème-filled middle of the donut. The fucked-up part is your favorite part of the song that you play over and over and over, because you can’t figure out how to enjoy it as much as you know it deserves to be enjoyed.

The fucked-up part is what you actually had to go through to get that picture. It is what cracks your family up over dinner. It is quiet crying in bedrooms. It is early morning apologies. It is hushed whispering in a distant room that stops when you enter (“Nothing, Mom,” they say, in complicit trust with each other as they leave the room. “Trust us, you don’t want to know”). The fucked-up part is what makes you shake your heads in disbelief that not only did it happen, but that you survived as a family, intact and whole.

The fucked-up part is what you rarely see on a Christmas card. But that’s the good stuff. That’s the stuff I want to see.

The closest I ever got to showing the true nature of my family on a Christmas card was the year when we had just gotten back from Brunch with Santa, and the Hub had made a fire in the fireplace. The boys were wrestling inappropriately near the fire and getting in trouble with their father for just that reason. And per usual, they would not stop. They would never stop. Fires just excited them and made them rambunctious, like little Golden Retriever puppies. They were tired and excited from brunch and pictures, and there was this one magical moment, when they dog-piled each other in front of the fireplace, that I told them to look up.

Click.

That picture was not a set-up. They were dressed nicely because we had just gotten home from the country club, and they were rough-housing and getting in big trouble with dad just at that moment. I loved that card.

Our cards have run the gamut. Surfing at Huntington Beach. Snowboarding in Vermont. Snorkeling in Hawaii. Ad nauseum. Once I even had them do the cheesy pose wearing Santa hats in front of the mantle. Talk about antithetical. That was the Christmas their father was in the hospital, and not expected to be released in time for Christmas day. They were sad. We were all sad. So I wanted a picture to show our friends and family, “Hey, look, here are my kids, without a dad. But they’re smiling. We’re good!”

Ugh. We were far from good.

Then a Christmas miracle happened. He ended up getting released early, and I still remember him texting me on Christmas Eve day, wondering where we were.

I’m home, his text said.

Understatement of the century.

As I drove home, I played it up. There’s an early Christmas surprise for you guys at the house, I teased. The look on their little faces when they walked in the house on that Christmas Eve day and saw their father sitting in the living room is the moment that should have been emblazoned on our Christmas cards for posterity forever. Best Christmas ever.

There are other great FU moments that define us as a family.

The drive to Florida when Tommy stuck his hand in his father’s bowl of scalding hot soup at a buffet, and we had to take him to the emergency room when his skin just immediately peeled away from the bone. The twins were wild with worry over him. He was only a baby, at the most two years old, and to the twins, he was their own personal little fluffy stuffed-animal of a puppy-brother. Tommy cried all night in the hotel room, and no one got any sleep. There is a picture Tom took of us that morning that shows the twins holding Tommy’s hands gently and protectively as I put his little shoes on, and Tommy is looking straight at his father, his face swollen and puffy from crying. Terrible night but a great defining family memory, and the picture still makes my heart beat fast with love.

The Christmas day we got into a fender-bender on the way to Disney World and had to spend the day in the rental car office. I took a picture of the boys in front of the wrecked Honda. Tommy is just a gap-toothed smiley toddler in a stroller, and the twins are on both sides of him. They’re all pissed. I mean, they are pissed. They were little boys who had to spend Christmas Day at Hertz. Settling the accident and getting a new car took hours. We laugh at those pictures now, and we remember the horribleness of it. But what seemed like a terrible day at the time has become a cherished family memory.

I have hundreds of these stories.

All families have them. Bad report cards, broken relationships, screaming tantrums, earth-shattering illnesses, violent disagreements, dysfunctional vacations. And I’m not implying that we should put those events on Christmas cards. Jeez, this post was metaphorical, for goodness’ sakes. Of course it’s not what we want to see on Christmas cards. And for the record, I LOVE getting Christmas cards. If you send me one, you have my most heartfelt thanks.

I just don’t feel like sending them anymore.

Maybe one day I’ll have a change of heart. For now, it feels good to not celebrate personal pretense. Maybe one year I’ll go back to CVS boxed cards, where there’s a printed message and all you have to do is sign your name. We’ll see. And naturally, since I have stopped sending cards, I get less and less each year. No matter. I enjoy the ones I get. And I’m sure the time will come when the boys will notice that I’ve eschewed the tradition, and they will force me to start again. For now, they barely notice.

The same way I don’t notice holiday newsletters.

Auntie Google

The Christmas I received a Garmin as a gift was my July 4th. My Independence Day. My personal emancipation from geographical constraints. Forever unable to read a map, figure out east from west, or get my bearings when traveling, I was always lost. Always. And while the Garmin wasn’t always 100% accurate due to neglected map updates by yours truly, it got me where I needed to be. With my Garmin, I could come and go as I pleased, with the certainty that I would arrive safely and on time.

My Garmin made me brave. My Garmin made me arrogant. My Garmin made me cocky. My Garmin enabled me to move about the planet like everyone else, on time for barbeques, interviews and baby showers, looking fresh and confident rather than bathed in sweat from stress. I could now say savvy worldly things like, “Man, 95 South was a parking lot this weekend,” and “The view from the Tappan Zee Bridge is quite beautiful,” and “The Pacific Coast Highway is the drive of a lifetime.”

Technology has changed drastically in these last ten years, and my Garmin now lies forgotten and abandoned at the bottom of our “Outdated Technology” drawer, along with antiquated Kindles, downgraded iPhones, defunct Blackberries and strange orphaned charging cords. Like the rest of the world, I now use Google Maps, and occasionally, my car’s built-in navigation system.

Recently, when returning home from the airport, I used both. At the same time. By mistake. It was a disaster. I always get lost returning from the airport, but this time I got double-lost by listening to two of the most annoying women on the face of the Earth. It would be like having your favorite aunt and your cranky older sister in your car giving you driving advice at the same time.

Google Maps is your favorite cool aunt. Your Auntie Google. Auntie Google has no kids of her own, so she is taking you out for a driving lesson, to lunch and then shopping. She takes you to Lululemon and buys you expensive tights, then lets you go wild in Sephora. When you drive she is never nervous or impatient, she always stays cool and collected, and she provides constant reminders:

“In five miles, you will be taking exit 4B towards Broad Street.”

“In four miles, you will be taking exit 4B towards Broad Street.”

“In three miles, you will be taking exit 4B towards Broad Street.”

“In two miles, you will be taking exit 4B towards Broad Street.”

“In one mile, you will be taking exit 4B towards Broad Street.”

“In 400 feet, you will be taking exit 4B towards Broad Street.”

“Honey, get ready to take exit 4B towards Broad Street.”

“-

“Oh, dear.”

“You have missed exit 4B towards Broad Street. But don’t worry. You can still take exit 4A and get there in the same amount of time. I’ll guide you. When you miss your exit, never panic. Just stay calm, and always remember that there is more than one way to arrive at your destination.”

Auntie Google gets excited when you enter new states (“Welcome to Delaware!!!”). She directs you into the correct toll lanes (“Please stay on the far left for EZ Pass Express”). She lets you know if there is a traffic jam, or construction, or a crash (“Would you like to try an alternate route? It will save you three minutes”).

When you get back from driving with Auntie Google, you realize that her calm demeanor enabled you to stay calm, which in turn helped you focus on the roads and actually learn a little about where you just were. You are definitely a better driver when she drops you off.

Then there’s the built-in navigation system in your car. She’s your cranky older sister, who is home from college. Kristin. Kristin with an “i,” not an “e.” She gets pissed off when her professors spell her name “Kristen,” and always tells them that they’re wrong, using that bitchy voice of hers. She wears all black all the time, she never smiles, and spends most of her time in her room. Your mom asks Kristin to go buy milk for the house, and then tells her that it’s a good opportunity for her to give you a driving lesson. Kill two birds with one stone, Mom says. Kristin explodes, says she doesn’t want to do that; and truth be told, you’re not too happy about it yourself. But Mom has decided. This is going to happen. Mom thinks it’s sad that the two of you used to be best friends, and now are constantly at each other’s throats. You know that while you’re still close with Kristin, she thinks Mom likes you best. And she’s right.

So today, Kristin has decided to sabotage your driving, even at the expense of her own life. Slumped down in the seat with her hoodie pulled over her head, she crosses her arms in front of her and gives you the least amount of information possible.

“Here.”

“HERE.”

“HERE! TURN HERE! WTF! You missed the turn, you moron!”

You become angry.

“Well, what the hell kind of direction was that? You can’t tell me at the last minute, when it’s too late! Tell me, like, a half of a mile ahead of time! Mom said you’re supposed to be teaching me, not acting like a total bitch!”

Kristin proceeds to display how little she actually knows about how to get around. She directs you to take a right down a one-way street. She forgets about the construction going on at the bridge, which re-routes you in the wrong direction. And it seemed to have slipped her memory that when you get to the lake, you can’t go around it clockwise. So the four miles to get milk ends up taking 45-minutes. You pull back into your driveway feeling rattled, knowing you’re a worse driver than when the trip started.

Auntie Google and Kristin battled in my car on the way back from the airport like they were Rabbit and Papa Doc in “8 Mile.”

“Please get ready to exit in ¾ of a mile.”

“No, make a right now.”

“At the fork, take a gradual left and merge gently.”

“Fuck that, it’s a sharp left.”

“It would be best to stay in the right lane for the next two miles.”

“Stay straight for ten miles.”

“You are on the fastest route.”

“You’re just going to have to take your chances, bitch.”

It was like being in the car with two schizophrenics. Unable to turn Kristin off (I still don’t know how to “end” a destination), and unable to hear Auntie Google, I got hopelessly lost, ending up somewhere near the Camden Waterfront, but feeling lucky and relieved that I didn’t get into a violent disfiguring traffic accident.

(The trip home from the airport is still saved in my car navigation memory, and if I try to enable Kristin, she tries to send me home. Every time. Kristin just won’t cooperate).

A Tale of Two Cities

Act I.

“Wow, you’re getting a ticket,” the nice young salesclerk stated, deadpan.

Fuck.

I had just parked on Walnut Street in Philadelphia, excited for a day of holiday shopping and a nice brisk walk in the cold, fresh city air. Just having passed Shakespeare and Co. bookstore and The Paper Source shop, visions of hot coffee and memoirs danced in my head. But if there’s anything you learn when you shop in the city, it’s to pay for parking first. Time is of the essence. Never ever procrastinate.

Hm, I remember thinking, as I pulled into a spot and put my car in park. No parking kiosk. I wonder where it is. I’ll just pop my head into this cute store really quick and see if they can direct me.

Big fucking mistake.

Listen, I’m not naïve. I know city parking attendants sit patiently in their trucks the same way spiders sit patiently in their webs, waiting for hapless victims. But my car was ticketed so fast that I’m pretty sure the attendant was sitting in my backseat. In the time it took me to ask the salesclerk where the kiosk was, receive ten seconds of direction and walk back out of the store, a $36.00 ticket had already been processed and printed out and affixed onto my windshield.

Thirty seconds max.

I rushed out of the store to the kiosk to pay the six dollars for two hours of shopping (a bargain, seriously, I’m happy to pay it), grabbed the ticket off my windshield and cautiously approached the meter man.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said politely.

He kept walking, refusing to meet my eyes.

I stepped right into his path.

“Excuse me, sir, may I ask you a question?”

He had no choice but to look at me now, and when he did, he gave this kind of world-weary sigh. He had dead fish-eyes, you know, the kind that have seen horrible unspeakable things. I knew in my bones I would need my A-Game with this guy, that I would really need to turn on the charm. But as I stammered out my lame story, it became clear that my smiles and giggles were not resonating. He actually looked repulsed. It occurred to me that Dead-Fish-Man had probably been hardened to cute clueless-little-girl stories long ago.

He listened politely and patiently, but nope.

“Tell it to the city, ma’am,” he answered, and slumped away.

And tell it to the city I did.

Me: (at home, typing to online bot): I will pay my lawyer $200 an hour before I will pay this ticket.

Bot:Thank you for your feedback. We will keep that in mind.

Me: You should keep it in mind. What a disgrace. How do you people sleep at night?

Bot: Yes. How can I further assist you?

Me: You can expunge this ticket.

Bot: Please provide us with proof of payment and a copy of the ticket for review.

Me: I’m sending it in the mail now. How long will it take to get this ticket expunged?

Bot: Thank you for contacting us. Have a good day.

Well. I’m glad that’s settled.

Act II.

With my shopping done, I wanted a quick light lunch before I left the city. I had an appointment later that day, and I knew I wouldn’t get a chance to eat anything until much later. I was both surprised and delighted to see that the city restaurants were setting up chairs and tables for outside dining.

In 34° weather.

So we can’t sit inside. So they set up areas so we can dine outside. Then they enclose it so it looks and feels like we’re inside. So when we eat, we’re essentially back to being inside. On the outside.

Hey, whatever, I loved it. There I was, in my puffy coat and boots, sitting at my own private sidewalk table with floppy plastic walls, being warmed by my own personal space heater. It felt pretty damn luxurious, if I may say. And I tipped my waiter 100%. I can’t even bear to think of how restaurant servers’ livelihoods have been decimated in the past nine months. I always over-tip. ALWAYS.

The dining scene throughout Rittenhouse Square was ubiquitously festive and al fresco. Big plush chairs pulled around electric firepits, shearling blankets thrown over couches, twinkly lights hung around streetlights, outside heaters pumping out heat. Professionals drinking martinis, college students enjoying mimosas, and everyone eating lunch wearing scarves, hats and gloves. No one complaining or bitching, just enjoying the fresh air and sunshine, and appreciating the fact that despite the weirdness of the times, there are still ways to eat out and have fun.

As I strolled through the city, I also uncharacteristically gave dollar bills to the homeless, even going so far as to place a five-dollar bill into one guy’s cup. This is atypical for me, as I only donate to personal charities through the mail. But ever since the day last month I told a down-and-out guy to buzz off because I was in a rush to get to the airport, I have felt guilty.

That’s right, guilty.

I was waiting in line to order a coffee from an outside trattoria, and this guy who could barely stand on his feet gave me drunken ordering advice for ten straight minutes. You know, where to stand while waiting, that kind of stuff. He even went so far as to follow me to my table. I mean, he was ALL up in my grill. I finally had no choice but to ask him to please leave me alone.

Second big fucking mistake. Because he then proceeded to spew five straight minutes of verbal abuse at me.

You may argue that I shouldn’t feel guilty about it. But driving home that day I couldn’t help but think that it’s probably how he makes a living. Hanging out and giving customers advice on how to order. Normally I would have just thanked him. Normally I would have thought he was a colorful character, maybe engaged him in conversation. But I was cranky that day, in a rush to get to the airport. I was parked illegally, there was a construction crane hovering ominously over my Audi, and I just wasn’t in the mood.

This guy did not appreciate being told to bugger off. The bilious tirade he treated me to was pretty mean, bordering on vile, but I taught high school for thirty years. I can take it. I figured he’s probably mentally-ill, a drunk, or both, and probably makes tips by offering advice. I just wish a worker or patron there would have informed me, so I would have known how to respond. I mean, give the guy a t-shirt or something, so we know.

Ya gotta love the City. From tickets to guilt trips, it just gives and gives.

Wintering. Part I

Something should be mentioned, I think, about the fact that winter is not only approaching, but from all evidence, here. Has the cold and darkness ever felt so immediate, so brooding, so thick? The heavy darkness behind my windows is truly shocking. I feel like Captain Smith in “Titanic,” as he waits in his wheelhouse for the pressure of the water to shatter the windows all around him. The darkness is so invasive. How much daylight is the country trying to save, for goodness sakes?

For many, winter is already in their hearts, as the lives they used to live, no matter how much they have fought for normalcy, have been temporarily altered. And as winter descends, we realize that many winter things we used to do, things that filled our hearts, are not there to fill our hearts this year. So we must make do. Change. Adapt.

Think of winter things that light up our hearts. Christmas pageants. Festive shows in the city. Holiday parties. Family celebrations. Ski trips. School events, like the excitement of the first high school wrestling match, basketball game or swimming meet of the season. For many young people and their families, winter sports is winter, the warm sporting centers being the one thing that transports them from the winter darkness.

Cancelled. Cancelled. Cancelled.

This post is not to complain about the current situation, nor about winter. Personally, I love winter, as do many introverts. While the noise and heat and chaos of summer is confounding, winter makes sense. Consider one of my favorite quotes from my man Camus:

My dear,

In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love.

In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile.

In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.

I realized, through it all, that…

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.

And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.

– Albert Camus, The Stranger

Or this one, from Andrew Wyeth, my favorite artist:

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape – the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.”

I have a million of ‘em. And I could fill twenty pages, a thousand pages, about Camus and Wyeth. But for now, since an icy bottle of Grey Goose beckons to me from the freezer, I’m going to give you some ideas of stuff to do to get you through the winter. It’s not a great list, just some silly things, and I’ll post more through the winter. Personally, this will be the first winter in my life when I can leave New Jersey when I’m ready for some sun or a change of scenery. I’m thinking all of February and March. So long, suckers. JK!

Candles, bath salts, cuddle, stargaze, go on a ski trip, build a campfire at a campsite, board games, beach walks, binge-watch, write actual letters and mail them, silly socks, incense, yoga, go to the gym, hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows, stews and soups, spa time, feed some birds, take a walk in the city, plan a trip, jazz and blues, scones, pajamas day, go find the snow, stay healthy, veggies, build forts, sleepovers, classical music, date nights, mulled cider, stay hydrated, read all you can, fly to the tropics, visit the elderly, volunteer, donate, zoos, whale-watching, play with babies, movie nights, 5k’s, have family over for brunch, breakfast for dinner, Mexican night, wash all house linens, keep your heat low, walk in the woods, learn a language, some hot shagging, sit near a candle on your porch.

Oh, and read The Stranger, by Camus. And visit the Brandywine Conservancy and Museum of Art in Chadds Ford, PA when it re-opens, and spend some time looking at Andrew Wyeth’s art.

Happy Wintering Part I!

Pixie Dust and Vomit Stains

Guess who just got back today 
Them wild-eyed boys that had been away 
Haven’t changed that much to say 
But man, I still think them cats are crazy- Thin Lizzie

With every passing December day, the “Jaws” theme song gets louder in my head. Because soon, the Boys will be back in town. Temporarily, at least. I’ve missed them.

Them. Not their messes.

They will be back with their laundry, their noise and their strange leftovers. I will once again be tripping on size 14 shoes, skateboards, surfboards and ski equipment. Water bottles will clutter the counters, jackets will crowd the coatrack, and “The Office” and “Ridiculousness” will blare through the house speakers. Car keys attached to lanyards will be draped over every chair, laundry will never end, trash will be incessant, toothpaste will again be gobbed in the bathroom drain and spittle splashed on the bathroom mirror.

And my poor kitchen. It’s like my boys live two lives- the functional one, the one that takes place during the daylight hours of talking and studying and working and eating, and the insidious one, the one of goblins and ghouls and hooded creatures, that exists in that netherworld between the hours of 9:00 p.m. and 5:00 a.m. When I walk into the kitchen on any typical morning, it looks like a large, strange eclectic family filled with second spouses, half-sisters and stepbrothers moved into the house for the night, turned tail and forgot to clean up.

Anything goes in the morning. Buckets of half-gnawed chicken wings, pans of untouched homemade brownies, plastic containers of sushi, packets of duck sauce, strange matchbooks from Chicago and Boston eateries, train and bus tickets to exotic destinations, poker chips, wet beach towels, unfamiliar wine glasses, cereal bowls with half-eaten brands of cereal not in our pantry, t-shirts stating “Retired Hooters Girl,” plastic cutlery, takeout menus from obscure restaurants, Wawa sandwich wrappings, and very often, and mostly in the summer, strange clothes. Always strange clothes. Hoodies, bathing suits, undergarments, socks, puffy coats, t-shirts, you name it. I could have a yard sale at the end of every summer to get rid of all of the towels, clothes, canteens, coolers, hats, flip-flops, sneakers, bikinis, water bottles and sporting equipment abandoned at my house in the summer.

My cluttered morning kitchen counter is often unexplainable, like Area 51. I try to solve the riddles, like I’m Steve from “Blues Clues”:

Clue #1: Bus ticket to Atlantic City

Clue #2: Receipt from gift shop in Harrah’s

Clue #3: T-shirt with pink vomit

Clue #4: Plastic cup from Jonuzi’s pizza, half-filled with some kind of spiked rum beverage

I sit on the Thinking Couch. So they tried to go underage gambling. Got thrown out of the casino. Then tried to soothe their bruised egos with pizza and spiked rum drinks at Jonuzi’s. There are mythic tales that Jonuzi pizza slices are the size of satellite dishes, and that if you can eat an entire pizza, you get it for free. So I can assume from the color of the vomit that one of them tried to go for it and failed?

“I just figured out Oves’s Clues

I just figured out Oves’s Clues

I just figured out Oves’s Clues

Because I’m very smart.”

(P.S. The revelation that Blue was a girl rocked our family for years).

It’s not just my kitchen that is clean when they’re away. Here are items I don’t have to buy when the boys are gone:

Whole milk

White bread

American cheese

Frozen pizza

Beef jerky

Assorted pork products

Deli meats

D’animals yogurt (and other disgusting sugary viscous fluids).

Uncrustables

Pre-workout powder

Mega-Roll Ten-Ply Toilet Paper

Solo Cups

Paper plates

Double-Stuffed Oreos

Juice boxes

Quarts of blue cheese for wing nights

Sugary coffee creamer

Tastycakes

But they’re all at home now, aren’t they? AARP magazine just reported that for the first time since the Great Depression, the majority of young adults ranging in age from 18-29 years old now live with their parents. Whether it’s due to closed campuses or lost jobs, our kids have become our roommates.

Crikeys.

But the way I see it, with the election over and a vaccination just around the corner, the planet will eventually re-open in 2021, and young people can go back to work, school and their own houses. Great, I say. Move along there, young-uns. Life is out there to be lived, not to be cowered from. And the Bank of Mom is closed.

Francesca Tinkerbell could have used this advice. Please indulge me.

Tinkerbell (not her real name, but it’s close), a journalist from Berkeley, wrote about being conflicted because her daughter and her daughter’s boyfriend had moved in with them to flee coronavirus, and the living situation was not ideal. My daughter doesn’t do dishes, she said, my daughter sews and doesn’t clean up her scraps, the water bill is too high, the grocery bill is through the roof, my independence is gone, wah, wah, wah.

No sympathy here, because the way I see it, Tinkerbell brought it all on herself. Tinkerbell committed one of the biggest personal transgressions out there. She singlehandedly created, encouraged and fostered a toxic situation, and then had the audacity to complain about it. I say, Tinkerbell, you made your daughter’s bed, and now you have to keep making it.

So Tink’s story goes like this: daughter loses job in L.A. during lockdown, so daughter comes home. Makes sense, fine and dandy. Then daughter’s boyfriend joins them. Um, o.k. They all take walks, bake bread and enjoy the togetherness, until they don’t. Then daughter excitedly announces to her family that she has been offered her job back. Great! I would say if it were my 24-year old kid. Congrats! Go back, enjoy your life, here’s some money to tide you over, just be careful, wear your mask, love you, get out, bye!

But not Tinkerbell. Oh no. You know what Tinkerbell told her daughter?

No! The restaurant kitchen is too small! There are too many workers, there isn’t enough room, you can’t wear a mask over a hot stove, you have this immune deficiency! No! Stay at home! You can’t go back! It could kill you!

Mom begged her to stay home. She ordered her to stay home. And eventually she did stay home. And then proceeded to become clinically depressed. She missed her life. She missed her job. She missed her friends. She stopped getting out of bed, stopped taking care of herself. And Tinkerbell didn’t know what to do to help her.

It was at this point in the article that I started getting very angry at Tinkerbell. How can you help her, Tink? Um, maybe leave her the hell alone, let her make her own dang decisions, and let her live her own life? And who is this spineless daughter who takes such crappy advice from her mother? If you wanted to go back to your life, to your job and to your friends, you should have gone back! You’re 24!

Tinky writes that she tried to “help” her daughter, tried to cheer her up, tried to get her out of bed, but ultimately decided that the girl “had to work through her troubles by herself.” Oh, NOW she’s on her own, Tink? You create the problem for her, you infantilize her, you get your way, and now you decide that she’s an adult with her own problems? Why wasn’t she an adult when she wanted to go back to L.A.?

(I’m so mad at T-Bell, I could spit. And give me just five minutes with that daughter. Five little minutes. She’d be packed and on the road before Tink could say “Pixie-Dust”).

At the close of the article, Tink’s daughter was still living at home, and was still unemployed. But on the bright side, she raises worms for compost and deep-cleans her mother’s kitchen for fun.

Sounds like a blast. Send her over here, mine could use it, too.

Eckhardt Tolle

ET: (Opens his office door and invites me in). Welcome, Mary.

Me: (Walks in office). Thank you. Sorry I’m late, there was the most beautiful bird outside on your landing, I couldn’t help admiring him.

ET: A bird? How did you know it was a bird?

Me: How did I know it was a bird? Well, it was tweeting, of course. It had feathers, and a beak. It flew away when I got close to it.

ET: So you just assumed it was a bird?

Me: Yes. Was that a wrong assumption?

ET: Not necessarily. But you’ll find that when you don’t cover up your world with words and labels, a depth will return to your life. Next time you see a bird, don’t label it as a “bird.” Look at it, silently, sense its essence. Its essence will then reflect your own essence back to you. Just give it a try.

Me: Um, ok, sure (looks around room). Do you have a preference as to which chair I sit in?

ET: Again, no labels, please. Just sense the Beingness of the chair. Van Gogh stared at what we call a “chair” for hours, days and weeks. He didn’t pick up his brush until he understood its essence. So now the portrait he drew of a chair, a chair that was probably only worth a couple of dollars, is now worth about 25 million.

Me:

Me: Soooo, where should I sit?

ET: The couch is fine.

Me: Thanks (settles into the couch).

ET: So, Mary, what brings you to see me today?

Me: I’m not sure. I’m just looking for advice. I’m happy and fulfilled. I just wish I was more content. More at peace.

ET: You seek peace?

Me: Yes.

ET: You want peace now?

Me: Yes.

ET: What do you think will give you peace and contentment?

Me: I don’t know. The right job. The right man. Finishing my Ph.D. To be further published, to travel more extensively.

ET: So you think that if you find the job and degree and relationship you want, you will finally be at peace?

Me: I don’t know. I hope so. But I’m already 54. I’m tired of striving, I wish I could just relax and be at peace now.

ET: That wish for a different life is your ego talking. The ego is afraid that you will discover the secret.

Me: What secret?

ET: That the only opportunity one has to be at peace is to be at peace now.

Me: (Thinks). But why is my ego afraid?

ET: Because peace is the end of the ego.

Me: (Pause). But how can I be at peace now, when I still want so many things?

ET: By making peace with the present moment. Becoming One With Life. You must realize that you are not living life, life is living you. You are not the dancer of your life. Life is the dancer. You are the dance.

Me: So I have no control? Life can send me in any direction it wants, and I just have to sit here and take it?

ET: Yes. Buddha called that tatata.

Me: Tatas?  

ET: No, tatata.

Me: Frittatas?

ET: No, TATATA. The negativity and unhappiness that the ego loves, that the ego thrives on. Tatata.

Me: Why does my ego love tatata? Why does it do that to me?

ET: Because the ego does not recognize itself, and isn’t even able to see what it is doing, that it is creating hell on earth for the person who is suffering under its rule.

Me: Wow. How can I stop it?

ET: You must begin with yourself. Mary, ask yourself a question: Is there any negativity in you at this moment?

Me: (Considers). Yes, a little. Does this mean I have failed?

ET: No. It means you have succeeded. This recognition, this awareness, means your sense of self has undergone a shift. To be free of the ego, you simply need to be aware of your feelings as they happen. Are you aware of negativity as you feel it?

Me: (Happily). Yes. Sometimes I feel the world owes me more than it has given me. But I am grateful for all I have. Is that what you mean?

ET: Yes.  Outflow determines inflow. Enjoy the abundance of the world. Feel the sun on your skin, taste the sweet juice of ripe fruit, feel the cool rain on your face. Then let it flow out. Smile at a stranger, ask yourself in every situation, “What can I give to this person? How can I be of service to this situation?” Feel abundant, and abundance will come to you. Abundance comes to only those who already have it.

Me: That doesn’t seem fair.

ET: Indeed. But it is a universal law.

Me: So you’re saying that whatever happens to me, I just have to accept it.

ET: Yes. Accept it like you chose it, like you invited it into your life.

Me: But what if what is happening to me is painful?

ET: I will give you a trick. Krishnamurti once told his pupils the secret to his happy life. Want to hear it?

Me: Of course.

ET: No matter what happened to him, Krishnamurti would say, “I don’t mind what happens.”

Me: That’s it?

ET: That’s it. It puts you in alignment with what happens. So instead of feeling helpless because you are your own life’s dance, you will feel in control of the moment. Because this moment is the only moment that ever is.  

Me: I see. But you’re not suggesting I just sit by and let life roll over me?

ET: Absolutely not. But when you are aligned with what life offers you, you now can feel empowered by your positive energy to improve your situation.

Me: So it’s like saying, “This too will pass.”

ET: Exactly. Through acceptance, you can now honor all of the things of the world without attaching importance or significance to them. Your career and relationship worries now have space and energy between them and behind them.

Me: And then?

ET: All of your self-created suffering will come to an end.

Me: That would be nice.

ET: (Looks at clock). Time’s up.

Me: (Rises). How can I begin to practice acceptance right now?

ET: (Walks me to the door). Stop thinking and worrying so much. Become one with the Spirit. There’s an old joke that says that’s why alcohol is called “spirits.” Because it makes you stop thinking. Start by using the ride down the elevator as an opportunity to just be silent. Simply be at one with the moment. Don’t think. Just Be.

Me: Thank you. I’ll try. I have a lot of old stuff to work on. (Laughing, steps into elevator)

ET: Let it go, and remember the old proverb of the two monks. Two monks spot a woman unable to cross the road because the mud was too thick. One monk carries the woman across while the other watches. Two hours later, as they arrive at church, the one turns to the other and says, “Why did you carry that woman? We are forbidden to do things like that.” The other turns to him and says, “You’re still carrying that woman? I put her down hours ago.”

Elevator door closes.

Jeans. Democracy in Fashion.

(Quote above can be attributed to Giorgio Armani).

I’ve never really been a jeans wearer. Women with hourglass figures can attest to the fact that it is difficult for us to find jeans that fit right, so we mostly avoid them. Dresses, skirts and polished tights flatter our bodies better, and offer so much more versatility.

I personally find them lazy, dull and difficult to style. But I do have a pair, and when I am feeling brave, I style them with a polished black blazer and heeled boots, always with a heel. I always dress them up, never down. Never with sneakers. Never with a slouchy old hoodie. Never with flat ankle boots. When I was younger, I felt confident throwing on little gladiator sandals with some skinny jeans and a peasant blouse, but alas, those days are over. I’m more careful now, but I still retain the good fashion sense I had even as a young girl. In my twenties, I once refused a job offer because the position required me to wear a polyester t-shirt and khakis. Khakis!

Uh-uh. Not on this girl. I wouldn’t even know where to purchase khakis.

I study magazines, social media and especially movies relentlessly, always making notes on what looks good, what doesn’t, what works, and what doesn’t. And when I think of jeans, I think of the times I have witnessed them being done right. There aren’t many.

Here is a list of my Top-Five Favorite Jeans’ Moments in cinematic history. I tried to number them from five to one, one being my favorite, but the formatting wouldn’t work. Feel free to send along any that you feel I might have missed.

  • Jennifer Beal in “Flashdance”: It’s an iconic moment in the movie, when Alex is agonizing over filling out her dance repertory application. She is lying on her stomach, and the camera comes in close to show her talking face-to-face with her dog Grunt. The music score plays over their conversation, so you can’t hear what she is saying to him, but the camera pans slowly down her body, so you can see her white tank-top and ripped jeans. The “white tank-top and slouchy ripped boyfriend jeans” look on Beals’ slim dancer’s body is brilliant, and has never been done better since.
  • Teri Hatcher in “Seinfeld”: While most people were probably busy laughing at the scene when Elaine walks into Jerry’s apartment (“Oh, hi, Si…dra….”) when Teri Hatcher realizes that the woman who felt her up in the steam room is Elaine, I was busy marveling at Teri Hatcher’s amazing jeans’ moment. With her looooong legs and torso, Teri Hatcher pulls off the tight jeans, high-heeled boots, black bodysuit and black leather jacket look off to perfection. I tried this look many times over the years, and I’m sure it just never worked. Just not the same without height.
  • Kristen Wiig in “Bridesmaids”: At the end of the movie, Annie sits patiently on Lillian’s couch, waiting to see Lillian in her wedding dress. She is wearing faded old boyfriend jeans, a cute little concert t-shirt and little low-heeled boots. Her hair is loose and pretty, her legs are crossed, and she just looks so comfortable. Just a great, perfect jeans moment. If you look closely at Kristen Wiig, you can tell she knows what looks good on her body. Funny and fashionable. There are so few of us.
  • Scarlett Johannson in “Matchpoint”: Did you hear the buzz that Scarlett J. is signed on to play me in the memoir of my life? I mean, it’s not official yet, but there’s some buzz that she’s interested. But I digress. In this jeans’ movie moment, Scarlett’s character Nola has just flubbed an audition, and she is walking down the street with Chris, played by the creepy Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. Scarlett has many astounding fashion hits in this movie (the white dress in the ping-pong scene? Oh my), but the white-collared shirt under the fitted black blazer over tight boot-cut jeans and high-heeled boots is just a stunner. It’s my favorite look, and the only way I will ever wear jeans. And the scene afterward when Nola and Chris have a drink in a dim bar is intensely haunting and erotic. The blazer comes off, the cigarette is lit, and she nurses a glass of wine while Meyers just drinks her in. Hypnotizing, but there’s not much Scarlett does that isn’t.
  • Sarah Jessica Parker in the “Sex and the City” movie: This is my favorite jeans’ movie moment EVER. Sarah knows how to do jeans like a pro, and knows different ways to dress them up. She’s a fashion marvel, and I have an entire Pinterest page dedicated to just her fashion. If you’re interested, type “Sarah Jessica Parker wears jeans” into Google, and you’ll be rewarded with about ten zillion styles she has pulled off. In this scene, Carrie has returned from her “honeymoon” in Mexico, and is standing in the doorway of her New York City apartment, in the rain, facing the camera. She’s pissed. She’s heartbroken. She’s jilted. You know that feeling when you vacation somewhere tropical, and you come home to wet cold rain and a crappy job, and you wonder where your tan went? She nails this feeling as she stands in the doorway in slouchy medium-wash jeans, high-heeled green snakeskin booties, and a double-breasted leather blazer. The crowning glory to this outfit and scene is the huge red scarf she has draped around her neck and body, her hair pulled at the top of her head in a messy bun and minimal makeup. She somehow makes the outfit look like she just threw it on at the last minute, but also polished as hell. This is her greatest fashion talent.