Diary of a Writer in Midlife Crisis

The other day, I was doing the laundry when I opened the top of the washer to find a pair of large frogs sitting on top of the wet and shrunken clothing. Naturally, I screamed in horror. Until I moved in close and noticed they were rubber.

C. That little stinker. She was here last week and must’ve decided that it’d be super fun to play a trick on the anal stepmother.

(“Sweetie,” through quasi-clenched teeth, “can you please not rest your hands on the freshly painted walls?” “Honey, can you please just wipe up the Gatorade you spilled on the counter. No biggie, accidents happen. Love you. Mean it.” “We put the curtain IN the shower, yes? Otherwise, we have a flood on our hands. You ARE the best.”)

What could be a better way to aggravate a woman who’s never known from two straight weeks with somebody else’s nine-year-old—who needs to have everything just so, after decades of fluffing pillows as a single woman—than burying two rubber frogs in her laundry basket.

How passive aggressive. How slightly genius.

I must’ve missed the little buggers when I scooped up the dark colors and shoved them, mindlessly, as I always do, into the washer—even though the rubber makes them large and rather heavy. But then again, that’s the beauty of laundry: it doesn’t require much in the way of attention. I can do it while I think about other things—like what’s for dinner and where I put my favorite blue- and brown-striped poncho.

Still, I must say, the reptiles—fake or otherwise—sure did give me a jolt. I tried to laugh about it with my husband that night over steamed brussel sprouts and a Jenny Craig frozen pasta dinner.

“Can you believe her? What a jokester. FROGS of all things? And she knows how much I HATE bugs, worms, frogs and, you know, all things horror filmy. So CUTE.”

I think about the time she walked in the house with 47 caterpillars crawling up her arm, wanting to “save them.” Dan looked for an appropriate Tupperware. I crossed my chest, even though I’m Jewish, and near had a coronary.

“I believe one of them is a lizard, honey,” Dan says, referring to the rubber duo. He laughs. Humorless, I watch as he douses the healthy salad I spent 20 minutes making with several heaping doses of Thousand Island dressing. My favorite. And, as you might imagine, a big no no on Jenny.

I hate him.

“She is something else.” I smile, thinking about the challenges of being a stepmother to a moody and insect-loving preadolescent. “Scared the crap outta me.”

He laughs louder.

“And gosh,” I say, “I sure am glad the rubber frogs didn’t do any damage to the brand new and very expensive washer. But good one!”

I take a bite of a large sprout and chew slowly. “Although, you know, that could’ve been a problem.” I laugh again. “I mean, that could really have cost us and, well, we’re already out THOUSANDS thanks to all the lawyers.” I smile, take a sip of my ice water, and think about how long and hard we fought to see that little prankster regularly. “But honey, you know that. I don’t have to remind you. Silly me. We’re fine. Just doing great.”

He looks at me and puts his fork down. “Everything okay?”

“You betcha!” I think about the reptiles, now tucked inconspicuously under C’s pillow.

Gosh, I love being married.

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I know this happened a while ago already, but since my brain is all too often on a time delay, I can only talk about it now (so please don’t write): The very disappointing ending to the Sopranos. I mean, what was that? I’ve been watching for seven years, staying home on Sunday nights, foregoing dinners out and "Two and a Half Men" and the Grammy's, to see what Tony, Carmela, and the gang were up to next.

To watch Big Pussy get whacked oceanside. And wonder how the naked pole dancers at the Bada Bing keep their trim figures? Or how Christopher could let them kill Ade without at least having her come to him in a few dreams?

And yet, all I got for my 84 months of devotion was the anticlimactic thrill of seeing the Soprano family eat onion rings. Good grief, I can watch my husband eat onion rings. And do. Often. (Hate him.)

Do you think that whoever’s left at my deathbed will be all that excited to watch me eat, say, Buffalo Wings? While some sinister looking nurse throws me a few questionable nods?

I think not.

I think, instead, my spectators will be looking for a few good pearls of wisdom, a few end-of-life-revelations, a few dramatic last gasps of oxygen. They'll want to know if I've left a juicy living will, who gets what, and whether I've planned well for my 400 pairs of black pants, Sophie's ashes, and favorite Tony LaSalle painting of "Shirley."

They will likely not be compelled by me, eating a French fry. Smiling, like I’m having a happy ending under the table—or a poignant experience in my diaper. While James Blunt sings "You're Beautiful" through the hospital-bed speaker.

Like them, I wanted to see something riveting, like bodily fluids. Blood. Guts. Or a riot. A good mafia rustle. A dead fish. A unexpected dismemberment of sorts. I even took a Dramamene in preparation, in case the camera jostled and things got a bit dicey.

I was ready to be shocked. To see that whiny little AJ find his way to Mecca. Tony, break down in tears in front of the bar, and then get whacked by a drunk driver—and a dose of righteous irony. I wanted to see Carmela fall in love with a cop. And Meadow get into medical school, only to find a life of crime more lucrative. And interesting. And to go on to become head of “the family.”

I wanted to see Tony And Dr. Melfi get it on already. And hey, I bet I’m speaking for a lot of people on this one.

Now THERE’s an ending worth waiting seven years for.

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This ending was truly disappointing, but then, so are a lot of things.

For example, I’m disappointed that there’s all kinds of coding in some of my previous posts and that I’ve got to go in and figure out how to fix it—in the middle of walking the dog, cooking dinner, washing our skivvies, tending to the needs of a bazillion clients (by the way, thank you for your business!) and a few small children, and trying to keep the cellulite on the back of my thighs in check—and, simultaneously, well hidden.

I’m disappointed every time I hear my computer make that little ringy sound that alerts and me to a new and exciting email—only to find it’s usually SPAM and not the literary agent or lottery board I know will someday be desperate to contact me. (Go away Vitacost. I ordered calcium once in the 70s. Take me off your list.)

I’m disappointed that, after all these years, I still haven’t really won anything.

I’m disappointed that my body is only capable of shedding a few ounces each week. Even though I spend most of my time watching other people eat pizza, while I pick from tiny bowls of crucifers and other bland objects.

I’m disappointed that being a stepmother is as difficult and thankless as it is. I mean, who really cares about us? Sure, our men do. (Love you, honey. You’re the tops.) But the kids secretly (and sometimes not-so-secretly) wish we’d shrivel up and float away so mommy and daddy could get back to hating each other, together, without us.

C was with us for the past two weeks. On the last day, we took her to a nice restaurant for lunch in the city. While seated at our table for three, she decided the chairs at the tables for two looked interesting. “C’mon, daddy, let’s try them.”

My poor husband. Looked torn. Like Meryl Streep in Sophie’s choice. “Which child are you going to give up, sir?” I patted him on the back as if to say, “It’s okay. She’s nine and I’m 44. (Although, that’s not my fault and I shouldn’t be punished.) Go for it.”

So he did. And there I sat, alone at a three-top, wondering if doing so made me a better person. Silently reciting affirmations. “You’re okay, Jill. People like you. I like you. Soon, you’ll be eating.”

On the way home, I proposed the idea of starting and celebrating a “Stepmother’s Day.” It was met with a resounding, “What’s for dinner?”

I have a headache.

Whatever.
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So I’ve made a few decisions that I feel will make me more spiritual:

#1: I am no longer going to be contrary, but conciliatory. Conciliatory is my new persona. “Jill, can we go see Spiderman 3?” (No desire, whatsoever. Would rather watch somebody having electrolysis on the IMAX big screen, than see Spiderman 3.)

Old contrary Jill: “Hmmm. Not my first pick. Why don’t we pick a few movies and choose something we’d all like to see?”

New conciliatory Jill: “Sure thing! Hey, let’s go to an early show so maybe we can stay and, once it’s over, see it again. Wouldn’t that be fantastic!”

(By the way, just heard the ringy sound, checked and it’s an email from some group taking a national smoking survey. Bummer.)

#2: I am no longer going to have problems. Instead, I am going to have neuroses. Why? Because neuroses are far more interesting than just problems. You can write books about neuroses. Get in the National Enquirer for neuroses. Be arrested. Win a Pulitzer. Even make a career out of it.. (Think David Sedaris, Kirstie Alley, and Annie Lamott, my favorites.) But problems? Well, they just get old and people get sick of hearing about them and then they just avoid you.

Old problematic Jill: Every time I buy shoes, they’re really comfortable in the store. And then, when I get them home, they hurt my feet.

New neurotic Jill: I find shoes confine me to the point where I become immobile. Stuck in my current reality. And not sure how to break free. I’m working on it though. But, hey, it’s a journey. (Another ringy: This time, it’s an offer for cheap Viagra. They should at least check their demographics. Sheesh.)

#3: I am no longer going to speak in full sentences but use acronyms as much as possible. Because people love acronyms (right?). They’re very efficient. And, just as a very important side, the people with the most acronyms have all the money. (Think pharmaceutical companies and the government.)

Old Jill: Gosh, I really wish I didn’t have this little pocket of fat around my knees. No matter how much I diet and exercise, I fear the only thing that will get rid of it is liposuction. And I’m just not good in situations that require somebody to slice open—or off—any part of my body.

New Jill: Gosh, I really wish I didn’t have JKS (Jewish Knee Syndrome). No matter how much DEP (diet, exercise, and prayer) I do, I’m afraid the only thing that will help is PEL (painful and expensive liposuction).

#4: I will never run in the park. Not that the old Jill ran in the park. Never. But I see people run in the park by our house all the time. And I just don’t get it. They look tortured. Sweat is pouring down their red faces, like they’ve just been spit out of a lake of hot lava. Their legs are barely airborne. It’s like some mad killer is chasing them, yet there’s nobody there but a few lost fireflies.

JUST WALK. That’s what I want to say. But don’t.

Because they’re just setting themselves up for disappointment (a sensation I know a great deal about) anyway, unless they plan to run until they’re 90. It’s just common sense. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard women complain. “I was so thin back then, when I was running.” Then they stopped. And what happened? Presto, bingo, bulbous once again.

So ladies, STOP RUNNING. It's not worth it. And you ain’t no Joyce Joiner Kersey or whatever. Go home. Bathe. Change. And then meet me at Starbucks for a latte.

Now, THAT, folks, seems more reasonable.

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So I’ve been taking antidepressants for four years now. (C’mon, you know you all take them too. Yes, you.) Started when I turned 40 and realized that I was living somebody else’s perfect life—but not mine—and so I started taking Lexapro. The drug made my then-neighbor suicidal, but being the risk taker that I am, I thought it might work fine for me.

I remember taking the first pill. It was on January 1, 2003. It was a new year that called for a new set of brain chemicals. On that day, I ate a thick-crust Giordano's pizza, called my mother, walked the now-dead dog Sophie, threw back the little white dot with a McDonald’s chocolate milkshake, and hoped for the best.

And just a few days later? Boy, did I feel fantastic. Not like heroin high (not that I would know, since the strongest drug I’ve ever taken is a Women’s Correctol). But just clear. Like fully hydrated urine. Or the perfect diamond. (Honey, are you reading?)

Anyway, now I’m here: Married, working as a writer (even though I’m not touring the country doing readings and Ira Glass isn’t begging me to be on This American Life, yet), living the American dream, all right.

I’ve got countless pairs of black stretch pants, a nice back deck replete with gas grill and dead azaleas, cable on three televisions, and 45 tubes of Crayola lipgloss in my makeup cabinet. Little kids play soccer just behind our air conditioning, which is loud, to remind us it’s working. And every Tuesday and Friday, green plastic garbage bins line up like toy soldiers in our yuppie-designed suburban kingdom.

We are the lucky ones. We have the stuff that immigrants climbing over those wobbly little fences along Texas can only dream of.

Who could want more than that? So, as I look around at my middle-aged wonderland, I decided to go for broke. And just took myself off the little suckers. Tossed what was left of the tiny pills down the toilet.

Just decided four years on antidepressants is enough. I’m not depressed anymore. So, fly away little birdies. Down the hatch. Through the tube. Go find your way into some misguided dolphin. I’m done with you.

And you know what, I’m still rolling with the punches. Sharpening up those neuroses. Doing just fine with MNDFE (my new drug-free existence). A little nauseous (apparantly, there's a bit of withdrawal associated with this cold turkey, which I find somewhat naughty and exciting), but according to the highly qualified pages of the Internet, that too shall pass.

Hold on. I need to get a tissue.

You know, a good cry can really do wonders.

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Last week, I planned a binge with my Jenny Craig counselor. I think it was the most fun I’ve had in about 16 weeks. And while I complained about losing a mere one pound to every seven days, she pointed out the positive: that by the end of the year, I’d be down 52 pounds.

“If I lose 52 pounds, don’t you think I’ll look a little like Keith Richards?”

“So what? You’ll be beautiful.” I conjure up an image of the rocker in my mind and find it physically painful to stay focused on it.

“I think I’ll be calling you from the eating disorders ward at Holy Redeemer Hospital.” But who am I, except a happy gal. Super duper gay and joyful.

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This having children. It’s heady business. I’m not sure it’s for me. Not that I have a choice at this point. I’m 44, soon to be 45, and tired. I’m not all that into Barney. Spongebob. Or keeping mini-packets of snacks in my DKNY backpack. I'm not sure I'm very good at sitting in the carpool line.

C was with us for a few weeks. And I took her to camp. Dropped her off and became a fish out of water. Because, at that moment, the soccer moms suddenly wanted to talk to me. Standing outside of the campsite after having just dropped off our little ones, they wanted to commiserate on how painful it is to see them try to assimilate. And how some do it better than others.

As I stood at the precipice of a club I could never get into (and frankly, never tried or desired), I had to wonder: who am I? Again. After all, in the past, I was the anti-club--the anti-mom, anti-member. And even though I’m just a “step,” as long as I keep it on the downlow, me and the soccer moms now have something to talk about.

So we stood there, chatting, as scenes of modern-day suburbia flashed before me. All the things I used to once want, then mourned, and then decided weren’t “me” or what I was born to be—were mine. Whether I liked it—and knew what to do with it—or not.

It's all so confusing. One minute, I love the experience of being something to a child. Another, I wish to God, Jehovah, Buddhist, Jesus, the Goddess, and whoever, that all I had to worry about was getting to the next shoe sale at Nordstroms. And hoping that Donald Pliner would showsomething in a platform for Fall.

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And yet, I find that all it takes to ground us is one good thunderstorm, book, and email from a dear old friend who we haven't heard from in a while. It all reminds us, on those occasions we risk forgetting, of who we are. And what, about us, is most important.

Because we aren’t just the manifestation of our collective neuroses, experiences, acronyms, medications, or even new situations. But a cumulation of the people who’ve helped to shape us --and the circumference of our hearts.

So I say, big hugs to you all (Stacey, Marie-Claude, Andreas, you know who you are). And c’mon, you old friend who’s out there right now, reading...

Write to me.

Until next time.