“But ass isn’t a bad word,” I say to her. “It means donkey.”

And so now, I’ve started treated my “donkey” as a separate entity.

Donkey don’t fit in the chair. Donkey needs to get smaller. Donkey refuses to shrink. Donkey don’t fit in them jeans. Donkey bad. Donkey flabby. Dead lifts good for tightening donkey. Donkey sore. Bed too hard for donkey. Donkey looks bad in those stretch pants.

You get the drift.

I’m not sure why, but naming my rear quarters “donkey” has been cathartic in an odd sort of way. It’s as if it’s become something separate. So I’m freer to look at and it talk about it in a more objective and less personal way which, for a person with body-image issues, is quite fabulous. By detaching it from the rest of my body, it’s as if I’m no longer responsible for it. I like that.

And even though it still comes with me wherever I go, like a cold sore or a pair of old sneakers with holes in them, it doesn’t have to dictate how I feel about myself. In fact, calling it donkey—and thinking about it as a donkey—has made it almost loveable.

Imagine that.

So there you have it. Me and my donkey are doing just fine. Thank you for asking. Why yes. We’d love to meet you for dinner. What night is good for you?
------------------------------------------
Speaking of donkeys, mine and I have been holding steady with my wellness program. If you recall from my last post, I did, in fact, wind up seeking the help of Dr. G, who, I’ll admit, I disliked in the way you dislike the taste of goat cheese before you’ve ever really had any.
Now that I’ve been working with her towards, among other things, a smaller and more fit donkey, I must say, were I in the market for a new best friend, she might be at the top of my list.

Since I have one of those already, instead, I’ll look to her as a great teacher, a fellow journeyman, my physiological fly girl, my chiropractic Kazoo, the Mahareshi Mahesh Yogi who starts me on my quest for spiritual, mental, and physical wellbeing. Or, who keeps me from tipping the scales at 800 pounds as I delve ever deeper into the vortex of middle age, taking my metabolism, willpower, resolve, and good luck along with it.

And as it turns out, she’s arrived just in the nick of time.

Since taking the first step towards hotness, I mean, good health, I have learned from Dr. G’s magical x-rays that I have a tinge of arthritis in my neck. Bad for me, of course, but much worse for my husband. “Honey, I can’t empty the dishwasher…I’m arthritic.” ”Can’t walk the dogs, babe, my arthritis is acting up.” “Ouch oh mighty, that pesky neck-thritis, would you mind massaging it, again?”

On a positive note, I also have some of the best posture G’s seen this side of the millennium. And, my body, albeit it robust, is perfectly proportioned, which means instead of having a skinny waist and a donkey the size of a double wide, I’m large all over.

Great.

It also turns out that while my cholesterol is somewhat borderline, my triglycerides are a hair’s breath short of award-winning (damn that writer’s strike). Reason to celebrate? Well, not quite yet.

That’s because my CRPJKV (or some such) marker is slightly high. In other words, I'm precariously inflamed. Of course, who didn’t know that? I didn't need to give blood to know that I'm bloated a good 20 days out of the month. What I didn't know was that, my friends, can be bad for the ol’ ticker.

Now when I heard this news, naturally I panicked. Because that’s one of the things I do really well. Then, after having some time to digest it, I decided to crawl into bed with my therapy dog Elvis and cry for six hours straight. “Oh Elvy, why me? Why am I so bloated? Why oh WHY is my donkey so large? Oh my babeeee, I’m so hungry…..”

Of course, in the middle of all this, my primary care physician called to re-deliver the news and tell me to take a baby aspirin, so I don’t drop dead suddenly from a heart attack (well, she didn’t say that). Which, of course, made me fell ancient and served to intensify the hysterics already underway. I mean, who knew that, at 45, I’d wind up in such lousy shape? This has defied all my plans.

After all, I've been taking precautions. I’ve never smoked, drank, or done drugs—save a few emergency Women’s Correctol’s. I’ve always watched my food intake and been active, lifting weights for several years (although I did stop when I got married last year). So naturally, when I heard that my CRVXZ was high and my B-M-I was B-A-D, I was not only baffled, but slightly despondent.

I mean, good grief. If I had known it’d all turn out like this, I’d have spent the first half of my life having some fun--tokin it up, drinking like a fish, shooting heroin, and overdosing on pie and pizza.

But then, after several conversations with my boo boo girl Doc Gigi, I started to feel better about things. She reassured me that if I stuck to the nutrition and exercise plan and even calmed my crazy brain through meditation, all my nasty markers would find their way back to where I’d like them.

Since then, I’ve been like a priest at a sexual harassment convention—diligent in my efforts to stay disciplined. Goodbye potatoes, rice, and bread. Hello low-glycemic vegetables and lean protein. Goodbye just an hour walk with the dogs. And a big how’d-you-do to five 30-minute high intensity interval training and two weight training sessions a week (along with shin splints, calf soreness, and lower back tension).

I’m on a mission. And it ain’t to find religion.

I’m looking for a donkey that stops traffic—one that barely moves when slapped but one that shimmies and shakes in just the right tempo, as appropriate of course.

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So after 11 days on the course to drop weight and CRPJKS levels like a skydiver with a faulty parachute, I decided to check my progress on the scale. Proud, excited, and terrified like a Marine called to active duty, I raced to the Wellness Center to get weighed (because I don’t own a scale and please don’t buy me one for Christmas). I was sure I’d dropped a good four pounds—at least. After all, the folks on the Biggest Loser were dropping the body weight of small toddlers. If they could do it, I could certainly lose four pounds. Maybe even FIVE.

Once there, I waved to the young metabolically rich girls who staff the front desk, and head straight for the scale in Dee-to-the-Dee-to-the-Gee’s office. I took off my coat, sneakers, socks, earrings, sweat jacket, rings, spit out my gum, and stepped on the scale. What I saw shocked me.

I had lost two pounds.

Two lousy stinkin’ pounds. Two pounds—a steak dinner large enough for, maybe, four—the number after one and before three. As I stood there, with I’m sure a look of pure horror on my face, as if I’d seen Dr. Atkins’ spirit rise up through the brown carpet like a chorus line of rusty nails, Dr. G’s brother, Dr. E, peaked in to see me. “Hey,” he says, smiling a big white toothpaste-ad smile. “How’d you do?”

“Let’s put it this way,” I said. “I do not need an agent. I am NOT the biggest loser.”

It was in that moment that I realized: my fat should go on the record as the most dedicated life partner on the planet. Who knew that instead of looking for companionship in another person, I needed only look to my own hips? No matter what I do, no matter how many times I try to break up with it, no matter how much I deprive it of love, my excess flesh will never leave me. Til’ death do us part no longer an abstract concept.

I’m starting to believe that the only way I’ll ever lose any real weight is through decomposition. Yep, you heard me. I'll have to decompose. And that, my friends, is a very depressing notion.

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So of course, I left that day wanting desperately to hit Dominos—HARD—but I didn’t. Because really, what would be the point? Like Britney Spears, my fat would merely attract more fat like bad papparazzi. Hey guys, my fat cells would say, c’mon over here, the feedin’ is FINE, check me out, take my picture, roll with me, grow and prosper, make money, multiply, c’mon, this is where the action is really happenin.

I could just hear those nasty genetic buggers now.

So, instead of stopping for Italian, I went home and cried, again, into Elvis’ fur. “Oh Elvy, Can you just see it now? ‘Famous blogger, talented, loses 40 pounds. How’d she do it? She’s on the D-compose diet. That’s right. See page 35 for details’.” Course the poor animal just looked at me and yawned, while I sobbed, groaned, choked, and blew my nose. (Desperation is not pretty.)

And so, from there, life had to go on. I decided, after releasing Elvis who made it clear through much squirming that he could take no more, to stay the course for eight weeks and see what happens. If, after that time, me and my donkey are still inflamed to the point of our CRPJQST hitting triple and even quadruple digits, well, we’ll both spend another few days in bed with Elvis and then do something entirely different.

Please don't ask me what.

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That night, drained of all bodily fluid, I went to bed hungry. And dreamt I was eating a corned beef sandwich. I could almost taste the meat (which, when fully conscious, I don’t even like) when my husband’s alarm went off. I rolled over and moaned and he spooned me, whispering, “Good morning, honey, I love you.”

To which I replied, “Get your own sandwich. I’m not sharing.”
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On another subject entirely, I had a meeting the other day with a recruiter for some freelance work. Let’s call her Coco Paloma.

Somehow we got on the subject of divorce. And I found out that Coco P had finally lost custody of her young children to her ex-husband after a 10-year court battle. I have no idea how she endured for 10 years what we endured for five months—or how that father managed to convince the court he was the better parent.

I wanted to ask more questions, but given that I don’t know her well enough, I simply marveled on how prevalent the issue of child custody is. I don’t know why that surprises me, given the 50-percent-and-higher rate of divorce. Something’s gotta give--or someone's gotta get caught in the crossfire of emotions--and sadly and typically, it’s the children.

I think about how all my friends who married in mid-life and became stepparents—every single one of them—has a bad and sometimes bizarre tale to tell of how their husbands’ ex has wreaked havoc in their lives, and even more specifically, in the spirit and minds of the kids.

Which leads me to wonder how, after a childhood spent stuck in the middle of two angry people, they’ll grow into adults. What kind of people will they be? How will they move through the world? How will they contribute? What kind of dreams will they have? And how will they reach for them? Will they? What will this future generation look like?

It scares me to think about it—and of them, bruised and battered and, eventually, in charge of their own healing. It hurts me even more to know that, at least in our own situation, we’re powerless to do anything about it.

Because even though we’re all nicey nicey now, the schedule in terms of when we see C is precarious. It can roll over on a dime. That at any moment, Dan’s ex can do what she did before—remove the child—for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Because that’s how it happened in the first place.

I know it. Dan knows it. And even more tragically, at least in my opinion, C knows it. And she is suffering. Migraines, nails chewed to the quick, allergies, fear of going to sleep at night. Crying that when she’s with her mom she misses us and when she’s with us, she misses her mom. And we are powerless. We can’t reassure her that what happened will never happen again because not even we know that for sure. We can’t make promises about the other parent’s actions because we surely don’t control them. That much we can say with conviction.

So we acknowledge how hard the back and forth must be for her and tell her we love her and we’ll be here and that we’ll see her soon. To wit, she replies, quiet and broken, “I hope so.”

They’re words that break my heart. And, for the first time in my life, make the issue of my donkey seem small.

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Switching subjects again, just one last thing: I apologize to all waiting for my New Year’s resolution blog. But frankly, I have resolved to stop being a bad cliché. Making resolutions is, therefore, out of bounds.

(Although I am going to try to be nicer to the assholes in the park who insist on walking their dogs off leash, even though it’s not their backyard as indicated by the fact that they don’t, among other things, get their mail at the public park, and hey lady, when I ask you to leash your dog, it ain’t because I like the way those particular words feel coming out of my voicebox, and have you never heard of leash laws…Oh, I’m also going to be nicer about asking the folks at Ruby Tuesdays for crayons when they seat us because for some reason, once you’re over the age of 11, the hostesses at most major restaurant chains don’t think you deserve to color…I’m also going to stop starting my sentences with “Kids these days…” because that’s just unoriginal…and I guess I’ll give flossing another shot this year but I don’t make any promises…”)

Other than that (and a few others, wait, they'll come to me), no resolutions.

I will, however, pay homage to my father’s brilliant lone resolution: Which is to gain seven pounds because, as he so eloquently puts it, “that’s one I know I can keep.”

Rock on daddy! And to you all.

Until next time.

Case in point: Last week, I was putting the finishing touches on a story for Bucks County Woman magazine. It’s a how-to for brides looking to get fit for their weddings. I interviewed a lot of people for the story. However, none made as big of an impression on me as did my very last interview—it was with a chiropractor (let’s call her Dr. G) who, along with her brother, runs a two-month wellness program (read intense) out of their Bucks County office.

When we spoke, I was just looking for a few quotables for my article, since Dr. G was my last interview, the story was due the next day, and I was already well through a first draft of it.

Little did I know, however, the association would provide me with much more than prose for my piece. Not right away, of course, because instant gratification isn’t my strong suit (for example, William Morris hasn’t called yet and I’m still not a supermodel).

What did happen immediately, however, was, a visceral dislike of Dr. G and her principles, despite the fact that I had never met her or them face to face. After all, she was confident if not defiant in her approach. For one, she insisted that we women only need 1,200 to 1,500 calories a day. That we have no idea how much we’re eating and that’s why we’re overweight. And, for another, we only need one serving of starch (i.e., bread, pasta, potato) every 24 hours. For the rest of our lives. That’s it.

The nerve of her, I thought during and after our conversation. If everything she says is true, it directly violates everything I NEED to believe.

For example, I can’t live on 1,200 calories a day. That doesn’t even begin to account for pizza (especially eaten whole) or dessert. And telling me I can only have one starch a day is like telling me I can only scream at the dogs once every 24 hours. Apply lip gloss once. Rearrange the pictures in the living room once. It's just not possible.

Is she nuts? Did she shoot up this morning? Is she hallucinating?

As if that weren’t bad enough, in the second half of our conversation, she suggested we women engage in interval training—like, four momentary wind sprints or something equally unpleasant in the context of a moderately strenuous 30 minutes of exercise. Which made me think: ye gads woman. How do you ever expect to stay in business?

As she went on and on, all I could think was how much I hated her. How her voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard—like Sol stopping to say hello while my dogs cut their teeth on the park’s metal trashcans. How I felt bad for the brides who would take my advice and enroll in her turbo-program for help getting into their wedding dresses.

How she had to be a descendent of Satan, disguised in fuller hair and a white lab coat.

Do no harm, my ass. You can’t fool me, Doc G, with your AMA code and your fancy words. Try to get one over, Karen B, I know you made out with Ricky M in the 10th grade, when he was my boyfriend and you were my best friend. I know it now and I knew it then. Word.

I’ve been around the block, as my mother likes to say, and I know better than to believe just anything anybody tells me about health and fitness.

And I know—the way you know that you’ll probably wait until the last minute to write that story, buy that airline ticket, and get out those thank-you notes—that even though my gently fortified Jenny Craig menu is working slowly, it's working. Sort of.

That even though my dear Jenny Craig counselor Bette has taken to saying, “You haven’t gained that much this week,” those words are better than anything spoken by the devil.

That promoting the twisted have-only-one-potato-in-all-of-summer-2008 philosophies of Dr. G could very well crush readers' hopes of laying on the sofa eating junk food and getting away with it ever again.

And yet, while Dr. G's is a dangerous and punitive message, I still had to report it. That's my job. So I grabbed for my second Jenny Craig brownie of the day and did it.

But I didn’t have to feel good about it.
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And then, just days after, with Mercury in Retrograde and Karma getting time and a half, Dan and I got in a car accident.

It happened on my niece Sloane’s birthday (hi Sloane – happy birthday sweetie!). We were driving home from a cake-and-coffee celebration at my brother’s house when a large oak tree, heaving with ice from the day’s sleet, dropped in front of us from out of nowhere.

With no time to brake or avoid it, our Honda Element jumped the trunk at 40 miles an hour. And like an ingenue in the automotive Cirque de Soleil, landed on the other side in one piece.

Tada!

After a few moments of just sitting there, I opened my eyes (because you’d have closed yours too) and noticed steam coming out of the front radiator. Dan turned off the ignition, which was somehow still running, and shifted towards me. I, on the other hand, clung to my crash position—sitting upright, back stiff as a brick against the seat, one hand clutching the door the other clutching a lipstick, looking straight ahead, wearing the same petrified look I do every week when I get on the scale for my beloved Bette.

“Oh my God,” he says. “One second faster, and we’d have been toast. That tree would’ve come right through our windshield.” I am silent. “There's a bigger plan for us, babe.”

“Cake,” I whisper.

“Did you say rake?”

All I could think about was how I didn’t have a piece of Sloane’s birthday cake. I was trying to “be good.” And look where it got me. I could’ve gone out--ended it all--on a 230-calorie frozen dinner.

“Babe, are you okay? Do you have a head injury?”

I look at him and then out the window. Traffic is stopped in both directions and a woman in a nightgown and a parka is running our way. She seems upset. “I CALLED 911. ARE YOU OKAY? IS ANYBODY HURT?”

“Her cable lines must’ve come down,” Dan says.

I look at him. I love him. I want cake.

They say when you look death in the face, a white light appears and your whole life flashes by you. Me? I saw creamy white frosting, an entire year of Jenny Craig frozen meals, and a closet full of jeans that are too tight on me to wear out of the bathroom.

It was enough to get me to do the unthinkable: Call Dr. G.

That’s right. You read correctly. I called her office to sign up for her program. Because, while I initially responded to her like somebody who’d been stung by a bee and gone into anaphylaxis shock, I knew that, at the heart of it, she is right.

What she was saying about losing weight and getting fit, hardcore as it is, is right. On the money. Bullseye. In the dead center of true.

And perfect for helping someone like me: desperate.

----------------------------------------------------
So I call to schedule my spot in the program and Dr. G's husband, a corporate America refugee, answers. And we get to chatting. Turns out, he's been through the program himself. Lost 45 pounds during and 40 pounds after. And since then, has become a personal trainer and salesperson who works with program participants.

I tell him how I'm at my wit's end. I need help.

So he tells me the story of how and why he decided to do the program. Apparently, he was coaching his kids, then in little league, when he remembered how his father coached him. And how, when he was 12, he died on the field from a heart attack.

It was a powerful and moving story. And so I thought about my own. Have I resorted to this boot-campy extreme because I thought of cake before my family when faced with my own mortality? Then I realized, no. It was deeper than that.

So, after some meditation, I finally tell him the reason why I'm doing it: "I just want to be hot.”

After all, when you’re in the vortex of a mid-life crisis, as I am, really, you just want to figure out how to get back to your youth – when you were, well, young and your metabolism was lot faster and nobody talked to you about menopause and you didn’t get applications in the mail for the AARP and you weren’t so obsessed with shrinking.

When possibility had no limits in terms of not only eating, but writing and dreaming.

When you were hot—or at least as hot as you were ever gonna be, whether you realized it back then or not.

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And so, like the car accident, once again, the universe gave me a sign—only this time, that aiming for hotness was the right motivation. Or perhaps, the best motivation. At least in this moment.

Yesterday, we celebrated Hanukah in lieu of Christmas at my parents' house (since we hadn't been able to get together until then). My mom made a big dinner and after, my snoopy sister-in-law-to-be-someday found an old picture of me that my parents had hidden on their bookshelves.

“Is this you?” she asks, passing around the photo, her disbelief palpable.

I look at the picture when it finally makes its way to where I'm sitting. It’s me alright, in my 20s, with long hair—the longest I ever remember it—wearing a halter top, black tights, and an open button-down jersey top that says "Margate" in big black letters.

I’m smiling. And why not? I’m a size 8. Tops. And HOT. Truly hot. Objectively hot. Even though, back then, I was convinced otherwise.

I make the mistake of putting the picture down, when my sis-to-be sends it back around, like a five-year-old on a Merry Go Round. Like it was a video she'd taken of George Bush being dropped into an active volcano.

“WOW,” Dan says, eyes popping out of his head. “Look at that hair.”

Look at it. “I’m so young there.” I want to die. Or at least vomit. Or at least eat the pie on the table with a spatula.

My father laughs. “Welcome to middle age!”

I shoot him a dirty look and am suddenly depressed. So much so, that not even the 12 green slotted spoons and plastic cutting board my brother and sis-to-be got me for the holiday could cheer me up.

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Fortunately, I am married to a man who sees beyond the physical. Not that I need outside validation but, okay, last night, yeah, I did.

As we drove home from my parents house in our rented PT Cruiser (since our Element is STILL in the shop), I recount to my husband how despondent I am over that picture.

"But why," he says, "you're still beautiful."

"Not like that! C'mon, admit it." I point to my pocketbook, where I put the picture so I remember to burn it in the morning, when I look for my cell phone and find it there.

"Honey, I fell in love with you," he says. "Not that girl in the picture. YOU."

But I AM the girl in the picture. We're all the girl in the picture. Or the guy. And I know that we all want to do our best. I do too. I don't expect to ever go out in public in a spandex halter ever again, but I do expect to be an older version of someone I'm proud of.

And so, bring it on Dr. G. I'm more than ready. Just watch me.

Until next time.

You know, my niece-is-going-to-college-next-year-my-husband-is-old-enough-for-a-colonoscopy-I-need-a-mammogram-and-a-fresh-set-of-tweezers-a-month old.

It doesn’t help that, at this age, married life is stressful and complex. Not that I’m complaining. I love being married—the commitment of a life together. And the joy of having the right partner. It really is awesome.

It’s just all the flotsam that comes with a joined life that can be exhausting—stepchildren and lawyers. A mutual bathroom. Realizing a collective set of dreams.

The expectation that, now married, you’re grown up enough to, say, host Thanksgiving dinner and, beyond that, be the bigger person—whether it’s your fault or not.

Add to that, the sometimes desperate writing for dollars, rising fuel costs, dieting for naught, dry skin issues, a revolving door of house guests (albeit beloved), the holidays, two shelter dogs, and the constant need to pack 10 pounds of potatoes into a five-pound sack and what do you get: Old. Aching bones. Torn muscles.

Mall brain.

I don’t like it for the obvious reasons. But also because feeling old distracts me from negotiating all I want to do in this second act of life. Like finish a book proposal and then a book and then find my way to the New York Times bestseller list. And stay there.

Or just keep up with the massive growth of new chin hairs and mind-bending versions of Microsoft Office (yep, Vista, I'm talkin' to you).

And yet, since I’m not one to sit around and let the ravages of time eat away at my flesh like a vicious strain of e-coli, the other day I decided to soothe myself with a haircut. And, while at the salon, book a massage and a facial for the day of my birthday.

What the heck. I know one facial ain’t gonna erase the parentheses starting to form just under my nostrils, but denial truly is the most beautiful gift one can give to oneself.

And, hey, I deserve it.

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After Cheyenne rids me of two solid inches of frizz, I approach the 22-year-old 125-pound receptionist with hair like French tassles and skin like a fresh bottle of Windex to book my other treatments. I tell her I want a Swedish massage and a triple-duty facial. To which, she says, “Time to get that glow back, huh?”

What is this an interrogation?

“Please. I’m not that optimistic,” I say, rummaging through my pocketbook for my credit card. “I’m just trying to stay off the slinky going down.” And it’s true, I’m starting to think that what I’ve already got is possibly the best I can hope for.

She and the other anatomically-correct receptionist who's now joined her behind the desk smile politely. Still, I know what they’re thinking. Thank God I’m not as old as she is. So I allow myself the quiet consolation of knowing that someday they, too, will be old like me, exhaustion and dry skin sneaking up on them like a pair of anorexic joggers.

I know, that’s kind of mean spirited. But I can’t help it. I’m too tired to be contrite about my jealousy.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m happy about it. I’m not. Who wants to be so exhausted anyway? To have to drop on the couch with a steaming cup of Swiss Hazelnut once Oprah comes on at 4 o’clock every day? To wake up without ever feeling fully rested, despite three consecutive cups of French Roast (brought to her, I might add, by her saintly husband and inhaled like a triple-play of fine whiskey)?

As if general poopedness isn't bad enough, I’m losing my vigor for the one thing I could always count on—vanity. Yet, as the years pass, I'm growing lax about moisturizing, painting my toenails, plucking my eyebrows, everything.

In fact, I’m starting to question what it all means anyway?

Why just the other day, I was watching Oprah, who did an entire show on what not to wear. It was the do’s and don’ts of, among other things, bras, blue jeans, and shoes. At every age, no less.

As I watched, I couldn't help but wonder, “When I’m lying on my deathbed, looking back at my life, will I really feel bad about wearing too much blush? Too few low-rise boot cuts?”

Which then brought me to the question of what I would be thinking about, which is probably, sadly, food. And wishing I’d had more of it. Which, of course, makes me hungry. (Leading to, naturally, too many pretzels and the dreaded carbohydrate coma. Not good.)

As if my longing for carbs, my chipped nails, and consistently dry T-zone aren’t enough, I’m cranky. Once a week I accuse my husband of not putting his dishes in the sink, not telling me I’m a hottie, or asking me to stop dieting because I’m simply looking too thin.

Men just don’t get it. The way to keep us aging females happy is to buy us flowers—as many as you can find and for every occasion, even Columbus Day—and LIE.

Especially to those of us who are sluggish and on the precipice of 45.

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That said, my crankiness is not confined to the family. Why, just the other day, I was out walking the dogs, when an older gentleman approached us with what looked like a puppy Golden Retriever. Before he got too close, I did what I always do when I see other dogs coming and want to avoid a Michael Vick: I pull my eager and sometimes-temperamental dogs off to the side of the trail and make them sit until the other dogs and their owners pass us.

Unfortunately, this man, let’s call him Sol , decides that instead of passing, he’ll stop right in front of us to chat about his new puppy. All while my dogs re-enact the Pearl Harbor scene in Saving Private Ryan.

“Hey, yeah, my dog’s a puppy,” Sol says, oblivious to my dogs going ballistic. “Only six months. Cute, huh?”

“WHAT?” I shout to be heard over the barking, groping their leashes like a rescue swimmer attached to a rope and a helicopter. “SHUT UP YOU TWO. HEAL!@”

Is Sol blind? Can he not see the foam starting to form on Winnie’s mouth?

While his puppy calmly sniffs his shoe, he says something else, but I can't hear him. So, instead, I curse him to Hades. And promise God I’ll never eat a whole pizza again if he drop kicks Sol to the other side of the park—and quickly.

After a few more minutes, my dogs are in two-part bad harmony, barking and shrieking like they’re being skinned alive. I’m doing all I can to hold them back, knowing that it won't be long before my wrist snaps off my forearm like a twig.

While I still have some use of my hands, I string Elvis up by his prong collar to try to get him quiet. Instead he squeals like a pair of faulty brakes on an 18 wheeler. Fortunately, Winnie stops barking, but only long enough to snarl, bare her incisors, and generate a noise that would’ve made an effective soundtrack to The Exorcist.

I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to hold on to them. And yet, there Sol stands. Oblivious. Like somebody who has no idea he's walked onto the stage in the middle of the play--with toilet paper on his shoe, no less.

I, on the other hand, now highly agitated like my dogs, am worried about the legal ramifications of unleashing a spontaneous running of the canines. And going from cranky to angry. Until finally, while I still have some feeling in my thumbs and forefingers, say this:

“MOTHER OF GOD ARE YOU BLIND HOW LONG DO YOU EXPECT ME TO KEEP THESE WRETCHED BEASTS FROM TURNING YOU INTO CHOPPED SIRLOIN??”

Sol looks at me as if I’ve just told him his dog is really a cow. And with a “Harumph” I can actually hear, he marches off, shaking his head, and muttering to himself.

I stand there, waiting for my animals to reground themselves in good behavior and the feeling to return to my hands. Sure, I feel bad about yelling and good riddens goodnight Sol simultaneously.

Which brings me to another byproduct of aging. Confusion.

--------------------------
At this point, it’s not only emotions I’m grappling with, but the disheartenment I feel in response to my being doomed to this size 12 body until they drop me in the dirt. If I’m LUCKY, that is, a slowing peri-menopausal metabolism notwithstanding.

What I would give for just one two-pound weight loss in a week at Jenny Craig just so I can say, before I die, that I’ve had the experience. I’d also like an Egg Nog latte with no after-effects, but I now know that both are about as likely as my husband’s ex-wife calling to say how much she likes me.

It ain’t happenin.

See, because while some people have human stalkers, I am being stalked by my own flesh. It simply won’t go away.

Never was that clearer than the other night, when after two solid months of dieting, I lay belly up on the bed, trying to button the jeans I’ve had for a year. The task had me sweating, belting out an acid-rock rendition of four-letter expletives that required my husband and stepdaughter to evacuate the building.

Albeit temporarily.
--------------------------------------------------

After finally resorting to a pair of black pants with stretch, Dan, C and I leave to meet my best friend Lorrie and her family for a night of burgers (salad for me, of course, sans dressing, cheese, olives, chick peas, avocado, and anything with flavor) and bowling. Once there, the situation gets immediately worse.

See Lorrie just lost 26 easy pounds (that she didn’t need to lose, by the way) on Weight Watchers. Easy in the sense that she went on a diet and, lo and behold, her body shrunk.

Imagine that.

“Hey,” she says, pulling me to the side once we arrive. “Check this out.” She pushes her coat aside to reveal the tag on a new pair of jeans. They’re a size two.

A SIZE TWO. I look at her, as if she just unveiled a penis.

“I know, can you believe it? I saved the tag,” she says, “because I wanted to show it to the one person who’d understand.”

Oh, I understand all right. I understand that I could starve myself from now until the winner of the 2008 presidential election is sworn into office, and still never be a size two.

I could go off into the wild, like Alexander Supertramp, and die on the vine. And, then, when they find me months later and wrap a tape measure around my decomposing body, I’d still be solid size 10. Okay, maybe an eight. But a size two? No way.

No friggin way.

So I say, “That’s great, Lor. Must be nice.” What a crappy friend I am, so sarcastic and bitter. And really, I hate myself for it.

Yet, I want to cry. From why-not-me-what-about-me-why-is-it-easy-for-everybody-else frustration that really has nothing to do with Lorrie.

I want to drop to the floor, right there in front of the teenyboppers in their painted-on denim who are the Saturday night mall crowd at Dave and Buster’s, and swim a hysterical freestyle on the dirty carpet.

“I know, it’s frustrating, Jill. I’m sorry,” Lorrie says, her goodness making my badness even uglier. To make matters worse, she puts her arm around me in comfort. Around cranky, hungry, tired, lay-down-and-die-I-no-longer-get-vanity, dry me.

Even though, I really don’t deserve it.

----------------------------------------
Now I know what you’re thinking. The same thing I thought the entire way through reading “Angela’s Ashes” by Frank McCourt. Please, good God, let something GOOD happen to this man. And in his book nothing does.

But in my blog, well, all is not lost. See I did manage to buckle up that night and bowl a solid 63. Enjoy myself. Get some of my fighting spirit back. And learn an important lesson through the allegorical experience of sport.

After my mini meltdown, Lorrie encouraged me to take my frustration out on the lanes and throw the ball as if it were nine pounds of fat from behind my thighs going into a big dark hole. Never to find its way back again.

And so I did, which manifested into a series of gutter balls. To which Lorrie’s husband Frank said, “Do you want us to put up the bumpers?” He points to his kids (11 and 14 respectively) and Dan. “We’re all using them. It’s okay, really.”

What a bunch of wussies.

I look at Lorrie, who shakes her head “no” and gives me a you-can-do-anything smile. And she's right.

“No thank you Frank. I think I can manage without the bumpers. After all, I’m almost 45 now.”

It was then I decided that if all I could muster up, for now, were gutter balls, well then, so be it. They’d be the best gutter balls this side of state lines.

Instead of trying to fight them, I’d embrace them. Use them to practice my swing. Find grounding in consistency. Remind myself that there's always room for improvement and that's a good thing.

That gutter balls, like the birthdays and exhaustion and being crabby and lacking moisture and suffering from the clawing feeling of time, don’t define me.

I get to do that.
---------------------------------------------------

Here's how: Today, I found my way into the Gap looking for a little something to take the edge off. I picked up a few scarves and a cream-colored cable knit sweater and took them into the dressing room.

Cable knit isn’t always so flattering when you have robust biceps (she says, diplomatically), but I went for it anyway. And as I stood there, in front of the mirror, pulling the thick woolen material over the chubby arms I inherited from my favorite grandmother, I looked in my own eyes and said this:

Jill, this is it. Never mind losing weight, gaining weight, getting taller, shorter, thinner, dumber, or smarter. This is it. This is you. And it’s good. It’s all good. Time to embrace it. There’s no time left to be so selective and precise. It’s half gone. This life. Getting shorter. So just shove it all into your grab bag and run. Step into 45 with a renewed sense of vigor and joy. And love yourself. Already. It's time.

And by the way, you look great in that sweater.

Until next time.

First, I invite you all to read an unsolicited review (I swear) of my chapbook, “Diary of a Writer in Mid-Life Crisis”—a simple but thoughtful, elegant, and edited compilation of these here blogs. (Agents and editors, are you listening?)

I handed one of my chapbooks off to Marc Schuster, a very talented writer in his own right (who also authored a terrific story called “Slow” on this site, so check it out!), at the writers’ conference I mentioned in my last post. And lo and behold, he surprised me with this delightful analysis. You can read it at http://smallpressreviews.blogspot.com/ . Scroll down until you find my title. And please do send me a note if you want me to send you a copy.

Second, it was my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary this month. A feat almost as spectacular as the invention of lipo and spandex (thank God), especially in this day and age. Not too many of us get 50 years with our significant others, especially since we’re now marrying in mid-life. (Although, I tell Dan that we’ll be celebrating our 50, even if we have to do it with him stuffed and on castors.)

To commemorate their amazing half century, mom and dad threw themselves a similarly awe-inspiring party at the Centre Bridge Inn, where Dan and I got married, for 100 of their closest friends and family.

Of course, nary a rites of passage in the Sherer clan where I’m not compelled to write and read a relevant story. And so, I’m delighted to share it with you all as always. Whether you’re married, single, or otherwise, I hope you find it both enjoyable and inspiring.

Finally, I wish you all the very happiest of Thanksgivings. May you eat beyond your threshold, enjoy several hours of stomach gurgling, use it as a great excuse to get other people to clean the table and do the dishes, find a great hiding spot for the pastries you know you’ll want to eat in secret on Friday (cause who are we kidding), and pass out on the sofa in front of the television.

Now THERE’S a holiday.

Until next time!

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad

The other week, I stopped by my parents’ house just in time to watch my mother and father bicker about cake. He’d just come home from the mother ship—Costco—with $25 worth of pound cake for my mother’s cousin’s funeral. This is despite her instructions to only spend $20.

After the funeral, they came over to drop off something I-can’t-remember, when I asked how everybody liked the overpriced pastry. (I know, I’m a troublemaker.) But by then, they had moved on to something else. It seems that, during the service, my mother wanted to say something to the woman sitting in front of my father. But when she asked him to tap her on the shoulder, he refused.

“You’re so queer Owen,” she says, shaking her head.
“Why should I tap somebody on the shoulder I don’t know?”
“Because I asked you to.”
“If you asked me to jump off a bridge, should I do it?”
“You’re just queer.”
“You said that already.”

As I sat and listened, wishing I had a pencil and a piece of paper so I could accurately capture the details, I had to smile: So this is what 50 years of marriage looks like.

Every time my new husband and I are out with my parents, they bicker. About why my Dad shouldn’t order potatoes. Why it’s too cold to sit on the patio. Whether they should share an entrée or each order their own. We’re almost flattered that, when they’re with us, they’re comfortable enough to be so openly disgruntled.

And yet when we leave, Dan will always ask, “Do you think that will be us someday?”

And I reply: “I hope so.” As I watch my parents head to their car, holding hands.

Because we know that their bickering is just a shill for something else. That in between the nitpicking, there’s the giggling and playful hitting, and, yes, the implied joy of shared living. Even though it doesn’t always look like what you might expect it to. And yet, you don’t spend 50 years with another person to wind up with nothing, just like you don’t spend a lifetime investing in a 401K to retire in the red.

Over the course of five decades, my parents have enjoyed the payoffs—and countless rites of passages. Two wonderful children, grandchildren, dogs. Several cars and houses. Too many vacations too count. Pretty things. Things that work. Special occasions, like this one. An ever-improving quality of life.

Still, there have also been the challenges to survive—the pain of loss, the pressures of debt, and the traumas of their children.

Cancer.

My father was diagnosed with it some three years ago, after having a routine stress test forced upon him by my mother. That’s when they found the small speck of dust on his lungs.

It was a defining moment for our family. My father’s response was to acknowledge a “good run” and curl up on the bed for a nap. My mother, however, lay awake with it for months—in silent fear until she knew for sure that, like an exposed cad, the cancer had been run out of town.

I remember the moment they rolled my father into recovery after surgery. He was clean and safe. The cancer put out like an unwelcome guest. Laying there quiet on a gurney, wearing tubes linked to computers chirping, his eyes were open and his face flushed like a tri-athlete fresh from competition.

And my brother said, “Hey dad. We love you.”
And I said, “We’re right here dad.”
And my mother leaned in real close, tears in her eyes, and whispered, “I saved your life, Owen. And now, I want a diamond tennis bracelet.”

He made pretend he didn’t hear it. But I know he did. Because after my mother and brother left me there to take first watch, the sides of his lips curled up ever so slightly.

It’s that kind of code between two people that makes me want to cry. The fact that they’re my parents makes it all the more powerful. Because as their daughter, their love and 50 years together has been the greatest gift they’ve ever given me. Hands down.

So generous, in that I’ve never had to choose sides, worry about the burden of their loneliness or independence, or wonder what real love and commitment looks like. I see it and touch it every day. Laced like fine thread through the minutiae of real life.

As I stand here today, Mom and Dad, I am both grateful and proud. And so blessed with having parents who know what marriage and family is all about. Who know how to make a promise and keep it. Who know that for better or worse always means for the better, if you’re up to the half-century task.

Congratulations, you guys. And thank you. Your commitment is one of my most treasured possessions. And I will carry it in my heart forever.

And now, here I sit, riveted to a blank page, trying to figure out how to tell the truth of something that’s happening in my own life without offending those involved—something a few of my students asked about and I promptly and theoretically answered. You have to make choices, I said.

And that’s true.

So here’s my choice—in practice. To walk my own talk, and show my students (if you’re reading, hey hey) one way it can be done.

See, I have a situation with one of my husband’s older daughters. And it’s weighing heavily on us—especially me since, as a writer, I am compelled to purge in words. And as a blogger, well, to the public.

You can see my quandary.

Now, I could avoid it altogether and write around a few other things on my mind (like why do all my married friends schedule sex with their spouses on Sunday mornings and why does my father spend most of his free time at Costco?). But that would only be postponing the inevitable—like a pap smear or a root canal.

Besides, I’m the kind of person who’s got to get it out. So mindful of not telling another person's story (which you should never do) and staying focused on my own, here's it is: My stepdaughter, for the sake of a religion that has its followers shun those who are not followers, has chosen to cut me, her father, and her step-sister out of her life.

(Hello? Are you still with me? Are you breathing? Oh wait, I’m talking to myself here.)

Now, I suspect, if you ask her if it’s true, she will deny it. That’s why I’ll make it my subjective, but I’m pretty sure fairly accurate, truth. At least according to the circumstantial evidence that we have not heard from her since she told us she was going back to said religion (which, as a former member, she was asked to leave a while back). She also told us she'd never stop talking to us because she loved and respected us too much.

That was almost a month ago. Well, maybe a little past three weeks, to be safe.

Let me stop and say that if she reads this (which I doubt she ever will), she may say it’s not true. That we brought it on ourselves—you know, the “shunning.” That I put the nail in my own coffin by calling her up angry after her father told me she was returning to the religion that already had claims on his other three children. Who, as result, don’t have anything to do with him.

She told him over the phone while he was on I-276 driving east towards home from his job in Exton. Since he'd already had his suspicions, he wasn’t totally shocked. But, like a big want-to-believe-the-best-of-people, I was.

And so it’s true. I did call her slightly emotional. Hit the digits on the receiver in anger. Dan said, “Honey, be careful what you say.” But I didn’t. I burst into the conversation with how-dare-you-what-are-you-thinking hostility. And I don’t relieve myself of that responsibility. I’m not afraid of accepting some blame. Blame is part of life, as is forgiveness.

Still, I was mad. Human mad. I hated the way she told my husband--and how she had been lying to us about it for months. (Since I had asked her a few times point blank if she had plans to go back —and she doth protested.) And something else she had done—or was doing—that I won’t get into here. (Note the choices, students.)

And yet, in my defense, who doesn’t get angry when they learn that a person they love is about to leave them. Whether they themselves are ready to be real about it or not.

Now, I can imagine her reading this (although, again, I doubt she ever will), shaking her head, dropping her jaw, “I can’t believe HER. I can’t believe she said that! Or that!”

And then repeating what she said during our second phone call--the one I made the next morning to tell her how badly I felt about the first. “You are a child. I am the grownup!” My attempts at reconciliation met with a hostile residue.

In that moment, I couldn't (and still can't) imagine how someone calling with the message of love and support could remain so rebuked. So offended. And yet, when I shared my desire to talk more about it, she basically told me we couldn't.

Evidently, ever.

Because, I guess, I am a child. Me. The “She.” The “HER.”

Me. The woman who bought for her, listened to her, rubbed her feet when she was in the hospital preparing to give birth. Gave her a baby shower, unconditional love, and several pairs of my favorite earrings and flip flops. Handed over lip gloss, clothes, and comfort like they were cash owed for services.

Me. The woman who stepped in as a surrogate when I said, “I do” and she said she was struggling to relate to her biological mother, in the religion also.

Me. The woman who encouraged her to accept her mom for all she can offer and move forward. None of us are perfect, after all.

And I’d tell her: I’m just paying it forward, when she’d say “You’re so good to me. You LOVE me.” Yes, I do. Why not? You are infinitely lovable. Besides, I have a good mom. She did all these things for me. Somebody should do them for you. So I did. And now, well…

Anyway, as I said before, we have not heard from her in weeks. Her father, my husband, has been through his paces health wise, having had a dicey and invasive surgical procedure to eliminate heart disease (which, thankfully, at 50 he has the heart of a 30-year-old, and I’m sure he’ll be fine with me telling you this).

And then a full-body rash that had us spending Halloween in the emergency room. His candy was three intravenous rounds of Benedryl and a week-long course of Prednisone. (I’m not sure how he’ll feel about me sharing that, but what the heck.)

Mine was a midnight round of the 800 Hershey’s Kisses we weren’t home to give out.

And yet, no phone call from his daughter—my stepdaughter. No nothing.

Sadly, having grown up in this religion and then leaving it when he was of legal age to do so, he’s all too accustomed to losing family members for reasons other than death. He’s lost practically all of them to this religion—mom, dad, brothers, sisters, children. (Sorry, his story.)

In fact, I suspect, losing them to death might be easier since at least it probably hurts less to think that people are no longer part of your life because it's difficult to make a phone call when you're dead.

And, now, apparently, when you’re alive, but in a certain religion as well.

And that’s the truth. At least, mine.

And so, to my students: Yes, the people involved in this tale know who they are. But hopefully, the rest of the world doesn’t. Wouldn’t know my stepdaughter if she rang their doorbell with a copy of The Watchtower and some extras for sharing.

Wouldn’t know my husband if he showed up at their doorstep asking for directions back to Doylestown.

And in the truth-telling business, that’s the best we can hope for, save the players in our stories getting amnesia and forgetting altogether. Which I can say from experience, rarely happens.

Until next time.

Used to be, even at 40, that going to the doctor to get a new prescription each year for my Zyrtec-D medicine (ragweed sucks) was a five-minute experience. But now, just five years more into the decade where peri-menopause and the need for Botox become gruesome realities, five minutes turns into 57 really quickly.

Never was that clearer than this past week, when I had an appointment with Nancy C—a physician’s assistant at Buckingham Family Medicine—to get a refill on my seasonal allergy medication.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, while I sit next to her, fully clothed, groping my pocketbook (like a “fat person,” my mother always says, whatever that means) in the dark examination room.

And, we’re off…

10 minutes on the antidepressants:
“Well, you know, I’m off the antidepressants.” Not at all the reason why I’m here, but thought I’d share anyway.

She looks down at her electronic pad and clicks with purpose. “And how’s that going?”

“You know, Nancy,” I read her name tag, which had a P.A. on it. “Uh, I mean, Dr. Carnie, oh, uh, Nanc, it’s very interesting.” I never know what to call the physician assistant.

I launch into the story of how I’m recently married and how we wrote our own vows and how my husband sang me a love song and how touching his vows were and how there wasn’t a dry eye in the place and how I didn’t shed a tear and now I know why because since I’ve been off the drugs if I watch a bee pollinate a flower I find myself weeping and it’s just fascinating and how she might want to share this with some of her other patients who are thinking about weening themselves off since it's all about giving back and how I should’ve weened myself more gradually because I suffered—oh, how I suffered—but then it was all worth it because I now cry with the best of them, on a dime if asked, which comes in handy if I ever get stopped by a traffic cop because you know how vulnerable they are to that a whole vulnerable female thingy of course my new son-in-law is a cop so that does help as well.

She looks at me. “Well, yes, they can numb the emotions. So is the Allegra still working for you?”

Five minutes on my allergies:

“Oh goodness, no. Allegra doesn’t do a thing. I take Zyrtec D.”

“You sure you need the D?”

“Thank GOD for the Zyrtec D. Last year, I swear, I begged my husband to take a carving knife and stab me in the chest, my allergies were so bad. NOTHING worked. And I mean nothing. I blew my nose straight through three Lifetime Television movies. And not in a good way, if you know what I’m saying.”

I pause and feel my eyes get teary. “Until the Zyrtec D. “ Thank God for medical technology. I need a moment.

“Great. So it is D?”

“Yes. Well, I think.” Now she’s confusing me. “I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.” I pull out an old prescription bottle I fill with Advil and keep in my pocketbook. But it’s the wrong label. “Oh shoot, this was the bottle from the old antidepressants.” I feel wistful. “Gosh, I mean, I could cry RIGHT NOW.”

She smiles, that sort of terrified smile you get when you’re not sure if the person you’re dealing with is homicidal.

“But you’re pretty sure it’s D?”

“I am, but why does it matter?”

“Well, just in case I have to justify it to the insurance company.”

“Oh, ahhh. D, yes, definitely. I’m super positive.” But not really.

Five minutes on getting a mammogram:
When did I last have one?

The good ol’ boob squish, I say with melancholy. “You know, if men needed to have that done, they’d have come up with a more civilized method, don’t you think?”

She smiles.

“The first time I went for a mammogram, I was so nervous. And my best friend, who trust me, has her own set of issues,” I snort, “made it worse by telling me to think about a band of thieves coming in to rob the place while my boob is stuck in the machine. Can you believe her?

"Well, I told the technician when I got there and she showed me the little lever or button or whatever to push to release my boob in an emergency. Hey, they don't teach you that in Girl Scouts.”

Now, I’m laughing. NC looks at me like I’m crazy.

But I don’t think I am. I’ve been alive long enough now to know that anything could happen. Even this.

10 minutes on the gynocologist:
Me bad. The last time I went to the gynecologist, people were still debating whether Bush really beat Gore in the presidential election. Well, maybe not that long ago, but still. I tell Nancy, Dr. Carnie, whatever, that I just got a referral from a woman at the check-in desk, but still have to call. So, I’m going. I know I have to. And I’m REALLY sorry for waiting so long.

Like we’re friends and I haven’t paid her back that $20 she lent me a year ago.

While I go on and on about the fact that, well, I’m almost menopausal and feel it and have all kind of new issues going on, my sex drive is, well, interesting, and my ability to sleep variable and, please don’t tell me how much I weigh, because my fat wants to cling to me like a pack of leeches, and, well, where’s the joy? Where’s the love? What happened to the body that used to sleep and lose weight and get hot to trot just thinking about a naked foot?

And yet, doctor-sort-of-almost-or-close Nancy is starting to look bored.

I wait for her to probe me on some of these issues, but she doesn’t. She looks at her watch and the door. Laughs appropriately at my self-deprecating humor regarding the size of my crow’s feet and love handles, and remains safely focused on her electronics.

“Which name shall I use to refill the prescription? Your old name or your new one?” She let’s the fake pen rest precariously over the keypad.

I tell her both.

Five minutes on losing weight:
I can't seem to do it, despite my devotion to Jenny Craig.

“Thanks to me, the center can afford to re-carpet.”

She seems nonplussed. Like she’s heard it all before. Like countless others before me have told her that they reason they can’t shrink their ass is because of 45. It’s 45’s fault.

Has nothing to do with the Lee’s Hoagie I had on Saturday and the leftovers I had on Sunday and the pretzels I ate last night because I was hungry and the four pieces of pizza I plan on having if I lose even two ounces (likely) during my weigh-in on Friday.

Well, if nothing else, she’s a good listener.

10 minutes on "the fall":
I recount the details of my fall back in the park, when a biker ignored the signs to WALK HER BIKE and the dogs brought me down to a crashing tumble, and the bones in my left arm and elbow and who knows where else decided to twist and turn like sticks in a food processor and how I went to the hospital and got an x-ray where they didn’t find anything but that I still can’t put any pressure on it to, say, get up out of the bathtub or fluff my own pillows and that sometimes when I stretch it out really far, say to turn out the light on my nightstand before I pass out at the end of the day (and I mean pass out), I feel a sharp shooting pain as if somebody is pulling the bone right out of the joint. And I know I shouldn’t’ do it, but I forget because other than that I can use it, so I’m not sure if it’s just a minor bruise that the x-ray didn’t pick up or perhaps I’m seriously damaged and need surgery or perhaps it’s a permanent irritation that I’ll have to live with now that I’m old and my body isn’t healing like it used to.

“Well, where does it hurt?”

I press around my elbow and just above. And then I drop my hands. “I’m not sure.” And really, I know I should be, but I’m not. Because what if I show her the wrong spot and they do all this imaging and bloodwork, only to find nothing wrong or, even worse, that I was like 2.3 centimeters off from the real source of the problem. Of course, we’d learn this only after several days of testing, a few surgeries, loss of blood, and thousands of dollars.

Now that I think about it, it’s kind of unfair for her to even ask. I mean, I’m not a doctor. How should I know where it hurts?

Five minutes on my cholesterol:
Now that I’m thinking about all that’s wrong with me, I’m starting to get a bit worried. Perhaps I need my blood analyzed. This is a question I’ve been asking myself now several times a day, especially since Dan had his analyzed and can’t stop talking about the results. It’s like he’s PROUD that his cholesterol is higher than usual.

After all, at 50 years old, he doesn’t have an ounce of body fat (jerk), can eat whatever he wants and never gains weight. The man didn’t go to the dentist for 13 YEARS and, when he finally did, he came out with perfect dental health. I’m surprised they didn’t call Discovery Health to profile him in a special.

Even the people in the office were flabbergasted.

At every family dinner, we watch him eat whatever he wants—20-ounce steaks, pulled pork sandwiches, salads with real cheese and enough Thousand Island dressing to fill a bathtub. While our family genes have us gain weight from accidentally taking a sip of whole milk, Dan remains consistently svelte and muscular.

But now, I think he thinks that high cholesterol gives him legitimate entry into our family. “Wanna know what my bad cholesterol is?” he brags at dinner for my father’s birthday, proud like he’s just been nominated for an Emmy. Or, we’ll be shopping for sneakers and he’ll say, “Say, if I have high cholesterol, can I still eat eggs?”

Show off.

Well, I’ll show him. “And while you’re at it,” I say to NC. “Gimme a scrip for some blood analysis. I wanna know what my cholesterol is up to.”

Five minutes on my sex drive:
I start to tell her how much I love my husband but we do have a lot of stress—ex-wives accusing us of unspeakable horrors, lawyers calling for their money, step-children going back into cults, mothers falling and needing surgery, fathers going for PET scans, lines-of-credit soaring by the hour.

You know, the usual suspects.

She asks me if I want a flu shot.

I guess some people just aren’t comfortable talking about sex.

Two minutes on the flu shot:
Hey great! I’d never even think of it if she hadn’t offered it up, and consider her doing so a value add. I’d like to put that on a comment card, if they have one. I know I didn’t feel this way at first, but Dr. Not is turning out to be pretty darn terrific.

“Sure, I’ll take a flu shot!” As if a waitress had just asked me if I wanted pie with my whipped cream. “How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much does it cost?” I have no idea why I’m asking this. I mean, we can’t afford a Mercedes M-Class, but we can afford a flu shot.

She looks confused.

“Whatever! I’m worth it. Right?” I nudge her with my good elbow.

“Great,” she mumbles. “I’ll get the nurse.”

It’s amazing how a flu shot can just make everything seem better.

Now, you can imagine, that after all this time, I’m thinking we’re going to have to take out a third mortgage on our house (since we already have second to pay the lawyers for doing absolutely nothing wrong). So imagine to my surprise when the nice lady at the check out desk asked me for $10.

Everything should only be $10. It was great.

Of course, now I have to go get bloodwork, an arm x-ray, physical therapy, a pap smear, a mammogram, maybe a little psychotherapy, and after doing all that, who knows what else. But at least I don’t have to worry about my allergies anymore. I'm covered!

Until next time!

It was one year ago this past week that Dan and I got married. And I am emotional at the memory.

I remember that time as being one of the greats in my life. And not because I needed a man to complete me, since I was okay with the prospect of living single for how ever long that meant. But because it was perfect.

Now, I pick up one of the many photo albums that linger around our Pulte-designed townhouse and browse the wedding pictures. There we are, on the bridge that connects Pennsylvania to New Jersey, New Hope to Stockton, real hope to reality, the river to the ends of the earth.

We look dreamy.

I turn the page to another, and am drawn to my open smile, glowing brightly in the tea lights. I am laughing. We all are. The whole crowd. While we can’t see everybody in the cropped photo, I remember it in Technicolor: My then 72-year-old father, raising his glass to us, telling the story of me and Dan as if we were celebrities being roasted and he was the Dean Martin of ceremonies.

I turn the paper again to find the new husband and wife, bodies pressed together like bashful lovers. He is looking down at her bouquet of white hydrangeas. She is looking mischievously at the camera from the side of her eyes. They—we—look like quiet sinners. Catalogue models for a special section on aging in the Sunday newspaper. Look. The boomers get married—and it can still be magical.

We look carefree, blissfully rapt. And we were. We still are. Despite all we’ve been through since then.

I love my husband. And I adore our life together. And now, tonight especially, I am overwhelmed by a kaleidoscope of emotions that are retrospective of our first year. Joy. Melancholy. Sadness. Anger. Frustration. Elation. Anxiety. Euphoria. Calm.

As I look back at all that we’ve endured over the past 12 months, it feels funny to look at the two oblivious people in the pictures. They had no idea they’d spend their first year dodging the shrapnel of other people’s insecurities. And still find their way on the anniversary of their middle-aged innocence, to happiness.

There we are. Two people in a picture book, with no idea of what lays in wait. We only knew, in that moment, to walk the short but soulful aisle at the Centre Bridge Inn. Our friends from the four corners of everywhere sitting in tightly wound rows, watching the song of our vows rise up against the mist of a postcard river—and the flock of dense trees that made it shimmer.

We had no idea we’d sell our home to buyers with no morals—people who would try to squeeze the life out of us before backing out of the deal illegally on a technicality a few weeks before we were set to close on another property.

We had no idea that instead of getting swept away by an exquisite rites of passage, we’d get swept away by a long, painful, and unnecessary custody battle for Dan’s young daughter. One that put us on trial for something imaginary--and was the manifest of somebody else’s fiction and anxiety.

We had no idea that, on top of the stress and pressure of managing a newly doubled mortgage, we’d have to take out a $35,000 second-home loan barely one month after moving. To pay the lawyers, now flush, to defend us for doing, well, absolutely nothing.

To the contrary, I cannot imagine any other way we could have been more loving and caring of C.

We had no idea how hard the pointless extraction of a child from her father would be on not only him, but on my once-idealized version of a young marriage. For four long months—as long as we were not allowed to see C—I was married to a man who, while considerate to my needs, was rightly tearful and distracted.

I had no idea that we’d swap pleasure trips, big nights out, and all spirited celebration for sadness and despair—until C was allowed back into our lives.

I had no idea that Dan’s other daughter, who I adore, would have another baby and, just as I’d gotten used to being a grandmother, tell me she's moving 11 hours away. That we’d get another rescue dog named Elvis, who'd try my patience with every accident in the house and irrational barking at strangers. That I’d put a dent in my husband’s beloved convertible.

That we’d fall into bed every night exhausted from things younger brides and grooms might only dream about--or fear.

It's been a full-moon experience. Bright and brooding all at once. Every day.

And yet, one year later, as I look back on what I didn’t know before the day I got married, I can say with confidence I’d do it all over again. Because I love my husband and our life together. External forces be damned. Shoo fly. Get out of here. Go flood another river. You’ll never make it through our levees.

They’re too thick.

I love being married. And in our very short union, I’ve learned something invaluable (or rather, had it reconfirmed): Nothing is guaranteed—or predictable. The best we can do is just look as far out as our aging eyes will let us, plan for the worst, hope for the best, and be thankful we're not alone.

Until next time.

For those of you writers and fans (yes, you too mom) who are local and are interested, I'll be speaking about blogging, brutal blunt honesty, firearms, and chocolate at the Montgomery County Community College Writers Conference in November.

Come see me!

Here's more info: http://www.mc3.edu/writers-conf/

Ciao!

So, I left you lying in the park, full of mulch, while hoards of bicyclists whizzed by me. None of whom cared to stop to see if I was alright or still breathing. (Okay, the story is getting more inflated but so is my elbow, so let me have it.)

I finally drag myself and the dogs home and call my father, since my husband is on a flight to San Antonio. "I fell and I’m fine,” I tell him, lying. “But the dogs did NOT poop and rather than risk any further damage, I respectfully request your help walking them.” I’m sorry, but I’d rather live with a broken limb that have pee and poop all over my precious rugs.

"WHAT? Are you okay? Do we need to go to the hospital?"

"No, I'm fine. As long as I don't move anything."

Cut to Jill and Owen at the Doylestown Emergency Room (only after stopping for a fountain soda at 7-Eleven for dad). There Brenda, a lovely woman in a pair of print scrubs that did not flatter her (Bren, stick with solids), asks me a litany of questions one might expect while at triage.

Why are you here? What happened? Where does it hurt? What's your birth date? Do you still get your periods?

WHAM! SMACK. CLACK. BOOM! SHAZAM! Followed up by a soccer punch in the gut, a wide-palmed slap across the ass, and a chaser of one dry heave.

First of all, why do they need to know if I still get my periods when I'm there for an arm x-ray? And second, am I really that old? I mean, I’m just barely out of my 30s. (Okay, well maybe a bit longer, but C’MON!)

Bren, Bren, forgive me if you can hear my thoughts about the duck print accentuating your midsection, but PLEASE. There’s no need to be nasty. Pick another question. Like, how do you keep your skin so soft?

Suddenly, a minor arm fracture has become a most traumatic event.

“Jill, I want you to list the 10 most critical moments in your life,” says Dr. Phil.

“Easy. The first time my mother told me I was fat and would never fit in—and the time I hurt my arm and the triage nurse asked me if I still menstruated.” Audience applause. The front row looks teary.

This fall might require some follow-up psychoanalysis.

“Jill,” I say to myself, “Take a deep breath. Brenda is clearly borderline. Go to your happy place. You’re on Oprah talking about your New York Times bestselling novel. Wendy Manuel and Tammy Levin, the torture queens from high school are in the front, weighing in like a couple of Sumo wrestlers. Karen Brog, who made out with Ricky Moss, your then boyfriend, is sitting next to them. The years have not been kind to her, as evidenced by, among other things, a deeply receding hairline.

“There, there now, Jill. You’re doing fine.” I breathe in, close my eyes, and relax.

Brenda speaks. “I know, it’s a silly question. But you do still get your periods, right?” She is looking for a reaction.

RIGHT BRENDA. SHIT. DUH. OF COURSE. Yo, yo, Bren, you ain’t no spring chicken yourself.

“Yes, I do.” I bat my eyelashes. “You?”

She looks at me and chuckles. I notice there are baby chicks on her socks.

Even though I’m now fully upright, this fall just keeps getting worse and worse.

As I wait for Brenda to complete my paperwork, I have to wonder: when did all these years go by? I mean, I’m used to these nosy health care types asking me when I’ve gotten my last period—not whether it’s over. Fertility out. Uterus useless. That’s a wrap.

Next stop: death.

I guess it wouldn’t be so horrific if 12 more people (from the radiologist to the woman taking my insurance information) didn’t ask me the same damn question. I stop for a soda after in the hospital cafeteria and say to the woman at the register, “I suppose you want to know if I’m still getting my periods too?”

“That’ll be $1.12.” She doesn't look directly at me.

“I like your hairnet,” I squeak, only slightly mortified.

I give up. This aging stuff. Can’t help it. And so, I’ll try to embrace the fact that I still have good hair and that, while I’m not Twiggy, I still take up only one seat on the airplane.

At least for now.

Until next time.

Case in point: Today, I was walking our two dogs, Elvis (the new guy) and Winnie. Winnie, who we've had for more than a year now, is an angel. In fact, sometimes, I see the sprouting of wings from behind her prototypical border collie ears. She walks great on a leash. Doesn't bark at pedestrians or bikers. And is generally and mostly interested in a good poop and a little exercise (kind of like me on a good day).

Elvis, on the other hand, is new. We've had him for barely a month and, frankly, he's a bit of a hothead. Small, but maniacal in a "he's-so-cute-OH-MY-that-hurts" sort of way. He'll often grumble at pedestrians, whine when he sees a rabbit, and go into full-on hysterics when somebody on a bicycle pedals by. (Characteristics of a few of my ex's, but I digress.)

Of course, we're working with him, but Rome wasn't built in a day. And Elvis will not be sprouting wings for several months, at least.

So today, I'm out with Winnie and Elvis walking on the path that circles the small but scenic pond by our house. It's a beautiful sunny day, moderate and bright, when a biker comes by on a five-speed. Elvis let's out a low squeal.

To prevent any escalation, I quickly respond: "No, don't you dare." Then, I pull him close to prep him for the sharp but humane snap of the leash that will come if he goes ballistic at the poor woman.

Typically, this tug is enough. Elvis is usually compliant.

But not today.

Instead, he barks, and then Winnie barks, and then, as the young woman calmly whizzes by, I trip over a small piece of mulch and begin my descent downward towards the ground. The dogs, in their frenzy, pull me to my demise.

With a leash around either wrist, I fall face, hands, knees, and elbows first (which doesn't really leave too many other body parts), into a dense mountain of brown dirt, scraping all of these parts and then some--and twisting my left forearm to the point of hurting.

"Expletive. EXPLETIVE." The dogs look at me like I'm an idiot.

Not my proudest moment, I will say, laying there with stones down my bra, but it was inevitable. I'm not all that graceful and between the stuff in the road and the bikers (now there were two), and the maniacal new rescue dog, going down was simply a matter of time.

And yet, I could not anticipate that, when I did, the people walking by, the bikers biking, the planes in the sky, would do nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Just walk over me. Ride by me, heads shaking in disdain. Stay on course in terms of speed and flight path. While I wiped the blood from my chin and mumbled a strained, "Si-it, you two. [expletive. expletive.] Stay. Good GOD, I beg you."

When did white middle-to-upper class America get so callous? I mean, people, I was LAYING BLOODY IN THE MULCH? (Okay, well, a slight exaggeration, but still.)

After a few minutes of squeaking out a few commands and praying the cyclists had gone off to a new trail (in Hades), I pulled myself up, wiped the dirt and God knows what else off of my stretch pants, and yanked the dogs to my side. "Let's GO." I said, as if I were yanking two abberrant toddlers from a china shop.

They both stared at me like I had been invaded by aliens. What did you do with our mother? Are you going to hurt us?

In all fairness, it really wasn't their fault. (They have nothing to do with the fact that people have no scruples anymore--and could care less whether one of their neighbors was laying dead in the azaleas.)

So I did come home and, after settling down, gave them each a pig's ear and a Vanilla Wafer to signify the body of Christ--or whatever for good luck (felt oddly good in theory).

And frankly, were it not for the extreme housing bubble and the fact that we're still paying attorneys (to see C), I'd be on realtor.com right now, looking for a kinder gentler environment. One where people loved one another. And stopped when they saw the person from next door face down in the shrubs.

So now, I sit here, shaky from the fall, longing for THREE Dunkin Munchkins, and disheartened from the lack of character in our social consciousness. (My arm hurts.)

And to those bikers, if you're reading (and you know who you are); shame on you.

Until next time.

They were all smoking. (The mothers, that is, not the children.)

I was both appalled and dumbstruck, when one stopped to ask me where to pay for admission into the Castle. Using all the bicep strength I could muster to hold the dogs back—and myself, from yelling at her—I said, “It’s free.”

She smiled, took a drag of her cigarette, rubbed her belly, and thanked me. Leaving me simply too shocked to say anything else. And yes, okay, afraid of being mauled by the other hormonal smokers for expressing my viewpoint on the subject.

After all, I’ve seen You Tube. I watch the news. I’m a regular of Dr. Phil’s. I knew that suggesting they don’t smoke, however gently, could have gone very poorly. And frankly, my life is just starting to get good.

Which is why I chose to say nothing and simply hate myself instead.

Besides, I was unsteady enough, trying to guide the two animals with a shady past who were dragging me around the path like I was road kill.

So, I’ll say it here: if any of you reading are pregnant (which is highly unlikely, given the tenor of this blog), please don’t smoke. It’s not good for you.

----------------------------------------------------
Speaking of new mothers, I’d like to talk about my adorable stepdaughter Heidi. (Love her.)

A few weeks ago, she had her second baby—via C-section, after an unnecessarily long, painful, and high-risk pregnancy. The morning Logan would finally arrive, we met Heidi and her husband Mike at the hospital. It was still morning. The doctors had told them they’d deliver the baby by 3. But 3 came and went and all that had happened was Dan almost choked on a cherry pit and I made 57 trips to the potty.

By 4, Heidi was in active labor. (Kinda crazy that a pregnant woman scheduled way in advance for a C-section would have to experience active labor, but then again, her obstetrician felt it was more important to go to Aruba on vacation than take care of her patient.)

It makes only the best of sense that, a woman going through labor and pre-op simultaneously, would be a bit cranky. As the poor kid’s patience began to wither away like wet string—and as she proceeded to yell at her husband for, among other things, breathing—my husband (father to a small football team), leans in and whispers to me, “She’s transitioning, you know.”

“What?” I was busy imagining myself at the Bally’s Casino day spa, getting a hot stone massage while being fed truffles by a hot-but-desperate cabana boy named Guido. (I love my husband.)

“Transitioning. All pregnant women go through it during labor. Where they go from the passive state into the active, and prepare to start pushing.”

Hmmm. I pondered his words for a moment while Heidi ripped Mike a new one for coughing. I couldn’t really relate to the concept of “transitioning” as a new mother, but I could certainly relate to it as a writer. In fact, his description sounded a lot like trying to get a book deal.

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ve been transitioning for years now.” I promptly crawl next to Heidi on the bed.

“Move over sister. You’re not the only one in labor. I’ve been trying to spit a book out for years.” I look at Dan. “Now hand me the cherries.”

Transitioning can be very empowering.
--------------------------------------------
After several relentless hours of waiting (which, if relentless to me, could only be excruciating to poor Heidi), the nice doctor on call comes in with the not-taller-than 5” 4’ anesthesiologist (who is probably overcompensating, as a result) to take Heidi to surgery. Finally.

Now transitioning in the other direction, Heidi’s face goes from a wince to a big smile, as she grabs my hand and then her father’s and says “Bye guys!” Like she is going off to summer camp.

Mike runs after her, tripping as he tries to wrap a pair of surgical booties over his Converse sneakers, probably wishing he was at the gun range (not exactly the fatherly type). We wave like American Gothic, without the gardening tools. And stand in the hallway like the two tired, hungry, and aged people we had become.

As I watch them roll Heidi through the double doors that lead to the operating rooms, the swatch of her blonde hair getting smaller and smaller, I yell, “We’ll be right here, sweetie, waiting for you. Break a leg!”

Dan looks at me. “Break a leg?”

“Well, I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what, honey?”

And then, before I know what hit me, I hear a voice channel like a whisper through my freshly glossed lips. “Be old.”

My husband puts his arm around me. “You’re not. You’re beautiful.”

I look up at him. And before I knew it, I am crying, tears rolling down my cheeks like Niagra Falls over worn rock. It seems I have transitioned from bored, tired, and anxious, to an emotional wreck. A bad cliché. The childless stepmother—the accidental grandmother—watching, wishing, wondering. Living vicariously through her younger version.

I am suddenly overwhelmed and confused by the desire to follow Heidi into surgery. To pass through the double doors and lay next to her, rub her head, help her push.

Dan puts his arm around me. “Honey, she’ll be fine.”

But I am not crying for her. I am mourning the fact that I never had the experience. The occasion to look back at my parents, watching with pride and joy, while I was rolled into the delivery room to give birth to their grandchildren.

And now, it’s too late. Maybe not physiologically, although at almost 45, it’d probably be easier to get a discount membership to the movies. But in every other sense, the time has passed. I don’t have the desire for children. Or to parent. And yet, I can’t help but wish, in a retroactive dreamy sort of way, that I’d had the chance.

----------------------------------------------------

We wait until about 9 o’clock, when they bring Heidi and Logan back to the room, to squish him and take pictures of the happy family (on our camera phones, of course, we forgot the digital in our haste). And then we leave. Go home and drop into bed like hard sleet.

I look over at Dan, who’s glasses are hanging off the tip of his nose, sprawled out like Jesus on the cross (only in our case, it’s a fabulous designer patchwork comforter in earth tones I got on sale from Macy’s). His mouth is open and I detect a bit of saliva on his lower lip. I nudge him.

“Babe.”

“Huh? Wha?”

“I need you.”

“Huh?” He snorts and rolls over.

"I need to talk about what happened today.”

“What happened?”

“You know, at the hospital.”

“Heidi had a baby.”

“My crying.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Are you (yawn) okay?”

“I just got so emotional because I never got to be pregnant and stuff and lay in bed while everyone waited with great anticipation. I guess it made me sad. Going through it with Heidi and all.”

“I know sweetie.” He does a half roll and pats my leg. “You’re okay.”

“Not that I’d want to do it now, don’t get me wrong. Oh dear God. Although I still could, you know. Well, with the right drugs and surrogate. And the right psychotherapist.”

Dan sits up. “You’re not serious?”

“But I wouldn’t. I mean, we can barely handle the dogs. Besides, our creative pursuits are our babies now, right?”

“That’s right, honey. Absolutely.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Now don’t hurt your brain. Go to sleep.”

So I did. I dreamt of diapers and a book deal.
------------------------------------------

I attribute the accelerated rush of emotions I’ve been feeling lately, at least in part, to my coming off the antidepressants I took for the past five years.

Despite a nasty bout of withdrawal (nausea, dizziness, lack of sleep, being hungry all the time, irritable, etc.) that has blessedly subsided, I now feel absolutely the same as I ever did when I was on them. With one exception: I feel absolutely everything and then some.

The other day, my mother gave me a bag of rotting grapefruits ("eat them or they'll go bad") and I swear, I cried, “Mommy, I love you SO MUCH!!!”

Dan taught Elvis to sit. And I cried. “Such a good BABY!” You would have thought he’d just found a missing child.

When C was here last week, she told me I forgot to pack her a Gatorade for camp, and I almost hung myself from the shower rod.

The thing is I know I’m out of control. That my tidal wave of emotions is excessive. That my response to mediocrity is borderline.

And yet, it feels good to cry over some sappy cable movie. Or to feel excited at the prospect of a 20-percent off coupon. I love the wash of melancholy that comes over me when I see Winnie and Elvis on either side of a chew toy. Tails wagging like trees in a hurricane. Wishing that my Sophie was here to join them.

It reminds me of how much I’d forgotten I could feel pre-Lexapro. How much I missed it.
And how much being on Lexapro, despite this side effect, changed my life.

Because, while I would cry at a Kodak commercial before I went on it, I was also stuck in the sand and fog of a life that didn’t work.

And so, I learned: medicine is not always an either/or proposition. Advances in technology don’t always give you the choice—feel this if you want, and erase that if you don’t. There’s no fine tuning. No bass up, treble down. No balance or fade.

It's take the meds and feel better, but feel less. Or, don’t take them, but feel a lot—and mostly sad.

If I had to do it all over again, I'd opt for the former. Because without the help, I might still be stuck—alone, in a third-floor walkup in Chicago, far from home, in an 11-year relationship going nowhere, and a good job that anybody in their right mind would like. But left me numb.

Now, in the shadow of the drug, I celebrate having every primary emotion imaginable. With my brain chemicals calm and my system clean, I am elated—or something—at least once daily. Even when I’m not.

And with that thought, I'm off to tell someone I love them. Until next time.

So we go to Dunkin today and I pull into the drive thru. Once at the speaker, I yell into it, "One medium french vanilla with light cream and one Splenda please." The clerk repeats my order back to me, which I can't understand for a variety of reasons, but since I prefer to deal in good faith, I say, "Yes, that's it." And pull around to the window.

As I did, the craving for 8,000 Dunkin Munchkins overwhelmed me like a blast of tear gas. Like too much spandex. It was excruciating.

My body was screaming, "GIVE ME A MUNCHKIN. NOW, YOU *@(&$!!!$$@@@*"

Now, I'm not sure if it's the 800 months on Jenny Craig for the return of a 12-pound weight loss (thank you middle age) or the fact that it's that time of the month (thank you middle age) or the fact that I just wanted a Munchkin because they're cheap and, dammit, they're good and I can (thank you middle age).

But I wanted one. More than anything. And I mean anything. (Think three-carat diamond, a double-thick crust pizza from Giordanos, long silky blonde hair, a 12-book JK Rowling-esque book deal, long limbs, nail polish that drys in a minute, a closet full of Butterfly Dropout tank tops [preferably V-necks], and a lifetime supply of free Botox.)

Suddenly, I felt Bette, my Jenny Craig counselor, perched upon my shoulder. "Don't do it, sweetie. If you lose 1/18 of a pound this week, you can lose 100 pounds by 2040. Granted, you'll be 80, but you'll be gorgeous!"

And then I felt the angry deprived fat Jewish girl who'll never have thin knees in this lifetime saying, "What's the difference, chubbo. You're married now. Get a friggin munchkin. Who's gonna know?"

I look over at the dog. I know her vote. And then it dawns on me. I'll get three. Three lil' Dunkin Munchkins--two for Winnie and one to satisfy my now Godzilla-sized craving. Who's THAT gonna hurt?

The nice fellow leans through the window to hand me my coffee. Excellent timing. I pay him and say, "You know what? Can I also get just THREE Dunkin Munchkins? Anything but chocolate." Chocolate can kill a dog and I don't want to take the chance.

He smiles at me--that "I like you" smile. That "I get you" smile. That "I know what you REALLY want" smile. That "I can see you naked from the waist up and like what I see" smile. (Go figure.)

And within a few minutes, he's leaning through the window to hand me the goods. I take it, thank him, thank the universe, roll up my window, and immediately notice that the bag feels unusually heavy for just three little hole-sized rolls of breading.

SHIT.

I look inside. There they are. The sight of it--of them--worse than finding Wendy Manuel and Tammy Levin together at Pizza Boy off Cottman Ave. when I was 16--after they'd both told me they were "busy" that day because they "had the flu" or "some strange stomach thing."

Talk about feeling rejected, dejected, deprived, betrayed and panic stricken. There were at least 25 DUNKIN MUNCHKINS in that little paper satchel. And there I was, in the parking lot of Dunkin Donuts, alone with my mutt, staring at the traffic on 611, counting the hours til my next weigh in, having a come-to-Jesus talk with myself. It was a pivotal moment. Substantial. My choice could set in motion a course I didn't even want to think about. (My ass, a farm tractor, hard to tell the difference. You get the picture?)

I look at Winnie. She looks at me and I begin to wonder how many Munchkins I can feed her WITHOUT killing her from too much sugar--and how quickly I can get them into her mouth. Better hers than mine. (After all, isn't that what dogs are for? Someone once told me dogs were here to help us carry our burdens. But what about our cellulite? Does that count?)

At that point, I don't have the luxury of time. My resolve is fading. Treating them like small balls of fire, I start tossing the Munchkins at her. "Here you go girl." For every four I throw at her, I keep one for myself. And fortunately, I only wind up eating three.

Unfortunately, the dog is looking a little peaked.

Note to all the Dunkin Donut Clerks (especially those reading from the store on 611, right across the street from Target, a few miles downroad from the entrance to the turnpike): When blue-eyed, redheaded customers with white furry dogs and dazed expressions ask for three Dunkin Munchkins, chances are they want 100. So only give them two.

If that.

More later. And until next time.

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.

Not just because it was the morning after a very successful surprise party I threw with friends for my husband’s 50th birthday.

Not just because the diet lemonade out of the fountain at Wawa that morning was chilled to perfection.

And not just because it was raining the way I like it best—steady, warm, and lyrical.

Sunday was beautiful because I witnessed, no, participated in something monumental, something I never thought would ever happen in my lifetime. Something I had entirely given up on.

And it happened at the most peculiar of places: the Delaware I-95 rest stop. Also the midway point between our house and C’s house in Maryland, where she lives with her mother “S”—and the pick-up and drop-off point for our visits.

On Sunday, we went to drop C off to S like any other Sunday (barring the 16 Sundays we missed when S wouldn’t allow us to see C for reasons that still baffle us). We had no idea, however, that this Sunday would be special.

On that day, as I imagine it is on all other days, parking at the rest stop was scarce and the traffic chaotic. Mothers changed diapers in the backs of metallic-green minivans, while fathers took their sons inside the small brick building to the bathroom. There, they bought them hot dogs and fruit juice and cheeseburgers at Bob’s Big Boy.

Still, others drove in circles looking for the road back to the highway.

Despite the rain, people were everywhere. Stretching their legs and walking their dogs on the long strips of dirty grass that separated cars, parking spots, and metal trash cans.

It was a slice of life. A scene like any you’d see at any other rest stop across the country, save for what happened to us—well, C, S, and me.

Here it is:

When we pulled up to the rest stop, we found S waiting for us, as usual, in the driver’s seat of her Subaru wagon. As we came to a stop, she climbed out to greet us and retrieve C’s bag from our trunk. And, as usual, C and I went inside to use the facilities.

We always use the facilities, even if we don’t have to go. Even if the 90-minute drive and three sodas between us haven’t yet made it through our small intestines.

Because using the facilities, whether we need to or not, gives us a few more minutes try to get the water out of the automatic faucet. And a paper towel out of the dispenser. A few more minutes together before C goes back to Maryland with her mother.

Usually, when we’re done playing our bathroom games and wiping our hands on each other, we go back outside to the car, where Dan and S are standing in discomfort, waiting.

But not this time. Not on Sunday.

Because it was raining—a glorious relentless pelting that hammered at the ground like a band of spirited musicians—Dan and C’s mom were waiting for us inside, in front of Cinnabon, surrounded by a revolving stage of bakers and travelers and lattes in big white cups with green logos.

Distracted by the sight of vanilla icing, we almost walked right past them. Until S called out.

“Yoo hoo.” She is smiling and waving. I don’t know why, but suddenly I am surprised to see her standing there, with my husband.

“Oh, hey,” I say.

“No sense waiting outside in the rain.”

Dan stands there looking like somebody just shot him.

“There goes my good hair day.” Knowing full well that my hair looked lousy from the moment I woke up.

She points to her ponytail. “I hear ya.”

I ask about her stepmother's surgery. Bev was at my bridal shower and our wedding with S’s father, both once very important to my husband.

“Doing better, got an email from Dad today and they’ve got her up and moving.”

“Great. That's so important.” Although, what do I know? I’m never sure how much aspirin to take.

As S and I talk about Bev and my mother’s shattered elbow and my father’s lung cancer and subsequent depression, and her dad’s disillusion, C finds a place in between us.

Then, she takes her mother’s hand in her left hand and mine in her right. And she starts to swing. Like a see-saw. Mine and C’s hands go up, S and C’s go down. S and C’s go up, mine and C’s go down.

You know what I’m talking about. You’ve probably seen it—or done it—a thousand times yourself. Might be doing it right now. Probably didn’t even notice it.

But I did.

“You should definitely try the Boca Burgers,” I say, referring to C’s recent proclamation that she’s now a vegetarian. Trying to act natural. Like something I never thought would or could happen was—like winning the lotto or squeezing into a pair of size 2 Levi’s.

The ex-wife, the new wife, the child, newly connected by a fleshy a string of lights, like stick figures drawn by a pre-schooler in brown and red crayon. After, that is, too many months of accusations, lawyers' fees, court dates, and heated silences.

“I’ve had Boca burgers before. They’re good.”

I tell S how we gave them to C earlier and how she loved them.

All the while, swing. Swing. Swing. Three hands swinging. C’s, S’s, and mine. I look at C. She’s beaming, like she was just awarded a new American Doll every year for life. I look out the glass door ahead to the parking lot. The rain's dropping like confetti from a freshly whacked pinata.

I am so relieved.

“Dad even ate one,” C says. "And we all know how he LOVES meat." She starts to giggle. It’s contagious.

Swing a ding a ling.

“I used to feed him that stuff all the time,” S says, eyes rolling. “He never knew the difference.”

“I know,” I say. “I do too. And he still doesn’t.” We all laugh again. I think about tofu and the way C's nine-year-old hand feels against my palm. Dan looks a bit like his pants have suddenly dropped to his ankles for no reason. Yet, I feel fine. Not a bit awkward. After all, that was then and this is now.

One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure. Right?

And by the way? Swing a ling a ling.

After a few more minutes of small talk about the weekend and how I left a part of Dan’s birthday cake that I had saved for S at home, and how we’re looking at camps for C, and what a good girl she is, C wrapped her arms around me and then her father and then her father again, and then me, and then we all waved and smiled as C and S got back into the wagon and I took Dan’s hand and swing a ling a ding and off we went