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Category: Life & Mid-life


….faith

July 24th, 2009 — 11:46pm

okay. question. what is faith?

is it trust? as in: barney’s just sent me a “70% off everything” sale postcard, and when i get there, there will be clothing and shoes that fit – that i want and need and must MUST have.

is it spiritual? as in: please, please, please i will do anything ANYTHING just make this happen for me now. I put this out in the universe, and i know KNOW it will come back to me bigger and more and better than i ever hoped possible. Right?

is it in others? as in: oh my god but you said, okay maybe not said with words, but with your actions, you said it with your actions … that you were so much better than me, and i believed you. and  guess what, in the universal scheme of things, you’re not better than me.

in ourselves? as in: please please please PLEASE don’t let me fuck up. not today, today is a big important day and i must be centered and clear headed, and focused, yes, focused, I have faith in myself. and i trust that the universe will hear me.

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3 am worries….

July 21st, 2009 — 11:35am

i bolt up.

i am wide awake.

it’s 3:25 am. or maybe it’s 3:52 am, i’m a little blurry eyed.

my mind is racing, this is what’s on my mind, in no particular order (as I stare up at the ceiling fan while it is on a slow “counter clockwise” rotation):

who’s the 3rd person this week? leftovers in the fridge – ugh. bella & lotus, a whole year already. ken’s memory, or lack of. my memory, or lack of. my mom, missing her. money, where’d it all go to? obama’s rating. my credit rating. refinancing. or not. my book’s pub date. fear of success, fear of failure, fear of both simultaneously, wearing the wrong clothes, bad haircuts, wearing the wrong — uh oh – shoes, too much lipstick, not enough mascara, tweezing my eyebrows, shaving my legs, getting a yearly check-up, self diagnosing irritable bowel syndrome (or is it just gas?), dinner parties, birthday lunches, my mom’s wedding band, my dad’s pinky ring, my friends, ken’s kisses, sagging breasts (mine), sciatica or is it just restless leg syndrome… life, death, refilling my ambien script. And worrying, endlessly worrying that i don’t have enough facebook fans to feel good enough about myself to actually log on to facebook at this ungodly hour…

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when the phone don’t ring it’ll be me …

July 20th, 2009 — 6:00pm

does anyone remember when not getting a returned phone call felt so big and horrible and  heartbreaking all at once, when waiting for the phone to ring felt like you were living through a country western song, and not necessarily a good country western song  … when you wouldn’t even go and pee just in case you would miss that phone call, or you wouldn’t leave your apt., or home, or houseboat, you would just sit and watch the phone sitting there in silence, and you would, (or wouldn’t given your level of tolerance & mental health), in fact call the phone company and ask if your phone is broken, or possibly turned off because it’s not ringing. and then you would feel worse when the phone company repair person would say: oh yeah, your phone’s workin’ just fine, what’s a matter, no one’s callin’ you?

and now with facebook, because hello… it is a fucking addiction… i wonder how many of us are actually waiting, waiting waiting for that 1 or 2, or 500th friend confirmation.

and hey, FYI, there is a reason they’re called “depends.”

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Blue is The Color of Sad

July 17th, 2009 — 12:30am

She must have a window seat.

This, she promises, is her last phone call for the night, reminding me one more time, it must be a window seat. I tell her I will do my best, the plane seems awfully full, and since it’s a last minute booking, it might be hard. “If I tell you I want a window seat, get me a window seat.”

This phone exchange was not long after her being diagnosed with moderate stage of dementia. She had some scary moments – unsettling, jarring, and horrifically confusing moments.

A Bat Mitzvah in Scarsdale, New York spurred her into a travel frenzy – wanting desperately to go, stay for few days, and see her family – her sisters, her nieces and nephews. I managed to work it out so a car service (a very kind man who lived on her street) would come and pick her up, drop her off at the JetBlue terminal, and make sure there was no seen or unforeseen problem. I paid the guy to wait an extra half-hour. She was still driving at that time, having just rammed her car into a fire hydrant. A glaring sign that she should never be behind the wheel ever again. “It came out of no where,” she said, “One minute I was sitting there, minding my own business, and the next minute, there it was, crossing the street.” What do you say? Really? “Ma, it can’t walk, a fire hydrant doesn’t walk.” You say nothing, but think plenty. I thought, “Oh shit, it’s really not so far downhill.”

I call the airline, JetBlue, and speak with a reservation agent, who had just the right combination of humor and sympathy and could not have been any more cordial or kind. She promised they will do whatever they could to accommodate my mom, but she needed to remind me that the plane was in fact full, and hopefully someone will be able to move if there was not a window seat available. I ask her if there is a ‘companion’ person who can help my mom get settled. Help her with the boarding pass, and the other unexpected frustrations that may arise. Yes, she says, someone will help my mom. I can only hope and pray for my mother to come ‘face to face’ with kindness. I think of all the times I gave up a window seat for an elderly person, or a pregnant woman, or a wife who wanted to sit next to her husband. I am hopeful, based on my own generosity, in situations like those.

She is picked up at the designated time. She is standing outside her condo with her suitcase and an overnight bag, having packed enough clothing for a month. “Maybe I’ll stay for a few extra weeks, “ she tells me the night before when she lists off all the clothing she’s bringing. I can hear in her voice something I never heard before: loneliness.

She gets to the JetBlue terminal, she checks her suitcase outside with baggage claim, and – I am told by the neighbor/car service driver – hands a crisp ten dollar bill to the lovely bag handler, telling him he is a lovely, lovely kind man. He deeply appreciates her gesture. Little does he know that the remaining eight or so crisp ten dollar bills that she has tucked ever so neatly in her wallet will make their way to others who smile, offer her hand, let her get ahead in line, help her with her carry-on. She makes her way up to the counter, where a ticket should be waiting for her. Yes, there is a ticket, but she must go to the gate, in order to try and get a window seat. This gives her great joy.

She goes through the whole scene – again, I am told by the neighbor/car service guy – the taking off of her shoes, the removing of her belt, the telling a joke or two about her hip replacement, and how it reminds her of the old days in Las Vegas when someone won at the slots, it was a sound filled with ‘good wishes.’ “No More,” she says. “It’s a phony sound, it has no heart. Gimme back my shoes.”

The car service guy cannot go any further with my mom. The rules. The companion person from Jet-Blue now meets her, thankfully.

There is no window seat available. She has an aisle seat. It appears that no one wants to give up a seat. I am horribly sad by this lack of generosity for this old, frail woman, and dare I say, embarrassed, because this old frail woman is my mom. This is where I get to envision the whole crazy scenario. My mother throwing a shit storm of a nut-dance, hauling a racial slur at the African American flight attendant, and then, if that wasn’t enough, causing another passenger who was somewhat overweight to breakdown and cry. “You know how fat you are, you should have your own zip-code.” The administrator later told me on the phone, it was like an unstoppable chaotic ruckus. I am sad. I tell her that my mom has dementia. It comes and goes, but mostly it’s coming these days. I give her all the broad strokes, my dad had died, she’s living alone, we know, we know, it’s time to get her settled, she’s stubborn, she’s independent, and there’s the whole question of what to do now? Move her, or does she stay? And she’s always been much more strident and righteous and defiant. Not going gently into the good night. Not one iota.

She leaves the airport, and manages to get back to her condo by renting a car, even though she is forbidden to drive. I would just love to meet that Avis rental person who gave my mom a red Mustang to tool around in.

She calls me in hysterics. She wants me to fire every single one of those nasty, bitchy flight attendants, and pilots. And the co-pilot, he’s as much to blame. And where is her luggage? Her goddamn luggage? I bet they stole it. They stole it and you should fire them, the whole lot of them. I find out from the very cordial and patient rep, that her luggage is on its way to New York. I am in Los Angeles on business; my brother is at a birthday celebration on Long Island. Nether one of us expected this hailstorm. I try to deal with the airport bureaucracy and arrange for my mom’s luggage to make its’ way to Fort Lauderdale within 48 hours, barring no glitches.

My mother refuses to speak to anyone. She feels duped and lied to and the fat girl should have gotten up. “My God she took up two god-damn seats.” And then she said, “I always, always have to sit at the window.” Why, I ask her, why? She hangs up on me. Typical. Some things never change.

We moved my mom to New Mexico where she was about to start living in an assisted living home. Good care. My brother researched, and found a lovely place that would make her feel just like home. I managed to get her a window seat. As the plane revved up it’s engines and was about to take off, my mom took my hand and squeezed it, staring out the window – watching the plane disappear into the gorgeous white clouds – and after a few long, long, moments, she turned to me, and said: “Up hear, in the clouds, I can dream all I want.” Then she pointed to two clouds, almost inter-wined, and she said with such joy: ‘See that, see that, they’re dancing together. You can only see this kind of magic from a window seat.”

It’s was here that my mother had always been able to see and feel and imagine clouds dancing, forms taking shape, lovers kissing, the intertwining of souls, and as her hand pressed up against the window, she could feel the kindness of Heaven.

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over my shoulder and through the woods

July 15th, 2009 — 9:45am

ken likes reading over my shoulder. i don’t like this. i find it annoying and truth be told, it keeps me from being totally completely honest, because well, when someone leans in, you always always wanna lean back. it’s the whole boy meets girl thing. a guy leans in, you lean back, he leans in closer, you lean back further…
which brings me to this. different subject but still as meaningful.
years ago i would visit a friend in LA, she was a TV producer and I would stay at her house, fab house. right in santa monica. really stunning. gorgeous furniture, beautiful setting. the whole scene. and i would stay there with her and her partner (for a few days of business, plus a fun day or two) and then come home to my NY apartment which i could fit – in its entirety – into her bathroom, and i would plummet into hell. feeling very sorry for myself. i could barely fit my bed in the bedroom. and of course, as they say, whoever ‘they’ are —  the grass is always greener.. and then life changed. my life changed.  my career skyrocketed (thank you hollywood) and i bought a fab apt, and met ken and we have this amazing life. apt, house in the country. with green green grass … and then my friend, the one with the fab house — her whole life explodes – her partner breaks up with her, they sell their house, they both move into new places … and the house, two years later is completely leveled. it no longer even exists. gone pouffffffffffffffff.
so, the grass is really truly greener just for one moment.

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