And The Answer Is

I went to the dentist today. He's a family friend and client. If I had to describe him in ten words or less, I’d say he’s a sweet and sincere guy with a gentle hand and calm demeanor. Nonetheless, I refused to ride the chairlift with him during childhood ski trips. I was convinced he’d reach into his down jacket, pull out that dental mini-mirror and start poking around in my mouth.

“How are you doing?”

“I ehn kee-ing ee ah-der ay.”

“What mountain did you hit?”

“Ack Er-ost.”

“You know, your dad taught me how to ski. Was the only guy out there with enough patience to get me down the mountain. Great skier. Great guy. How’s he doing?”

“How do you think he’s doing? Have you called him recently or are you like the rest of the people from his past, too uncomfortable with his condition to step outside of your little world to maintain a friendship in the present. He went from being invited to try out for the Philadelphia Phillies to needing my assistance putting on a jacket. How long do you spend getting from the front door to the car door? Next time you bitch about the rain, stay out there an extra twenty minutes with only a hat and jacket. Thank God for Goretex because you can’t hold a walker with two hands and manage an umbrella at the same time. You know when you swallow down the wrong pipe and can’t breathe? Wouldn’t you just love to have an overactive gag reflex and start choking uncontrollably at least once a week? He’s considering a procedure where they attach a pump to his spine and directly insert some sort of fluid so he can bend his legs without using both hands to force his knee to flex. Sounds comfortable, doesn’t it? More importantly, who wouldn’t want to be accused of being a drunk because of slurred speech? He needs two hours to get ready in the morning and a motorized chair to move between the first and second floor of his home. When you lose your balance, what do you do? He falls. Like a tree. He had to learn how to fall to protect his head from injury. The only reason he got this lesson is because he lost his balance on a step a few years back and fell into a cement planter. It took him two months to recover. Oh yeah, because everything takes three times the usual stretch when you live in Multiple Sclerosis land. Other than that, he’s doing fucking great.”

Okay, that isn’t how I responded. First of all, I had one hand and two dental tools in my mouth. Coherently getting all of that out at one shot wouldn’t have even been possible. More importantly, it wouldn’t have been proper. It would be honest but no one wants to hear the honest answer when they ask about my dad’s health. They ask because it’s the right thing to do. I know that more often than not, the people asking do sincerely care. The dentist and his wife still socialize with my parents and are wonderfully understanding of my dad's limitations. The point is that sometimes I just want to let it all out. I want people to truly understand.

My dad has a pat response when people finally get around to asking him how he is doing. “I can’t walk or talk but other than that, I'm doing great,” he replies. It’s said jokingly and people laugh along when they realize it’s okay to laugh. The punch line is that, though the sentence makes sense written out in proper and clear English, it usually is said aloud with stuttering, slurring and strained annunciation. Half the time, people can’t understand the joke simply because they can only make out every third word. They still laugh but it's more out of nervousness than humor.

Even my dad doesn’t pony up when answering this simple question. If he’d rather leave the unpleasant details to those in the immediate know, that’s his choice. It isn’t my place to challenge his decision. I don’t live in his shoes. And for all those people who have thought it but haven’t had the courage to say it – thank God for that.

The dentist finished up. No cavities. With my mouth finally free from his inquiring eyes and prying hands, I finally answered the question.

“He’s doing great. I keep changing the locks at the office but every time he finds a way back in. Can’t get rid of him!” I let out a little chuckle to emphasize the humor. I came up with these three lines more five years ago. They represent my go-to response whenever I'm faced with a how's-your-dad-doing inquiry. Oddly, no one's picked up on the fact my answer hasn't changed since the new millenium.

The dentist laughed. "Great guy," he said again. He smiled, told me to send my love to everyone and headed for the door. Maybe he's better off knowing only what he knows. Sometimes the world is a better place when it's sprinkled with some ignorance.

Two Performances for the Price of One

I’m a pretty sophisticated lady and nothing about Manhattan intimidates me. I can manage the subway just as easily as I can troll the aisles of Bergdorf Goodman in search of the perfect frock. I know which direction the Avenues run and who sells the best corned beef. Sporting sneakers, jeans, a fleece and Goretex, I walked the streets this past Saturday like a native. I was in the know as I hopped around town from lunch at Union Square Café to a theatre district performance of Bridge & Tunnel, a one-woman show. I even used my online trick to secure my seat at almost a 50% discount.

After retrieving my theatre ticket at the window, I walked out to the street and meandered down the crowded sidewalk in search of the end of the line. A crabby queen tried to cut, edging in next to me. I told him the end of the line was many people back and though he tried to argue that the line was stupid since we all have assigned seats, I told him it made more sense than 600 people trying to fit through the door all at once. He dropped his head and retreated to meet up with his friend. Stupid Long Islander.

I inched my way forward. A mere five people shy of the ticket taker, I noticed a tall blonde woman retrieving her ticket. Even though it was cloudy out, her eyes were hidden behind large designer glasses. The rest of her was hidden beneath a long black leather coat and a woolen cap, unusual attire for a January day when the temperature topped out at a balmy 65 degrees. Shortly after sitting down in my assigned seat, Blondie from the ticket window sat down next to me and started talking as if we were picking up a previously paused conversation. As she simlutaneously gabbed and disrobed from her paraphernalia of warmth and disguise, I noticed just how striking she was with her high cheek bones and large blue eyes. They weren't stereotypically attractive features but exquisite through and through. She had a nervous habit of combing her fingers through her long and somewhat over processed hair. It was all only a minor distraction from either the utter fiction or ridiculous truth spewing from her lips.

“I’m in town for only a few days. A director wanted to meet with me and you know what that means – jump!”

“You get to 42 and you don’t give a crap if the director wants to sleep with you. Listen, I speak six languages and I can say “fuck off” in each and every one.”

“There’s an edge you can only get if you’ve pulled yourself up by your bootstraps. Laurence Fishburn lived a few floors up from me on 57th and he is who he is because of where he was. Nice guy but when you look in his eyes, you know he’s been somewhere. I can totally relate.”

“I lived the life. Model. Actress. Then gave it all up and married a Kennedy. But after ten years in Europe, I needed to just get on with my life.”

“You know who Sheila Kelley is of S Factor, right? Oprah had her on. She teaches a pole dancing class for women only. No mirrors. It is amazing. She’s married to the actor Richard Schiff. You know, from West Wing. Anyway, I love her. It isn’t about being sexy. It's about an inner connection.”

“I don’t know what it is about women in LA. As soon as they land a TV role, they stop eating. Teri Hatcher’s in my S Factor class. Sweet as pie but let me tell you, she is sickly thin. It just isn’t right.”

After five minutes of her bantering, engaging me only long enough to make sure I was fully aware of the status of the people or things she was referencing, I started to wonder if the one-woman show I had bought a ticket for was sitting right next to me. It was quite a performance. Surely a contender for a Tony.

Blondie looked at her diamond encrusted, gold watch as the lights began to dim. I looked at her watch too. Mine was a stainless steel Tourneau engraved to commend me for ten years of service with Gap, Inc. It was four steps below my Raymond Weil and nine steps above my Swatch collection. I’m not sure if hers was Van Cleef or Chopard or Bedat but I can guarantee you it soared past the $100,000 mark and fell more into the price-available-upon-request range. Read enough Town & Country and you'll start to notice these accessories too. Seeing her watch made my superficial aspirations to one day own a Cartier seem rather reasonable.

I turned my attention to the stage and absorbed the second performance and formal production of the afternoon. The lead ducked in and out of characters, moving seamlessly from a Jewish grandmother to a Pakistani accountant. It was pure brilliance and according to Blondie’s hooting and hollering, she agreed. Her opinion should count for something. Remember, I was seated next to a thespian, SAG card and all.

Ten minutes shy of the end of the performance, as the lights of the stage dimmed momentarily, Blondie, again dolled up in jacket, glasses and hat, ducked out to the aisle and dashed for the door. Maybe she had another meeting with a director. Maybe she forgot about her afternoon tea date with Fergie. I crossed my Old Navy, denim clad leg, exposing my mid-level priced Nike Shox and returned my attention to the stage. Maybe she lived the life I always wanted. Maybe she didn't. Either way, I can guarantee you she didn't end her Saturday as well as I ended mine. You can eat all of the foie gras on tap at Daniel or Jean Georges. Life doesn't get much better than extra lean corned beef on rye with a few bites of strawberry topped cheesecake to wash it down.

Picture Me

While I’ve never been fond of the camera’s prying eye, I will willingly pose for family pictures against the backdrop of a summer sunset or roaring fireplace. That sounds so Kennedy-esque. In simple terms, I'll snuggle up against my next of kin and smile. In complex terms, I suck in my stomach and tilt my head upward to avoid a double chin but not too upward so as to make my chin disappear. I smile big but not too big. If I go too big, my front teeth are even more pronounced and my Charlie Brown round head gets rounder. As the person on the other side of the lens does a click countdown, I try to think of something that makes me happy to produce a calmness in my eyes. Say cheese!

If I take this many steps to participate in a group photo, you probably have already figured out that I retreat from solo shots. I can’t stand the pressure of being the center of attention. Heidi Klum and her catwalk friends might thrive on being the only form in focus but I detest it. I turn my head away and shoo the photographer. I even go so far as to cover my face with both hands, peaking through finger slivers to see when the coast is clear and safe enough to remove my protective mask.

“Come on, Paige. I read your blog religiously. In fact, I'm your number one fan. You owe me. I support your creativity and now it's your time to return the favor. Please? I am desperate.”

“I hate posing for the camera!”

“I need three rolls of portraits by the end of next week and my two year old has an attention span of three seconds. I tried to use him but I'm pretty sure 75% of those shots are just a blur of Jack escaping the frame.”

“I can’t believe I am agreeing to this but fine. Yes. I will pose for you. For the sake of artistic karma. Maybe you'll even end up with something for your photography class critique. More importantly, I can't afford to lose my number one fan."

On the following Sunday, I spent many hours trying to pose. It was a long and arduous process. You know what it's like when you are first learning a language? You have the basics and can sometimes even get out a flawless sentence with the perfect accent but more often than not, you slip up on the verb conjugation and go past tense when you meant present. This summed up the artist. Sometimes he got the shot just right without thinking and other times he got it a little less than just right after five minutes of light adjustments, aperature speed tweaking and placement reconsideration. To his defense, he was also working with a novice model.

A week after posing, we met up at the back corner of a nearby Starbucks. I sipped my iced green tea and commented as he showed me the contact sheets. Little thumbnail sized portraits, he noted the ones he liked best and the ones he hoped to use for the critique. My initial reaction was criticism. Of me and nothing but me. It wasn't about the composition but about my face looking too round, my arms looking too flabby and my chin having a gobble effect. I also noticed that in some pictures I looked very sad and in others I looked very angry. It was an interesting glance at how the outside world sees me when I had no idea I was expressing those specific emotions at that those specific moments in time.

The following week, we met again at a different corner in the same Starbucks. This time my tea was hot and we were meeting so I could see the photos picked for the critique. Shortly thereafter, the photographer handed me copies for myself. Four black and whites. All of me. I got home and spread them out on my floor. Once I got past the insecurities that only I could see, I noticed the way certain things were in focus while other things were undefined. I noticed the positive and negative space. I noticed the edges of the picture and how my eye was drawn across the page simply because of the position of my leg. I simply started to notice what worked to create a pleasing photograph. It wasn’t about me any more but the picture as a whole.

For the first time I ever, I framed photos of just me and hung them on the wall. They are hanging as a montage in my corridor of art, a few inches down from an original Jenny Brown. Crisp white matte surrounds the photographs and thick black frames surround the matte. When I walk the hall that connects my common space to my private space, I pass the images of me. And I smile.

PS: The photograph posted was supposed to mimic a pose captured by the artist Robert Longo. A framed poster of it hangs above my bed. It was taking so long to set up the shot, the artist standing on a dresser with his head cocked against my stucco ceiling. I relaxed my pose. This was one of those don't-think-about-it-too-hard shots. You should see the black and white. I love it.

Dress Rehearsal

Are you running to something or from something?

Would you rather be right or would you rather be happy?

This is not a dress rehearsal.

Throughout my life and right up until five minutes ago, these three tag lines have spewed form my dad’s lips as inspiration and assistance. While I find them trite and a little more Tony Robbins than I like, they all make sense. Especially the last one. He's absolutely right. This is not a dress rehearsal.

As of late, I find myself repeating those six words at least a few times a week. It helps put things in perspective as I struggle over whether or not to bother pursuing my dreams. I've always wanted to see my name in print, my bio and a perfect black and white photo filling up the last page of a book. The idea of transforming my hatred for athletic activity to a fondness of physical motion has plagued me since the eleventh grade when the gym teacher stopped timing the mile run at twelve minutes and told me to just meet the rest of the class in the locker room when I was finally done. For the last five years, I have talked about wanting to go back to Paris but I haven’t bothered to do much more than dine at some rather ritzy stateside eateries owned by pompous Frenchmen. Bien sur!

Things have always gotten in the way. Being a writer means making some serious life changes and steadfast commitments to see them through. I didn’t have the time to take a writing workshop or the extra funds to buy a laptop, though I did make the time to shop for and the money to spend on some fabulous Prada accessories. I’m not a morning person and I like to chill out in the evening, leaving little to no time for working out. With the weakening dollar and equally strengthening Euro, the cost of venturing abroad has become harder to swallow. Toss in visions of Paris burning and the destination becomes even more questionable. In other words, blah, blah, blah.

If you spend your entire life justifying why you aren’t doing things you should do, the things you dream of doing, the things that will make you happy and a better person, why bother getting out of bed in the morning? I honestly can’t recall any momentous accomplishments of 2005. From start to finish, it is a blur reminiscent of the scenery passing by on the other side of a fast moving train's scratched and stained window. There are little blips that can be identified but nothing is in focus long enough to mean anything.

I don’t plan on departing this earth just yet but as we all know, that isn’t my choice. That my Palm Pilot has a calendar with events noted well into the future means diddly. I can plan all I want and I can postpone all that I want. Unless I just get up and do it, the planning and postponing is mere fluff.

I'm not quitting my job but I officially registered for a creative writing class down at Penn. It starts in late February. Not soon enough. I also had to clear off a shelf at home to make room for all of my recently acquired books about writing and getting published. My treadmill, up until earlier this week, had been doubling as a coat rack. Now I toss my coat on a chair, lace up my Nike’s and walk away the time. It's actually a nice after work activity. As for my trip to Paris, things haven’t been organized just yet. I love Paris. The food, the art, the architecture, and yes, even the people set me into a Rhoda spin of elation. I’ll have to spend some free time figuring it all out.

Life is too short to do only read throughs with the hope you will eventually perfect the nuances for a final performance sometime down the line. I’m stepping onto the stage and centering myself right at the front. The musty, velvety curtain hangs in front of me. It is the only thing that separates practice from performance. I turn my glance to the stagehand on the side, pause for a moment and then nod my head, motioning for him to raise the curtain. Let the performance begin!

Senior Living

After work tonight, I ran some errands and stopped off at Wholefoods for some healthy dinner to go. Since I haven’t checked mail for quite a few days, I stopped off in the lobby before heading up to my residence. I was too bogged down with bags to sort so I carried the bundle with me for future evaluation.

In the elevator, the display frames reserved for condo association and social club announcements posted flyers informing residents of upcoming events. The first one was an invitation to participate in an AARP driving class. The second was an announcement for an upcoming but sold out trip to an Atlantic City casino, $10 of coins for slot playing included. I took in a deep breath and waited patiently for the aged elevator to let me off on my brisket infused floor.

I opened my front door and tossed my mail in the usual spot, on an Ikea bistro table that’s been dined at all of five times since being purchased five years ago. As the mail fanned out in response to the throwing motion, I noticed an envelope addressed to me from Retired Senior’s Counselors. It was right on top of my Banana Republic bill and below the latest issue of Lucky Magazine. Thirty-two is rather young to already be on the senior citizen radar.

When I bought in my complex, I knew very well that I’d be the youngest resident by around seventy years. I live in a place where widows and older divorcees linger before either finding another mate or meeting God in heaven. Most of my neighbors are retired and spend the daytime catching up on gossip as they ride the elevators to other floors. They are all nice enough, except for the crab who informed me that it was against the rules to use all three washers on my floor at one time. He backed off when I asked him to produce said rule in print. I was already sore that the laundry hours are limited to the short time span between 8am and 8pm. In other words, employed residents can’t do laundry on any days other than Saturday and Sunday.

The hardest thing to accept with my residential surroundings is the cable option. Someone thought it would be a great idea to secure a contract with a second rate cable company. For a mere $23/month, residents get access to around 70 television and three audio stations. I realize this is cheap. I paid through the nose for Comcast’s most basic of basic cable plans at my old place. The only glitch is that the old fart who picked the assortment of channels for my complex passed on MTV but signed us up for three Jesus stations and BET. The music channels are all versions of big band tunes, circa 1930's. I have no idea where the latest Real World is being taped and don't even ask me about the current state of Laguna Beach affairs. It is maddening. I’ve been stripped of my youth merely by association.

The funniest thing is that I am not only significantly younger than my neighbors, I am significantly younger than the doormen who are paid to open the doors for me. One of them is so old, it takes him no less than five minutes to get off the stool and shuffle the ten feet to the door. The one time I told him not to bother, he insisted, noting that he would get fired if he didn’t. The ice-cream I was carrying was melted soup by the time I got upstairs. I now use a side entrance to bypass the doormen altogether.

Old as the people may be, I love where I live. It's safe, clean and all mine. In my previous residence, a rental apartment, I had drinking and drugging delinquent students as neighbors. Shutting them up required a visit from the local police. The only time a vehicle with lights on top shows up at my current complex, it's an ambulance responding to a medical emergency or death. They don't even bother to sound the siren. The EMT pulls up under the entrance awning and idles for a few minutes while issues are dealt with. Speaking of which, based on the dull diesel hum coming from outside, it looks like another unit is going to be going on the market in a few days.

Snow Bunny

As soon as I could walk, I was strapped to Snoopy skis. I’d glide down the mountain in between my dad’s legs, my arms wrapped around his muscular thighs for additional stability. I also spent mountain time in ski school. There'd be a long ribbon knotted to my pom-pom hat with an inflated helium balloon tethered at the other end. I’d learn important things like stopping without resorting to the snowplow and how to hop off the chairlift so I didn’t end up going back around.

With age came confidence. I stopped taking lessons and started going at it without the constant guidance of an instructor. I’d ride up to the top of the mountain with my dad. We’d perch at the edge of a black diamond run and he’d peer out at the path ahead of us.

“Paige, this is going to be tough and it isn't a race. Take your time and stop if you need to. Okay? Paige? Paige???”

I was already out the gate and halfway down the slope. With my knees bent and my tiny mitten clad hands resting upon them, I swooshed toward the lift line. In between giggles, I'd stick my tongue out to catch a stray snowflake with the tip of my tongue.

Every winter was the same until my dad got sick. When maintaining your balance on solid pavement is a challenge, strapping two sticks to your feet and traversing snow and ice isn’t the smartest idea. My parents made a last ditch attempt at maintaining the family skiing tradition. We headed to Greek Peak in New York because, though the slopes were nice, they were the only mountain within a reasonable drive with a handicap ski program. I’m not sure if my dad was too weak or too humiliated. We never skied again.

I decided last month that I wanted to give downhill another go. I wasn’t sure if I’d like it but there was something in my bones drawing me back to the mountain. I got up on Saturday morning and dressed in my recent snowy purchases. Layered with long underwear and wool, I drove the stretch of highway that passes through the Poconos. I changed into the rest of my gear in the parking lot, made my way to the ticket window and handed over my credit card in exchange for a lift ticket and rentals.

“Rate your abilities. 1, 2 or 3.”

“I have no idea. Skied every weekend for ten years but haven’t been on a mountain in fifteen.”

“Beginner it is.”

I walked out of the rental shop, bruised ego and all, and entered onto dirty snow cluttered with people. I carried everything over to a remote area and took a deep breath, lowering the skis to the ground and setting them out for observation. I stared at them for a few seconds. I couldn't remember if there was a specific ski for the left or right. It took a little bit more time for me to confirm the bindings were in the right position. Unwilling to give up before even trying, I finally clipped the boots into the bindings and made my way over to the bunny slope, terrain I hadn’t bothered to ski since my Snoopy days.

The tips of my skis hovered at the brink for a few seconds. With a gentle push off the mismatched rental poles, I started to make my way down. My legs were tense, my arms were stiff and I could tell I was leaning too far back in my boots. Halfway down, I pulled off to the side and smiled. I did it. And I did it all without falling. I grabbed an intermediate trail for the rest of the descent and pulled into the lift line like it was old hat.

I skied about twenty runs that day, each one interrupted with a mid-slope stop. I'd pull over to mentally prepare for an icy patch or to make sure a snowboarder wouldn’t come buzzing past unexpectedly. It was during one of those pauses that I saw a dad skiing down the mountain with his young child tucked between his legs. I smiled a big smile and tried to swallow down the lump in my throat. The father smiled back when he caught my glance and went about his fatherly duties.

After settling into my car and pulling onto the highway, I rang my dad on his cell phone. My mom quickly stole the phone out from him to ask about my adventures. Had the bindings changed? Was the mountain crowded? What brand were the rental skis? What was the going rate for a lift ticket? She tossed the phone back to my dad because she had to run into a store they were double parked in front of.

"The most important question I have for you is this. Was the hot chocolate as amazing as I remember?

"Didn't have any."

"That is not how I raised my daughter. The whole point of skiing is the whipped hot chocolate reward. Even still, I’m really glad you went. It means a lot.”

“I know dad. It was like old times. I can't wait to get back out on the slopes again. Just wish you could have been there with me.”

"Me too, PJ. Me too."

She Shoots, She Scores

One thing I’ve never been able to understand is men and their addiction to sports, with an exception being tennis. How can you not love a sport where you can buy sushi, wine and mesculin from the food court? The athletes are usually dressed in uppity white and are always civil. Even when McEnroe flipped out, the opponent or line judge didn't have to fear a concussion.

Granted, I haven’t tried very hard to stretch myself down the field of Astroturf. I have sat front and center at baseball games, hockey games and football games. Even with great seats, you spend a lot of time squinting trying to follow a teeny tiny item being batted around. You sit in folding chairs that offer no back support, no legroom and absolutely no comfort. You wait in long bathroom lines only to have the privilege to hover-squat over pee soaked plastic and wipe yourself with single ply sandpaper. You eat overpriced food with a caloric and sodium count that far exceeds the daily allowance. All of this for around $100 per person. Personally, I’d rather watch it all from home. There's instant replay and if I get bored, I can fib an I’m-going-to-the-bathroom and depart for greener pastures like reading or shopping.

I’ve noticed during my two month tenure on JDate that men have yet to clue into the fact that the average woman doesn’t give two craps about sports. Sure, my friends Jenn and Hope will go to games. Actually, Jenn could even name players and identify them in a line up. But I can guarantee you that neither girl would be gunning to place “Avid Sports Fan” at the top of the perfect date, characteristic wish list. Just as men wouldn’t top their list with “Ability To Drop Thousands at Neiman Marcus.”

Recently, two guys with sporty usernames contacted me. One has the word "hockey" imbedded in there somewhere and his primary photo shows him sweaty and benched at an ice rink. If you get benched, doesn’t it mean you either played like an animal, a girl or you just flat out suck? Wouldn’t a better photo be of him making a shot? I think there is a term “hat trick” that is favorable. Yeah. He should be doing a hat trick. Or better yet, have a picture that doesn’t display equipment. Men of the world, posing with sport's gear is like me posing with a Platinum AmEx in front of Bergdorf's. It is plain wrong if your goal is to attract the opposite sex.

The other sporty spice guy didn’t have a picture posted. I asked him to email me one seeing I have a photo up and I am not Helen Keller. Looks count for something on a very general level. I don’t mind bald or an uneven smile but I do struggle with gerbil eyes and facial hair. If I am going to spend money on Kiehl's and facials, I am not going to undue everything with a beau’s beard.

The photograph had the word “vet” in the name and I knew immediately it wasn’t a picture of him in a lab coat tending to a sick pup. I braced myself as the picture loaded. Sure enough, the guy was sitting on two blue chairs from the former Vet stadium in Philadelphia. They were shoved up against a living room wall with a framed Eagles poster hanging just above.

He IMed me shortly thereafter seeking a response.

“Did you get the picture?”

“Uh-huh. Did you steal those seats?” It was a fair question.

“No, I’m a season ticket holder and when the stadium closed, I was offered the opportunity to buy them. Couldn’t resist.”

“Really?”

“Sure. And when the teams are away, my buddy comes over and we watch the games in those seats. It’s great.”

I froze. My mind kept flashing the image of two grown men, one of which was a tad on the larger side, wedged into junky, blue, plastic stadium chairs now placed on shag carpeting. They'd sit there for hours on end, fighting for the shared armrest, screaming corrected calls for the umps, watching a sporting event on what I am sure is a huge, flat-screen, plasma, HDTV. If the Eagles were the team du jour, the volume would be muted with Merril Reese booming play by play from the radio speakers. It was all too much for me to handle.

“Gotta run. My herpes sores are acting up again.”

It was my version of a cross court slice landing right on the outside edge of the base line. I have no problem lying and making a stranger feel uncomfortable if it means he won’t think to contact me again. Speaking of which, he didn’t. She shoots, she scores!

It's About What's Inside (or Underneath)

While I don’t vamp it up on a regular basis, I am pretty confident with my ability to express a tastefully sexy side. Keep it simple and flaunt something alluring. An open neckline is nice but it’s sexy when you pair it with a necklace to draw the eye down and across exposed skin. A knee length skirt might be banker conservative but there is nothing prim when you add fishnets and tall, black, leather boots. Men are basic. Keeping the level of sex appeal simple leaves more time for them to guess and imagine just what you’re wearing under that skirt, if you’re wearing anything at all.

“You can see your bra from certain angles,” a friend once warned as I reached forward in my wrap dress to retrieve a glass of wine.

“I know,” I said with a little smirk. If you’re going to drop three digits on La Perla, might as well flaunt it a little.

Sexy starts with what you’re sporting underneath. No woman will be able to purr in industrial panties a la Jockey. And just because there is lace, the item isn’t necessarily sexy. You need to be comfortable. Picking, tugging and adjusting ill fitting bras and panties doesn’t work. Heck, half of the Glamour Fashion Don’t pictures involve poor fitting intimates. If visible panty line was such the rage, only strippers and hookers would be buying thong underwear these days.

I’ve never been a fan of Victoria’s Secret. In fact, I think their merchandise is crappy quality, crappy design and ridiculous pricing. Calvin Klein is pretty in that understated, barely gender specific type of way. Meaning if you have anything bigger than an A cup on top, you need to take your rack right pass their rack and look for something else. Wacoal does pretty things too but they sometimes border on upgraded Maidenform. Support is important but not at the risk of looking like a Granny.

A loudmouthed woman at Sak’s turned me onto La Perla and Chantelle. Everything sounds better in Italian and French. While I didn’t care for the salesperson, I was blue and willing to try just about anything to up my spirits. Plus, if this shopping effort failed, my friends Ben & Jerry were at home waiting to console me. I went into the fitting room with three different styles and low self esteem. I left the store with six new bras and a little kick to my step. That was four years ago and I haven’t strayed from European intimates since. It might be an expensive indulgence but as I hand over the charge card, I peer into the bag with my new purchase delicately wrapped up in crisp white tissue paper and gently whisper a “Ciao, bella!”

Bumps In The Road

Christmas Eve, I flew down to Florida. It was a relatively smooth flight until a twenty something wretched all over the floor next to my seat. She was waiting for the occupied bathroom located right behind me. I’d noticed a greenish tint to her complexion but kept my focus on my book. Then I heard what sounded like a loud splash of water and I just knew it wasn’t something falling from the beverage cart. The splash was then followed with a Code Barf call for help from a stewardess. To think I changed my middle seat over the wing at the last minute to the last row simply for the sake of sitting on the aisle.

In the airport, I reunited with my parents who’d come in on another flight. We fetched a car and hit the road, making an emergency grocery stop at a Bradenton exit. It was a game-show-esque sprint through Publix. I even did a Scooby Doo skid at the deli counter. Kitten heels are great but they don’t corner well. We had exactly seventeen minutes to buy anything and everything we might need to survive in a house stocked with two beds, sheets, linens, silverware and a lovely plastic patio set that quickly morphed into a breakfast room table. We bought things we absolutely needed, like plastic plates and milk, and also bought things we absolutely didn’t need, like baked Cheetoh’s and Cozy Shack Tapioca Pudding.

We pulled into the 55+ community at nine o’clock. I helped unpack the groceries and made up the beds with my mom. There wasn’t a light in my bedroom. The linen closet bi-fold door fell off the track in the first attempt of opening. My mother almost broke her neck trying to hang temporary shades so as to avoid flashing workmen in the morning. But the way the moonlight reflected off the gentle ripples of the water just beyond the lanai made it all okay.

Christmas day, I was blessed to experience the immaculate conception of a UTI. If I am going to get one of these things, shouldn’t I at least be having sex? Only once before have I experienced painful peeing. It was so bad that I ended up in the emergency room. This time around, I wasn’t taking any chances. I broke the bad news over Corn Pops and then spent an hour finding a pharmacy staffed with a pharmacist, quite the challenge on Christmas Day even in Florida where 95% of the population relies on no less than five medications a day. My mom drove me all over Sarasota in search of the Walgreens at 5800 Bee Ridge. My hair was dirty, I wasn’t wearing a bra and I wanted to pee the entire time. That didn’t stop her from taking me on a grand tour of her new town. “And over there is the Ringling Museum. Isn’t it beautiful? Oh! I want to show you Sandy’s old house. You know. The bay front one she lived in before selling it at a million dollar profit and upgrading to a Longboat Key condo with a view.” I heard only every other word because I was too busy repeating a you-don’t-really-have-to-pee mantra.

By night fall, my bladder had started to respond to the antibiotics. I crawled into bed and read by the hallway light cascading in through the open door. Feeling a little chilly, I layered my jammies with a fleece jacket and I stayed bundled until the morning when I awoke to find myself under a sheet, a blanket and two beach towels, my mother’s makeshift attempt at a comforter. Apparently the thermostat was locked to keep contractors from running up the bill. I’ve never wanted to conquer Mt. Everest and if the chill of that night was anything close to the blustery cold of Base Camp One, you can still count me out.

Before heading out the door to help my mom buy essentials like soap dishes and a coffee maker, I threw a load of darks into the washing machine. I haven’t had the ability to laundry in the confines of my four walls in many years. As a result, I eagerly run a machine within reach even if it is to clean just one pair of underwear. The machine wouldn’t fill. It was working hard and making a curious noise but no water. My dad suggested flipping a shut off valve. Great idea if there was a valve to flip. He got up and shuffled to the laundry room to prove me wrong. Turns out Eduardo, the builder’s helper, he no install valve.

All of the mishaps didn’t come as unexpected. The builders had accidentally mixed up the upgraded and tasteful interior of my parent’s home with the interior of a tacky neighbor’s home. My mother just about died when she got a phone call from Sandy Labor Day weekend. “Carol, I think you should call me before I send you the in-progress photos I took. Just not sure this is the tile you picked.” My mom was on a plane within 24 hours.

A guy showed my dad how to unlock the thermostat. Eduardo stopped by for to install shut off valve. By the time I checked in at the gate for my return flight home, I was back to my normal number of daily visits to the ladies room. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and the seventy-five degree weather paired perfectly with a pre-flight, curbside indulgence of Cold Stone Creamery. There are always going to be bumps in the road. Pray to God you have good shocks.