Fuzzy Math

Black or white, right or wrong, I’ve always worked in absolutes. Gray is a muddled blend of the extremes where I more comfortably reside. The color of the sky when storm clouds roll into town. Or the feeling that blankets me when I’m sadder than blue. Blue is bad but gray is worse. Even still, I sometimes wade in gray. Maybe I’m uncertain. Maybe I’m undecided. Maybe I’ve sat back and let someone else take the reins. If I’m lingering in gray, it’s mostly because I’ve lost my way. I’ve let myself settle into an existence of 10% - just enough to participate but not enough to reap any reward.

As December tumbled forward, a clumsy collection of muddled gray hanging over my head, I set out to return my life to an organized existence shaded in black and white. I tugged at my brain, I yanked at my hair and I finally decided to apply to grad school. The thing is, I had to because blogging was starting to feel like 10% of a pen. Then I curled my heart and unraveled my head, diving more openly into the great wide abyss of single men and those who are foolishly dazzled by me. The thing is, I had to because my continued dabbling with Alaska felt like 10% of a love affair. That’s like being 10% pregnant. Or ordering 10% of a hamburger at the McDonald’s drive-thru. And for a girl who lives in absolutes, 10% is mere tinkering. 10% is like treading water or running in place- a whole lot of energy that gets you absolutely nowhere.

When it comes to love, if you have me, you have all of me. 100% of me. Maybe even more. And without question or hesitation. I might have an important presentation slated for eight but I’ll still reach for the ringing receiver in the wee hours of the morning and smile as I groan a hello. I might want to lean or I might want to need but if you’re under piles at work or burdened by timely commitments, I patiently linger on the periphery until you indicate otherwise. I’m still there. I’m always still there. And while I may be on the outskirts, I’m there 100%. Maybe even more. Because when I’m in, I’m in.

All in is white. Or perhaps it’s black. But it sure as shit ain’t gray. I’m either in or I’m out but this middle space, regardless of it involving my head or heart or both, I can’t do it for very long. Eventually I break. Because gray feels itchy like a Shetland wool sweater bristling against bare flesh. It’s slippery and unsteady like the damp teak slats of the deck on a sailboat rolling between the white capped waves. So to settle the ground and soothe the skin, I set out to un-gray my life. First I made a graph of academic programs, listing deadlines and requirements and ranking the MFA offerings according to best fit. I jumped in with both feet, knowing I need to commit at least 100% of my attention to eke out an acceptance. Next I got back into the dating thing, connecting with a few boys from here and there, smart and funny and cute boys who all have something to offer. Because while I know I do alone fine, I know I enjoy together better. And to create a together, I need to give 100% of my heart. And to give 100% of my heart, I have to take back that 10% dangling out there for Alaska. So I went through and deleted my past. I removed contact information and erased saved emails and sent a request to set me free. To let me be me, the real me instead of the 10% version of me. Because black or white, right or wrong, I work in absolutes. I’m in or I’m out but I can’t comfortably wade in 10%. It’s a mere fraction of the whole pie. A single piece in a very large puzzle. And no matter how I run the numbers, 10% always works out to be nothing more than fuzzy math.

Because I Say So

When 2006 turned to 2007, I created a file in Word to document all of the books I read, the movies I viewed and the plays I attended. I even went so far as to creatively title the file - Paige’s Books and Stuff 2007. Suck it. I'm a writer, not a marketing exec. Anyway, each category was broken down according to month and each item received a quick description with a personal review and formal rating. Stars to be exact, best of five. I didn’t do this to flaunt my sophistication. I didn’t do this to revel in my fondness for the arts. Nope. I did it because I can’t stand loving something and then forgetting about it. Well, save for the men who break my heart. Anyway, you take pictures. I take notes.

“Are you reading anything good?” Bess asked as she flexed her chopsticks around a piece of yellow tail sushi.

“I just started a memoir about a woman whose husband got hit by a car and suffered severe brain trauma. A real pick me up,” I noted before raising my glass to my lips to take a quick sip of water. “If it plays out anything like Didion's depressing memoir, I’m so not finishing it. Oooh, but the book I read last? That one was awesome. Shit, what was it?”

Bess offered a blank stare.

I slammed my open palm against my forehead before telling her I’d check when I got home. Which I did. After stumbling through the door but before releasing the knot on my paisley scarf, I turned on my computer and opened the file with my list. According to my notes, the last book I read earned all of three stars so I’m either not remembering my recent past very well or I forgot to update my registry. Seeing I’ve worn my underwear inside out twice in the last three months, this one’s a total coin toss. Even still, sitting there on my sofa, I fell in love with my list all over again. I slipped out of my boots, tugged on my scarf and gently rested my laptop on my crossed legs. Then I scrolled through all of the ways I entertained myself in 2007.

When I got to the end, I felt blanketed by a comforting warmth. All of the items noted, both those I adored and those I could have done without, impacted me. Maybe I laughed, maybe I cried or maybe I just lingered in place awed by the brilliance sprawled out before me. In some instances, the film or book or play captivated me for the entire stretch. Other times, there was a mere kernel of perfection buried within the piece. What matters in the end is that those creative efforts all took me on a journey I never expected and sometimes a journey that I never wanted to end.

As the year comes to a close and I create a new Word file for 2008, I wanted to take a moment to share some worthwhile finds.

Books:
The Glass Castle
Interpreter of Maladies
A Fine Balance
The Foreskin’s Lament

Films:
Tsotsi
The Ghosts of Cite Soleil
Once
After the Wedding

And while I don’t track my exposure to music, here are my picks of people who released some worthwhile tunes this year:

Sigur Ros
Paula Cole
Sara Bareilles
Annie Lennox

Sometimes I stumble across a book because I'm leisurely strolling the aisles of Barnes & Noble. Or I get turned onto a musician because NPR does a review or WMVY, my daytime ear candy, samples a new tune. But more often than not, I am exposed to creativity simply because someone I adore makes a suggestion. I read A Fine Balance because while perusing the shelves at Borders, Alaska found me in the fiction section, handed it to me and insisted I read it (so I did). I saw Once because Bess wanted to see it. So much so that she offered to pay for my ticket if it sucked (which it didn't). And I listened to Sigur Ros because my friend Kermit had a post highlighting a snippet of music (which penetrated my bones). So I suppose this quick list of picks for 2007 is nothing more than me reciprocating the gesture - a little creative paying it forward.

Going Postal

It’s a boring story so I’ll spare you the details but I had to get a new postage meter for the office. And lucky me, it arrived today. It’s real purdy. It’s light gray and has a scale and lots of buttons and it makes me happy. Not as happy as a white peach in the middle of summer but pretty darn close. Anyway, within ten minutes of the box arriving, I was setting it up. As I plugged in cords and unwrapped pieces, that twit coworker of mine hovered nearby and asked questions.

“What’s that?” she inquired.

“A new postage meter,” I answered.

“For what?”

“Postage.”

“Like letters?”

“Uh huh.”

“Big letters too?”

“Yup, even super duper big letters.”

“Wow. That’s exciting,” she finished with a giggle before walking in two circles and disappearing in the bathroom.

I resumed my efforts, tossing scraps of trash in the box and stowing relevant booklets in the nearby cabinet. Then another coworker, D, stopped by to get water from the cooler. I rolled my eyes and nodded to the bathroom door.

“She asked me if you were single,” D whispered.

I lifted an eyebrow.

“Because she wants to set you up with her brother in-law,” she explained with a stifled chuckle as she rested her hand on the meter to weigh it.

“Shutthefuckup,” I whispered back.

“This thing is broken,” D muttered with a sigh while using her free hand to point to the screen reading zero.

“It’s not broken. For the love of God, please tell me you told her I was a lesbian.”

“No, I told her you weren’t dating right now,” D said as she shuffled over to the cooler.

Just then another coworker came by. He looked at the meter, smiled, rested his hand on the scale and then told me it was broken.

“It isn’t broken and why do you guys feel the need to weigh your hands?”

“It’s fun,” he offered.

“Fun how?” I probed.

“Just fun,” he elaborated before lifting his hand, shrugging his shoulders and wandering off to another part of the office.

A few seconds later, the Twit emerged from the bathroom.

“Did you see the meter?” she excitedly asked D.

“Uh huh.”

“It’s for postage,” the Twit explained as she stepped forward and rested her hand on the scale.

I glanced at D, her eyes focused on the Twit’s hand. Then D spoke.

“Don’t say anything.”

“I didn’t,” I defended.

“But you wanted to,” she continued.

“Oh you have no idea,” I responded.

And just then, the Twit offered a kernel of wisdom.

“This thing is broken.”

Keep On Keeping On

In high school, I admittedly struggled with writing. It took tremendous effort for me to string words together into a coherent sentence. I spent oodles of energy formulating paragraphs that had a beginning, a middle and an end. On more than one occasion, I rewrote an English paper to improve the grade. And on more than one occasion, I rewrote the same darn paper three different times. It wasn’t my idea. It was my mom’s. Trust me, I was content with a B- and I felt absolutely no gratification inching it up to a B by reworking the same sentence ten different ways. But when you go to an exclusive private school and your Jewish mom wants you to excel, you do what you’re told. So I took French, played tennis and rewrote my English papers as many times as the teacher deemed necessary.

Interestingly, I blossomed into a writer my first year of college. Maybe it was my newfound confidence, being out from under the microscope of a small school where your reputation preceded your actual presence. Maybe it was because I developed a freedom to express myself as I wanted instead of how a stodgy teacher insisted. All I know is I fell in love with words and my passion quickly became apparent to those who taught me.

“This is really fantastic,” my English prof noted after class, my essay in his hands and a crimson A scribbled across the top.

“Thanks,” I offered as I tried to halt the corners of my mouth from curling into a foolish smile.

“Have you thought about pursuing writing?” he inquired as he extended his arm and offered my paper.

“I’d love to be a writer,” I swooned, visions of coffee houses and round table discussions cluttering my head. I momentarily disappeared to the idea of sipping cocktails with Brett Easton Ellis and swapping literary genius with Binnie Kirshenbaum. Then my prof spoke.

“No, no – you can’t be a writer. You have to be a professor. That way you have an income to support your writing habit.”

My eyes pulled back and scanned the scene. His copper corduroy slacks were frayed at the hem and some of the raised lines running from hip to heel were worn shallow at the knee. The elbows of his green woolen sweater were threadbare and a part of the waistband was starting to unravel, loops of yarn loosely hanging in succession. The soles of his shoes were scuffed unevenly and the tired leather encasing his feet was worn beyond repair. From head to toe, he was tattered and torn. There was nothing about this man I aspired to be. Nothing. And so I shelved my writing aspirations and set out to become a lawyer.

Even though my dreams to become an author were dashed, my passion for writing never faded. It’s as if words run through my veins. I can be patiently waiting for a light to blink from red to green and a slice of dialog echoes in my head. I can be standing under a steady stream of water, suds of shampoo puddling at my feet, and a paragraph will suddenly spill from my brain. I can be just about anywhere when the urge strikes. If I know I’m within reach of a pen or computer, I repeat the idea over and over like a mantra, holding it in the present long enough to expel it through my fingers. Sometimes the idea blossoms into an essay. Sometimes it withers away into a jumble of confused words. But no matter what I pen, the public consumption of my creativity stalls out at this blog.

“Did you take a class for the GMAT?” I asked Leslie when she answered the phone.

“Yeah, why?” she probed, the clicking of her keyboard echoing in the distance.

“Because I’m thinking of taking the GRE.”

“Wait, for what?”

“Creative writing. An MFA in Creative Writing, to be exact. My blog is a dead end. And my passion is writing,” I explained, the idea clumsily tumbling from my mouth. I had pondered this next step for months but this conversation marked the very first time I had ever wrapped words around it all and then gone so far as to speak said words aloud.

“Wow, really?” Leslie asked.

“Uh huh. It’ll give me more credibility in the literary world plus I’ll have access to prof jobs. I can teach during the school year and have the summers off to pursue writing. Yeah, I know, me being a teacher makes about as much sense as polyester pants or acid wash denim but, you know, I think I’d enjoy teaching something I’m passionate about.”

“That’s awesome, Paige,” Leslie offered, a genuine warmth coating the sentiment.

“Well, I’m only in the beginning stages of research but I know some schools require the GRE.”

Leslie elaborated about what she did to prepare for the GMAT. Who she took a class from and why she preferred their method over other programs. After a few minutes, we ended the call and I turned back to the paperwork cluttering my desk. A to-do list sat just off to the side. I tugged at the pad, freeing a blank sheet from the back. I cleared off space in front of me and placed the paper down on my desk, the heel of my palm pressing down over it to remove any wrinkles. And then I wrote one simple sentence: I am a writer. Not a blogger. Not an insurance broker. A writer, dammit.

I pinned the note to my cork board, the paper fluttering right at eye level. So whenever I turn my attention from my monitor to my desk, I see it. Or whenever I reach to answer the phone and lift the receiver to my ear, I see it. Or whenever I get discouraged as I research MFA programs that have a 10% acceptance rate or pen essays to keep the pen going or pursue my future as a writer regardless of the capacity, I am reminded why I’m doing it all. I know it sounds very Tony Robbins. I know it sounds very inspirational-poster-ish. Simply put, I know how it sounds. But I also know it is just the gentle reminder I need to see this through.



PS: In light of my need to pour any and all energy into compiling a portfolio of work and editing personal statements and figuring out what programs to apply to and scraping up two or three people willing to write reference letters on my behalf, I will need to shelve my usual goal of two posts a week. I adore having this blog and don't necessarily see this as an end. Merely a pause to get me to an end point. In other words, I'll be here, just less often. Thanks for all of your kind words and enthusiastic praise. You readers are my grown-up version of a baby blanket - you make me feel safe in what can sometimes be a dark and scary world.

Begin the Begin

A few months after giving birth to this blog, I crossed a sacred line. I installed code. Tracking code so I could monitor visits. Too green to know what service was preferable, I added all of the tracking code I could find - Statcounter and Sitemeter and Google Analytics. On the days I posted, I scanned the data. I could see what time someone visited or how long they stayed or what pages they passed through before exiting altogether. I also could see what town a visitor was sitting in while perusing my literary offerings, though I learned early on that not all data was accurate. Leslie may work in Atlanta but her employer is based in Belgium. Which naturally would explain why her visits are noted as England. Makes perfect sense, I know. But as flawed as the data can be, I continued to embrace Sitemeter like a warm fuzzy fleece on a chilly fall night.

As my readership grew, I came to rely on the stats to evaluate my success. Comments were one way of tracking visits but Sitemeter clued me into what posts were the most popular. I eventually used this information as the one and only indicator of literary accomplishment. I cringe writing that but alas it is true. And so I became addicted. Some people get a high from heroin. I got my high from blog stats.

“I never set out to be so successful,” a BlogHer speaker noted as she loaded the next Power Point slide. “It just happened.”

Sitting on the floor of an overflowing conference room, I craned my neck to see above the tables and attendees in front of me. I think the number on the slide was something like a million. A million hits a day. To a cooking blog. If I’m lucky, I land two hundred hits. Suddenly I felt betrayed by Sitemeter, erroneously inflating my blog ego and simultaneously shattering my writer ego. Suddenly too much knowledge was exactly that, too much knowledge.

Scanning the room filled with bloggers, I felt conflicted and frustrated. So much so that I ended up sneaking out the back door of the conference room before the session was even over. As I tossed my tote over my shoulder and scuffed my Tod sandals against the industrial carpeting lining the empty corridor, I struggled to figure out if I was a writer with a blog or a blogger who wrote. Yeah, this is my brain strung out on Sitemeter.

In case you were wondering, I never figured it out. But I have found myself yet again struggling with blog stats. Here’s the thing - I’m working on moving forward from my past. And I can’t move forward because when I scan Sitemeter, I see the past has been visiting. It knots my stomach, it sours my mouth and it leaves me hopeful and confused. So for the first time in the history of this blog, I asked someone to stop visiting. I claimed it made things imbalanced. It wasn’t fair. It left him having a piece of me I wanted back. Then, as the conversation unraveled, I got frustrated. Not with him but with me. For my silly efforts to control the uncontrollable. For the ridiculous hope that I could somehow make someone disappear by asking him to not read my blog. It got sticky and confusing and in the end, when I placed the handset back in the cradle, I had no idea what I’d just gone and done. I wasn’t sure if it was self preservation or payback or what. I just knew that what I requested of him wasn’t true to who I am and it made me feel yucky from the inside out.

I could easily write and not post. Or I could post and make the essays private, available only to those I handpick. But I don’t do any of that. This blog may be a writing exercise and I might write because I have something to say but I splash it up here for you to see it because, well, I’m not sure why. Maybe I like having an audience. Maybe your reactions inspire me to write better. Maybe knowing you come back comforts my fragile creative ego. There are a lot of maybes and no matter how much time I spend hashing it out, I land nowhere.

So how do I solve the problem? How do I continue to be me and allow all of you, those who know me and those who don’t, continue to be you? Going private won’t work and shutting one person out won’t work either. Because if I learned but one thing from my growing pains of this blog it’s that there are ways around IP address blocks. So I curled up on my sofa and picked my brain. I bit my lower lip and leaned my head against my sofa back. I punched a clenched fist into my thigh and grit my teeth together to steady my thoughts. And then I figured it out – I’m removing the code. All of it. It’s taking me down a path that from what I can tell leads nowhere. It won’t get me a writing gig. It won’t get me noticed. It will only make my head spin, something I can successfully accomplish with other aspects of my life, thank you very much. Deleting the code, however, that will release me from the shackles of being a blogger and restore my freedom as a writer.

And so readers, I ask for one thing from you this holiday season. A luxurious cashmere sweater packaged and tied with a bow? Nah, that’s too frivolous and indulgent. A collection of handpicked books written by literary scholars? Nah, my shelves are already overflowing. All I ask is that every so often you let me know you’re there. That’s it. Because as much as I believe in myself as a writer, it sometimes helps to know others believe in me too.

What’s That Smell?

A few months ago, I received an email in response to a post about pooh. Or maybe it wasn’t about pooh but it mentioned pooh. Not the cute bear that gets his head stuck in a honey jar but the actual bodily function. That pooh. I’ve mentioned it plenty of times before, highlighting my fear of doing it in public or within a hundred mile radius of a boy I like. Heck, every morning I awoke next to Ex in his Georgetown townhouse, I faced my pooh fears.

“Go downstairs,” I ordered.

“I’m tired. You go downstairs,” he responded before rolling over and falling back to sleep.

“Hey, it was your bright idea to buy a house where the master bathroom had neither walls nor doors to close it off. Go. Down. Stairs.”

“Fine,” he conceded with a huff, dragging the comforter off the bed and creaking down the wood steps to the living room.

“I don’t hear the television on,” I yelped over the banister before darting for the bathroom, turning on all faucets, sitting down on the toilet and letting nature happen.

It’s been two years since Ex and while I may have gotten older I’ve in no way matured with regard to bathroom drama.

Anyway, in October a reader contacted me after scanning a post about pooh. She had a bathroom product and after reading my essay she was convinced I would adore it. Uncertain if I should be flattered or insulted that someone comfortably linked me to the smell of shit, I let the email sit. Eventually I reread the letter, pondered a response and then finally sent one. The reader offered a sample of her product, I offered my mailing address and by the end of the month, I had a box containing two bottles of Poo~Pourri - a travel size and a not-quite travel size.

“What’s that?” my coworker probed when she saw me pulling the product from the packaging.

“It’s pooh-smell-be-gone stuff. A reader asked me to try it and write a review,” I said while holding up the spritz bottle and admiring the packaging. “I told her reviews weren’t my thing but I’d be happy to give the product a try and write something if I felt inspired.”

My coworker came over, glanced at the item and then swiped it out of my hands. “Be right back,” she offered before slipping into the bathroom and doing her thing.

A few minutes later she exited.

“Well?” I suspiciously asked.

“Love it. Lovelovelove it,” she sang while extending her hand to return the bottle.

I pulled off the cap and sniffed the fragrance, a blend of eucalyptus and other botanicals. It reminded me of the aromas that float through the hallways of spas - healthy but not pungent, calming but not frilly. I tucked the bottle next to my monitor and waited a few seconds. And when I knew the coast was clear, I tiptoed to the bathroom, stuck my head in and took a whiff. Pooh-free. Nothing more than subtle botanicals filled the air.

By the end of the week, I relocated the bottle to the shelf in the bathroom at work. I wanted to see if the people in my office, a collection of three women and three men, would embrace the product. I never mentioned its presence. Nope, I merely sat it next to the Glade spray and let the bathroom usage begin. While by no means a scientific study, something interesting happened - everyone in my office, me included, started using Poo~Pourri and stopped using Glade. The pooh smell is more adequately conquered. The lingering aroma is pleasant. And because you spray the product directly into the toilet water, there is no fear of slippery floors or, well, in my case no fear of spending the rest of the day smelling like bathroom deodorizer.

In addition to offering a really nice product, the packaging is brilliant. Subtle enough to be discreet but not bland to the point of lacking appeal. It fits perfectly on a shelf dotted with soaps and candles. And while it might appear a tad feminine, it clearly isn’t girly to the point of being off-putting to the male population (cough, guy coworkers).

So, if you’re a girl or a boy or a curious blend of both, wander over to the Poo~Pourri site and check out their fabulous product. You won’t be disappointed and you may just find the perfect gift for the holiday season.

Three Conversations That Got Us From Here to There

Somewhere in Virginia - Mile Marker 153 of I-95 South

After taking a swig of water, I screwed the cap back on the bottle and licked my chapped lips. Bristles of dry skin scraped back against my tongue. With both eyes still on the road, I released one hand from the steering wheel to blindly rifle through my purse tucked at my feet. I found three pens, two barrettes and one crumpled piece of paper containing dried up gum. But alas I found no lipstick.

“Hey, do you have any gloss?” I asked as I sat back in the seat, clicked the signal, looked over my shoulder and shifted into the left lane to pass a truck.

“No, but I have a pick,” my mom offered as she reached into her bag and presented me with a little stub of something that looked like the brush Dick Van Dyke used to clean chimneys in Mary Poppins.

“Guh-loss,” I spoke with exaggerated annunciation.

“I thought you said floss,” she defended.

“Yeah, I know what you thought I said,” I answered while nodding at the dental utensil in her hand, the one extended like a sword preparing for a fight. I rolled my eyes and then returned my attention to the highway.

“Wait, so you don’t want the pick?”


Somewhere in North Carolina - Mile Marker 203 of I-85 South

While we were excited to cross into the first of two Carolinas, my mom and I both knew we still had a lengthy stretch of road ahead of us. My ponytail was starting to come undone. My lower back was beginning to ache. And I was tired of twangy songs about trailers and truckers and big daddies. Then I smelled something ripe.

“Did you fart?” I accused.

“No, no I didn’t,” my mother firmly noted. “I tutti-fruttied,” she explained before slowly reaching for the button to open her window.

“Hell no! Put your window up,” I instructed as I lowered mine to offset the rush of funk heading my way. “You sit over there in that stench and think about what you just did.”

My mom convulsed from controlled laughter, her lower lip curled between clenched teeth.

“I wasn’t kidding,” I noted in between stifled giggles as I pulled up on the button next to me that operated her window.

The next three miles, nothing mattered beyond our tug of war - her window continuously shifting up and down in tiny increments. In case you were wondering - (a) I won and (b) apparently Mercedes successfully designed an electrical system that can withstand childish antics acted out by grown adults.


Somewhere in Florida - Mile Marker 349 of I-75 South

Around forty miles shy of Tampa, the roadway narrowed from three lanes to one. Erratically placed cones ultimately forced traffic into a single file line to accommodate anticipated roadwork. It was nearing midnight and I was tired and hungry and starting to see double.

“Thank God I’m not driving ’cause I’d suggest we pull off and stay at a hotel,” my mom mumbled through a monstrous yawn.

“We’re less than two hours away. We aren’t quittin’ this close to the finish line,” I insisted as I willed my right contact to unstuck itself from my cornea.

“I just realized we never had dinner. Do you wanna stop and get something to eat?” my mom asked, the grumbling of her belly echoing in tune with her question.

“Nah. But I will have some of those chocolate pretzel nubbins I packed.”

My mom rifled through my canvas tote, the one I use for road trip nosh, and pulled out a half filled plastic Trader Joe’s container. As she finagled the lid free, I blindly stretched my arm out into her space and fumbled for some niblets.

“Oops,” I said when I realized my hand had collided full force with the side of the packaging thereby sending all nubbins into the air before settling on my mom’s lap and the floor by her feet.

“PJ,” she whined with a huff and a sigh before bending down to retrieve the scattered sustenance.

After a few minutes, I realized my mom was still bent at the waist and an unusually loud crunching noise was coming from her side of the car. Curious and suspicious, I momentarily shifted my gaze from the road to the passenger front seat. In the shadows cast by headlamps and street lights I could see my mom’s hand near her mouth.

“You’re eating off the floor!” I yelped with disbelief.

“What? I had the car detailed the day we left Philly,” she explained in between loud munches of chocolate covered pretzel bites. “Ooh, these are good.”

I continued to watch my mother, a woman who admires epicures like Julia Child and Ina Garten, fetch food from the floor, blow on the bits and then pop the superficially cleaned morsels in her mouth. The only things missing from this picture were a bong, some Phish tunes and a tie-dyed t-shirt. I cringed at her complete disregard of filth. I sneered at her comfort with eating food off the floor. And then I realized she was ingesting the entire stash of snack I so desperately wanted.

“Dirt shmirt - I’ve put a lot worse in my mouth,” I said as I extended an open palm to request my share of the foraged food.

“You’re most definitely my daughter,” my mom proudly announced before dropping some lint tainted nubbins in my hand.

Act Your Age, Or Don't

At around eight o’clock last Wednesday night, my mom pulled up in front of my building with her car stuffed to the ceiling. She shifted the gear to park, lowered the passenger window and craned her neck over the boxes and bags cluttering the front seat.

“We need to repack the car,” she announced with a grimace.

I cast my eyes down at the four small bags situated at my feet – a black leather purse, a canvas tote loaded up with nosh, a Wholefoods paper bag half filled with things I planned on leaving behind in Florida before u-turning it back to Philadelphia and a nylon and leather shoulder bag containing bare essentials to get me through the three day drive south. After concluding there was absolutely nothing I could forfeit, I muttered a response.

“No kidding. ‘Cause, um, otherwise I’d have to strap you to the roof,” I offered while tapping my hand on the framing just above the door.

My mom got out and together we reworked the configuration. She heaved the oil painting in the backseat so I could shove my bags underneath on the floor. She placed travel guides and maps across the ledge under the rear window while I strategically tucked smaller items in available crevices. Ten minutes later, we pulled onto the highway and set off on our second annual Sarasota road trip, a twenty hour drive to relocate my mom and her car to Florida for the winter season.

The goal was to get past Washington, DC before calling it a night. Besides shaving off part of the leg to Atlanta, it would get us beyond the tangle of rush hour congestion. We made it to Fredericksburg, checked into a hotel and crashed. Seven hours later we awoke, got dressed and pulled back onto the highway. We careened past eighteen wheelers. We eased up when troopers came into view. We ignored all hunger pangs, holding off for the Wholefoods in Greenville. At a little past five o’clock, we pulled into Leslie’s driveway in Atlanta.

“Bahm Bahm Bootz is here!” Anders yelped as he sped his scooter toward my mom’s side of the parked car.

“Aunt Pay! Tickle Fingers!” Olivia exclaimed in between giggles and gallops.

The nanny strolled over, said hello, asked about our drive and then quickly said goodbye, leaving us with the kids until Leslie got home. We all went inside to warm up and tend to business. I had to pee and my mom had to get a drink of water. Resting my bare bum on the cold toilet seat, I heard the echo of voices in the mudroom.

“Come on, Anders!” my mom excitedly coaxed. “If you don’t put your helmet on you can’t bicycle through the pine cone slalom course I’m setting up.”

I bit my lip to stop from giggling.

“Olivia!” my mom trilled. “Tickle Fingers is coming to get you!”

A fit of laughter erupted as the voices faded and disappeared out the doorway, a click of the lock indicating they were back outside.

I finished business, pulled up my pants and washed my hands. Staring in the mirror, I tugged at my ponytail and took note of a blemish surfacing on my right cheek. I closed up my fleece, exited out to the mudroom and then slipped out the door leading to the driveway. Leaning my shoulder against the frame of the open garage, I watched the energy in motion. Anders was zipping around on his scooter. Olivia was pedaling her pink and purple tricycle. And my mom? My mom, with the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up over her head, wiggled her fingers and chased them around.

“Tickle Fingers is going to get you!” my mom sang.

“Look out Olivia!” Anders screamed as he scooted past me.

“That’s silly,” Olivia squealed as she steered around my mom, popping one of the back tires off the ground.

I lingered on the periphery soaking it all in. Part of me looked on at my mom and her silly antics and thought it was utterly juvenile. And part of me looked on at my mom and her silly antics and felt left out. A cool evening chill rustled the pines, wafting the aroma of wood burning fireplaces across the yard. The evening sky faded from pale blue to rich indigo as the sun set and the moon lifted above us. In the midst of pondering where if at all I belonged amongst the whirl of giggles around me, Olivia came pedaling past.

“Look out Aunt Pay! Tickle Fingers is coming!”

I glanced up, focusing my eyes through the limited light, and saw my mom lumbering toward me.

“We better get out of here, Olivia!” I yelped as I pushed myself off the garage and started running in circles.

I Heart MetroDad

So if Jon Stewart is my husband, MetroDad is the man I want to sleep with on the side. Shhh, don't tell his wife.

His wit, his charm and his fantastic take on everything (sigh) - it gets me every time. Wander over here to read his most recent post and see what I'm talking about.