Merry Christmas, Really.

To my legions of readers out there, may you have the happiest of Christmases.  Really, the happiest one EVER.  And why not?  Why save the best for next year? 

The happiest, whereby your feeling of joy surprisingly tumbles out of you, faster than you can identify it. 

The happiest, whereby your contentment is so strong that you feel you need nothing except for the very moment you are living in. 

The happiest, where the things that might ordinarily drive you batshit float on past in a bubble of immunity.

Where you get your very first actual follower of your blog. (grins silly)

Whereby the breaths ghosting from your child's mouth against your neck feels like heaven. 

Where you stay plastered in the hug of a loved one a second longer than normal, long enough for your body to register the thrumming heartbeat of another, their life just a bit closer to yours, and you feel less separate.

Where you find the humor and wonder in being alive. 

The happiest EVER. 


Thanks for reading.

Adventures in Awkwardness

WARNING: this is unreservedly TMI.  If you think ignorance is bliss, you might want to skip it.  Don't say I didn't tell you.

"Is there anything you're particularly concerned about today that you need the doctor to know?"

"Err...well, I guess I need the doctor to be aware that I have this birthmark on the outer area of a private part that I guess he should, ummm, really kinda know about." Private part? You're still 12 in the brain aren't you?

The nurse absentmindedly muttered, all the while typing viciously into her portable laptop "Really concerned about private part. Ok."

What is she typing? Is she facebooking the other nurses to report that I'm a big dork that can't bring myself to say the word?  That I request my male dermatologist, who's exactly my age, whose kids go to my kids' school and whom I glimpse nearly every other day that I need him to look at my hoo-ha?  "Well, no, not exactly, its just that, um, I mean, I have this mark down there and I know that if a mark appears not due to sun exposure it should be seen, so I mean, I don't know, I just said it to umm, give fair warning."  Dork.  You're warning the doctor via his nurse that he may have to look at your lady parts.  Its not Hiroshima, for fuck's sake.

"OK, we've been warned." And with a bemused expression, she exits.

Doc enters, proffers a cheery greeting and quickly leans into me for a light kiss on my cheek.

Have I just arrived to a dinner party? I'm so confused.

We then proceed to talk about the usual things, this is a Doc that likes to know his patients: he's genuine and friendly, so we talk about the things that tie us  - the mutual friends we have, the kids, the school, the work I do, the fact we both often pick up our kids...  I do not know him really, but I know the universe in which he resides.  Still, he's just my age, he's only my dermatologist and I'm basically all but naked except for bra and underwear and clutching this thin blue sheet, and

Shit, I forgot to take off my underwear.  

"So, we're going to do a basic skin check today and I understand you have an...area that we have not looked at before that you need to have looked at."

I nod.  Oh my...he's being as obtuse as I am. 

We start out simple: arms, shoulders, back, now around the bra, now lower...finally

"So, now we need to look at one more thing, right?"  Is that a faint drumroll in the background?

"Right, yes, I'm sorry."

"Oh, its certainly fine.  Don't be sorry." 

And suddenly I'm transported to the terrible skin check experience of 2006, where, a few months after my pregnancy a small mark appeared just below my left nipple.  I shamefacedly admitted this when he asked there was anything that he needed to check that was covered by my bra....so I pulled it down to show him, prudently covering the offending nipple that bordered the mark when he said, "I'm sorry, I really am, but I need to see the whole nipple for a second." and I released it, and a second later, I was duly covered and we'd moved on, but this...I suddenly realize there's a pause in the room, and I'm back, folks....

"Right, yes, I'm not sorry per se, but you know, I mean, I just, I felt it was better to be...

"...safe than sorry.  Yes, it is.  Especially in areas not hit by sun exposure. Now, do you need another person in here while we do this?" 

Is this a trick question?  Do I NEED another person?  If I say yes, is it a signal I don't trust him?  If I say no, will the dark recess of his brain wonder if I'm a tart that just wants to flash him? 

"Oh, no, its fine. It will just take a second." comes my confident reply.  Faker. Exhibitionist tart.

"Well then...." he says gently. Steps back, waits.

"Oh, yes, right. Umm. I kept on my underwear. I don't know why. I just need to take them off. Wait one second. Sorry."  Word vomit! Cease and desist! 

I quickly stand up on the foot rest of the examining table and without looking at him I pull down my modest light blue bikini underwear that I donned specifically for this exhibition  expedition today.  And for a split second I look at the blue bundled bunch in my right hand.  What do to with it?  Do my panties stay here, clenched in my paw like a winning lottery ticket for the duration? No! That's weird. And without a second thought, I toss them into the air, across the examining room, with panache.  It expertly lands on the chair in the corner.  Plop! Taaa-Daaah!  Oh yes, that little display much improves this situation.  What the fuck are you doing?  Silence briefly fills the room. Is he shocked that I just sailed my undies across the room? I know I am.

"Well, um, so, just right here, on the left, its..." And I'm trying to cover up and reveal at the same time.  And he's bending down and craning his neck and sort of holding up his index finger near the area in question, as if to trace an outline of it and then I realize, panicked, his fingers are bare.  No! What?

Quickly he speaks, now Captain-Obvious-meets-Doctorly-Noises "Ahh, yes, right, I see, right, well, there it is, its got a slightly irregular shape, its...wait one second, I just want to measure this.."

Another lumpy second passes between us.  He quickly measures, careful not to touch me, and then cranes his neck once more for a second look and pronounces it good. "You need to know that areas like this not exposed to sun need to be watched.  And I think that we need to just do a check once year to make sure its not undergoing any changes."  My face slides.  I think he notices.  "...or maybe once every other year"  he amends further  "...or if any changes take place." 

He leaves, instructing me to dress, and gets me a sample he mentioned.  I hurriedly dress, and he knocks earlier than I expect.

"Wait, just one second.." I pull quickly button my pants and pull my tshirt over my head. "You can come in now."

"Oh, my gosh, I'm sorry! I just didn't want to walk in on you too early. I didn't mean to... " he trails off, averting his eyes as I now adjust my sweater over my t-shirt. 

Umm, not 2 minutes ago your face was about 5 inches from my oonie, so I'm not terribly concerned about me putting on a second shirt in front of you.

"Here's the samples, you should just put this on once a day and let me know if that doesn't improve the dry skin.  It was great seeing you.  Take care of yourself."  Smiling, he leans, clasps my left shoulder, and places another very faint kiss on my cheek.  Why do I feel like this was some experimental form of a date?  If so, do I still owe my co-pay? 

Not seven hours later, I see what could possibly be him coming to pick up kids at the school.  I bend down to pretend to tie the non-existent lace of my shoe, passing the time, and wonder about how this small world makes me feel both safer, because we know who the players are and we're all invested, and then, at other times, utterly exposed.

What is your most awkward moment of 2009? It seems I got mine in just under the bell.

"How were your holidays?"

Well, funny you asked.  I was supposed to have a big happy gathering at my house but at the last minute as I was prepping the organic, free-range, locally farmed, $7.99 a pound bird for the oven I noticed an odd darkish color protruding from under the ginormous left wing.  Sensing dread before I even saw it, I lifted the wing and saw the mangled body of a small field mouse tucked in, safely rotting away in its little perch. My mother, who's a total freak about food, speculated the mouse could have a disease and refused to do anything but throw it out. 


When my dad, another Diva of Food, found out we'd be eating, at best, at some shitty restaurant on Thanksgiving he became increasingly sour and increasingly drunk.  He informed me sometime around 1pm that this brand of fuck-up is typical of me and began bitingly recalling every other family holiday where my efforts have wound up in either his rage or disappointment.  Recall, he'd said, the Christmas of 1993 when I convinced him to part with the dollars to take the entire family to see a movie on Christmas Day - a rare treat and unusual behavior for my parents. 


So I'd eyed this movie, Short Cuts, by director Robert Altman, who'd collected, said the newspaper, several indie accolades and mainstream prizes for the film.  Knowing nothing about what it was about, imagine my family's Yuletide delight as this disjointed, depressing circle-jerk masterpiece reaches a cresendo with actress Julianne Moore baring her full beaver.  It stared us point blank in our awed cinema-lit faces, boldly daring us to look away while she delivered a very long, pissed-off monologue.  Something the whole family can enjoy: Mom, age 43, and her three lovely kids, ages 20, 16, and my hormonal brother, 14, and Dad too, yes, but who could ever forget good old Grandma, then just a sprightly 71 years old and practically more of a child than all of us could ever hope to be.  Merry Christmas to us all! 

Julianne Moore and her bare ass cheek, just before the money shot.

Now in a proper rage at this memory and other carnages of holidays past, my dear old Dad departs half shitfaced, bidding me, in his delicate way, to "piss up a rope".  That being settled, I call my other Dad who lives a couple of hours away to see if I can join him and my stepmother's family for the holiday, (and offering to bring a fabulous free-range, locally farmed turkey as an extra, if need be.) 


Once the children are in the car and we're off to our not-quite-family's house for a real family Thanksgiving, the car breaks down.  The tires are fine, we realize.  The engine seems to start.  And then it hits us both, the check oil light has been on for so goddamn long that we thought it was just a permanent part of the dashboard architecture.  My husband, genetically incapable of telling an oil cap from a radiator cap, even if a vision of a topless Emmanuelle Chiquiri appeared on said oil cap and purred "Turn Me, Big Boy", burned himself badly upon grabbing the radiator cap.  Nothing left to do then but to share the holiday with our emergency service workers.  The kids, after they stopped crying, were thrilled about riding in the ambulance.  My 3 year old peed her pants, for good measure.  It was agony.

The ER: wholly dismal: caterwauling infants and their paranoid parents; the guy with a bleeding finger who has my 6 year old captivated "Is he going to DIE?"; a smattering of vacant seniors who look like someone dropped them off over two weeks ago; and my youngest, who by now has even realized, through the prism of her childhood lens, that this is a bad start to a litany of karmic-port-a-potty holidays.  To appease them both, I got them M & M's and peanut butter filled cheese crackers and let them play with the drinking fountain while Mr. Jiffy Lube found out how long it'd be before he could ever touch the remote again. 


By the time we got home it was kind of late and we just decided to make grilled cheese sandwiches.  It was pretty fucking sad, even by my own standards.  And since my husband had passed out on percoset and the kids were finally asleep I decided, as a rare treat, to take my pink vibrator out for a spin, you know, just to go to my happy place, but apparently the batteries -- wait...wait!  What do you mean you're sorry you asked?? *

So the question gets asked, in different iterations, googl times in workplaces, casual conversations on the street, bumping into friends in the store, making small talk over dinner parties:  "What are you doing for the holidays" and "How were your holidays?".   And I especially like "Doing anything good/special/fun over the holidays?"  It makes me want to lie something fierce.  This is the version of that kind of question that I always ask....hoping to find, well, someone who will lie something fierce.

Do you care? The inquiry is the seasonal suit of the regular old "How are you? How are things going?"  We ask, but in 94% of all instances, we could give a fuck.  Don't get me wrong: I'm not a social abyss (not yet, anyhow), I want to know if something is actually happening in your life that is extra-ordinary.  If its ordinary: chances are its just like mine and that's not notable.  If its fucked-up and perverted: chances are you're not going to tell me anyway.

So, the question is asked, and as the first shape of the first consonant passes through the vocal cords in response you are already thinking about how you want to get this over with and get back to what you were doing before, whether you'll be able to waste time on Facebook tonight or if, for example, how funny it is that the person you're talking to has no idea that you're feeling silly and slightly dangerous because you wore a pink-trimmed leopard print bra today. 


Coming off the train tonight, a nice work colleague gave me the one-two punch - it nearly knocked me out:

"So, how was your thanksgiving"

Me: I didn't have to cook. I guess that says it all. (Insert wry smile)

"What are you doing for Christmas?" 

Me: Oh, you know...the usual. (Insert eye roll)

Dude, YOU DON'T CARE.  AND I KNOW IT.  And I'm like the Kervorkian of responses: I'm just cutting that shit as short as possible, to spare both you and me.  Its a mercy killing of a bad tack of conversation.  Its not kindness if you're replacing the silence with boredom.  I like you even if you don't ask.  I probably like you more, if you don't ask. 

I feel like we'd be better off just coming up to our acquaintances and saying something more interesting, like

"Hey, there's this really cool band I've been listening to lately - do you like New World Urban Jewish Ballads?" 

or

"Yesterday I hocked a loogey onto the street.  Isn't that weird? I mean, seriously, when was the last time you actually DID something like that.  Ah, to be young again!"

or

"I know this is random, but I keep seeing these two same 10-cent words in every thing I read lately - peripatetic and concupisence - and I have no idea what they mean, do you?"

or

"What can I make for a (insert eating event here - brunch/lunch/tete-a-tete/coming out party) that would go good with green beans?"

or

"You're a guy. Why do certain guys have valets?  I mean, do you have one? You can tell me."

Really, there's so many better things to ask.  Things that might make people think you're crazy, but its probably better than driving them crazy with questions that only the people who panic and have nothing else to say ask (which is exactly what I did the other day talking to my boss's boss).

What do you say to someone when you feel you must talk but have nothing better to say?  What inane thing could you say instead?

*This is a depiction of a farcical Thanksgiving holiday.  In fact, all parts of this post are untrue, except for that bit about the family on Christmas Day 1993. Truth. Trust.