One narrow inlet of guilt, wonder, fear, apprehension, anger, joy and WTF.

 (We're approaching Holiday time - our annual torture test.  I thought it might be okay to re-post this "get out of jail card")

Today on Facebook I saw a video that urged me to “live life to the fullest.”  I would totally do that if I didn’t have to leave the house.   “Live life to the fullest” is one of those sayings that is so lacking in specifics that you just slosh around as if wearing regret galoshes that are ten sizes too big and you have no solid footing. 

Oh, my god, I’m not living life to the fullest.  What to do?  Hey wait, what does that mean? When I hear that phrase I see some foolhardy athletic activity as in when one of my children jumped off a cliff in a foreign country with only a rubber band tied to his feet to keep him from plunging.

In my teens and 20’s I did about fifty “life to the fullest” things that could have ended in me being dead or randomly hurt or going down a bad road that would have altered the entire direction of my life. The direction of my life was altered anyway and some of it was good and some of it was bad.  Discretion and my children’s sensibilities keep me from spilling some of the stuff.  At 20, I left the country and my senses while I traipsed (love that word) through Western Europe with a movie group. At 18 I went to Miami and lived for a year first working as a waitress (half of a day) at Jersey Charlie’s, unwittingly as a jewel thief's assistant and then as a telephone operator at the Eden Roc Hotel. I lived in a hotel room in not yet trendy South Beach.  At 23 I quit a dream advertising job to lead a penniless life in Greenwich village. At what point does “living life to the fullest” and acting like a dodohead merge?

I got married and had children and my life contracted into one narrow inlet of guilt, wonder, fear, anger, joy and WTF.  If someone had asked if I was living life to the fullest I would have punched them.  I kept thinking I’m never going to get out of this.  It’s just going to go on and on like some Groundhog Day film.  BUT.  Something weird happened. During this time of guilt, fear, anger joy and wtf, I re-connected with my writing. With three kids hanging on to my nightgown and an ancient Royal typewriter with a missing N, I began writing and publishing op-ed pieces and columns and eventually books.  I was writing not in the luxury of an isolated Village apartment but within the chaos of a family of five.

I was creeping up on the “life to the fullest” road.  But that still wasn’t it. The kids grew up and I moved to a distant village where I didn’t know a soul and began what I can only describe as a ‘what fresh hell is this?’ episode that morphed into something decent. I made friends with my adult children.  I took on a job that could have been neurosurgery that’s how off base it was with my usual.  Taking that job and not even thinking of failure allowed me to re-compute who I was.  Live life to the fullest?  How about if I just don’t leave a big chunk of money on the table.

An intimacy freak throws in the towel

I never felt confident at parenting and with good reason.  When the kids were little I was overwhelmed. There was no close family around and living in a kid-poor area, I was isolated.  We won’t mention the fact that four pregnancies in five years left me batsh*t crazy.  Unfortunately for the kids, it was also the time when I was “discovered” as a writer and was often invited to "humiliate" them in the national and local press.

It was a lonely life, not another kid in sight.  I had to drive to the park, supermarket, playgroups.  I had to even drive to the school bus because we lived on a long non-public road. Did I mention I was a poor driver and only learned in my thirties?  I once made an illegal left hand turn right in front of a cop and when he pulled me over I had no clue what was wrong.  He told me to keep off the main roads for a few months. 

On the plus side, we were a three minute walk to Long Island sound where the kids learned to swim and sail a small boat that is still in use today.

I mention all of this because today I am getting ready to welcome two of my children and their children and I’ve been up since ten (kidding) cooking and getting the toys out.  I may not have aced it as a mother but (surprise) I am a good grandmother. We’re all surprised by this turn of events.  The grandkids like me and I like them.  I like playing with them and talking to them.   I think they are gorgeous and wise and funny and confident.  They have taught this intimacy freak to throw in the towel.

Here’s what I made for them to eat over the week-end.  I dragged out my old (70’s) Redbook manicotti recipe where you make crepe-like wraps, (made them this a.m.) fill them with a three-cheese (optional chopped zucchini) mix, wrap them like little fat cigars and cover them with a good tomato sauce and more cheese on top. I also made baba ghanoush, home-baked corn chips, lentil soup, pizza and medallions of pork.  There are  lots of organic greens ready for dressing and good ice cream for dessert.

Everything is done so I can spend the entire week-end free to engage and play.  Redemption thy name is grandma.

There goes my money

The gift receiving season is fast approaching. I have several people in my life to whom I give the gift of money. When they were younger, these people thought cash gifts were crass and thoughtless. At the time, they were not paying their own bills. Currently, money is accepted without hesitation.

1.  The best reaction is when the receiver takes the check or the cash, looks at it, is overwhelmed with the amount, immediately tries to give it back.  “I can’t take this.” is the first sentence.  “Too much.”  I’m so thrilled that I’ve stunned the person, I want to stun them again. “I could make it more if you like.” “No,” they demure. “This is more than generous.” The check or bill is placed carefully in a wallet.  I know where my money is.  It is safe, unfolded and I can go my way satisfied.

2. “Thanks. I love money,” is another reaction.  The check or bill is stuffed into the shallowest jean pocket where it doesn’t even fit all the way. It becomes crumpled. Those jeans will be washed with the money or check in the pocket if it hasn’t already fallen out in the street.   The money will be destroyed or lost.   There goes my money.

3. The third reaction has no words.  The money is flipped into a fold and slid under the jacket in a razor quick movement. It nestles in that odd pocket on the inside lining that opens sideways (the manufacturer only put that pocket there for empty marketing.) When the maneuver is over I’m unsure if the event took place.  Did I give somebody money?  Where is that money?  It’s in that pocket nobody uses or looks in.  That jacket will go to the cleaner or be given away to a charitable organization.  The person unpacking donations will find it.  He might or might not turn it in.  There goes my money. 

One of these things is not like the others

Facebook Spiritual Offerings Erratum

I would rather walk with God in the dark than go alone in the light.

I would rather live in Seattle and pack salmon than live in Paris and write like Robert McAlmon*

I would rather light a candle than curse the darkness.

*Robert McAlmon was one of the Paris literary ex-pats who got no respect.

The "AHA" use for what you already have.

Remember George Forman?  He was a boxer who made a comeback at forty-five and named all of his many children George. In 1994 he started selling the George Forman Grill - the mean lean grilling machine.  We all bought one.  We were astounded at the sense of it.  Then we were less astounded and put it on a high shelf. I don’t know why we do that.

The G. F. Grill was meant for grilling meats (mainly hamburgers) and it sloped downward so the fat from the meat could trickle out, leaving you with a nice lean burger and an oily mess on the counter.

 

One day recently I wanted a panini very badly. For some reason any simple sandwich tastes better if you smush it so all the stuffings melt and blend together.  It helps if you call it a fun name - panini.  I thought about the mechanics of steam rolling that sucker. You need something heavy and hot that makes the bread toasty and the ingredients (should always include good cheese) begin to ooze out.   There are lots of things that can qualify.   A frying pan with a foil wrapped brick, a foil wrapped weight of any sort - heck you could foil wrap the cat and plop it on top of that sandwich. (Kidding.)  I looked in the cupboard and hauled out the dusty old Forman grill heated it to high and put the sandwich inside.  There was a big gap between the jaws but as the sandwich gave in to its fate, the gap lessened and a beautiful panini resulted.  I left the G. F. grill on the counter because I wanted to eat paninis three times a day.  When I wanted a vegetable panini, I grilled the zucchini or peppers in the G.F. grill before assembling the sandwich.  This was great for eggplant that usually needed a lot of oil to cook in a regular skillet.

One morning I made some pancake batter but right in the middle of readying the pan I wished for waffles instead. Waffles are always airy and crisp whereas getting fluffy pancakes is difficult.  I poured a little of the batter into the G. F. grill.

The grill slopes down so a few drops of batter dribbled out before it set (easily remedied).  In about a minute and a half, I got a waffle. It had ridges and tunnels instead of squares but it tasted light and airy.

Real Simple magazine would call these “aha” uses because you’re going to scream “AHA!” when you think of it.  I certainly did.  If you have any “aha” ideas, please send them to me.

The Prince of Ass (or So Many Wipes, So Little Time)

One day at 3 a.m. a resentful, sleep-deprived mother was changing her baby and using wipes as fast as they popped out of the holder. Soon there were seventeen wipes for this one tiny bottom that was now as clean and inviting as rose petals. The mother surveyed the sparkling plump cheeks. A light bulb went up over the mother’s head. Why should this up-all-night baby be the Prince of Ass?  I’m going to use these comforting moist sheets on my own ass?   This outlier began a revolution and now mothers everywhere are using wipes for their toilette and causing an unbiodegradable apocalypse.

Let me say something here about wipes in general and the new rules for cleaning up a baby’s bottom. I have seen mothers obsess about the direction in which the wipes must be used.  The rule starts at the elimination place or the “poop chute” as Tom Hanks called it in some movie. and moves backward, especially for girls.  Not only for poops but for peeps too. Mothers are now taught to regard the baby’s bottom as we would our dinner plate - it has to be fit to eat on.  It’s as if the entire report card on motherhood is weighted on wipe direction and quantity of wipes used. Suppose you’re half asleep, (it’s counter-intuative) and you do it the wrong way?  The baby’s butt is not going to fall off from gangrene.  Trust me, if it’s a girl, that butt will be there to torment her throughout her life.

In the pre-wipes middle ages when I had babies, I often put the kid over my arm, rump up and used the hand held shower in the bathtub,  Quick and to the point. Not sanitary, you say?  We’re all still here.  Asses in place.

Is this a compelling book - one that you must read to the finish? Yes. To the finish.

(Today I'm reviewing Elizabeth Gilbert's (Eat, Pray, Love) new historical epic, The Signature of All Things.)

It’s obvious that Elizabeth Gilbert best known for her “first eat good food, then find a good guru, then find a good boyfriend,” book of recovery is going in a different direction with her latest. The Signature of All Things is a long, astonishingly researched historical about extreme individuals who do extreme things against a backdrop of - botany!  Think moss.  I don’t mean to sound snarky because this epic took talent and hard work and a huge leap of faith to produce.  Some of the language is exquisite:  “She felt a deep bruise of absence for her father.” is a sentence that could only come from a writer that is giving us her best.  First I thought well, Elizabeth is writing a fabulous story of deprivation and wealth and plant life as a sound and grand metaphor for life.  If I’m smart enough, I’ll get it.

A serious look into 1800's Philadelphia grandeur was not what I was expecting from Elizabeth Gilbert.  Is this good or bad?  I don’t know.  The beginning of this book is a quick set-up of the type that Jeffrey Archer did in Kane and Abel - very poor boy gets a foothold into a life that catapults him through happenstance, suffering and cunning into untold riches and power. That’s okay with me.  I like a story that moves along as long as I care about the eventual outcome.  Once fame and fortune are accomplished, the storytelling slows down to introduce the real main character, Alma, a gifted brainiac, raised by the tiger mother of all tiger mothers. This tiger permits no frivolities, not even unkind thoughts. She instills an ethic of hard work that defines her daughter’s life. At times it consumes her life.    

 

Is it a love story?  Yes, but not in any ordinary sense.   Gilbert is going for transcendence.  Transcendence but still on earth - now it is clear why we have entered a religious order where plants lead us to the altar of the most high. And about the moss - Alma got me to fall in love with moss and Moss Time.

I had the benefit of reading a lengthy profile of the author in the New York Times Magazine that spoke of Gilbert’s process to settle on this project and her research for it.  It did not prepare me for Alma, the main character. Alma’s emotions and ambitions and rigidity are not usual in popular fiction. Yet the outcome of her arduous journey to self-knowledge rings true and satisfies.

Is this a compelling book - one that you must read to the finish?  Yes.  To the finish.