The To-Don't List for 5770

Yeah, I know: it's (once again) been a while. But it has been an eventful while. First, I should let you know that all was well that ended well with the dreaded Electric Hemorrhoid Bridesmaid's Dress (tm). Even with the two hotel washcloths stuffed into the bodice after the failure of the adhesive bra (really just a fancy name for ineffective boob-shaped scotch tape), and the fact that I had lost more weight after the final fitting and thus, had way more space in the dress than I thought I'd need, the damn thing didn't look too bad. I submit a photo for your approval here:



Coming back from the wedding (which was wonderful!), however, and coming off a weekend of alcohol-soaked bliss (I put my car away in a Philadelphia parking lot on Thursday night and didn't retrieve it until hungover on Sunday), wasn't so much fun. On my way home that afternoon, I found myself undone by said hangover and an eye infection. Not to mention a tiny incident, which I won't detail here, which sent me into a relative tailspin with regard to a relationship that I once thought was stable and happy and good - it isn't, it wasn't, and it's not likely ever to be. That was enough to put me into meltdown mode, making me in fact wonder how many hours in one lifetime do I have to spend crying in the bathroom on the New Jersey Turnpike. (The Grover Cleveland Service Area, to be specific, seems to be my service area of choice in 2009.)

Little did I know that things were about to get worse. That Wednesday, I was told that my company was eliminating three positions. Mine would be one of them.

So, there I was, finally having achieved many of the things I've been struggling with for years: I'm down 68 pounds, stopped biting my nails, wrote a pretty damn good piece about an incident in my past which has been an issue for some time. There I was, feeling like I was finally me. Like a woman who could even look decent in a pink dress made for a 22 year old. Like I was going to be all right. Like I owned it. And then: G-d laughed.

Now, perhaps I'm overdramatizing the job loss. Certainly I know a lot of people who have been laid off, had their jobs eliminated, etc. But for so long, I really thought I was safe. I thought I was going to beat this recession. But I didn't. Now, I'm a statistic. A statistic who is moving back home with Mom.

After all these years, it's a huge bummer to lose my home - and all of the privileges that go with it. Like making myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 1AM because I feel like it. Watching repeats of Family Guy before bed. Post-midnight phone conversations. And of course, the obvious freedom that comes with not living at home. I've been on my own for more than 17 years and it just feels like part of my life is over. Like I'm in mourning for my independence. To that end, my friend Todd recently asked me that if one is sitting shivah for their sex life, does that mean you cover the mirrors on your ceiling? I know none of it is forever, but it is depressing just the same.

Which leads me to where I am now - while I'm trying to focus on the positive (no rent check every month! getting unemployment! writing another book!) I just feel so angry and worthless and messed up that I don't really know what to do. Out for dinner last Thursday night, upon hearing a joke I realized that it had been so long since I had really laughed or smiled. I'm just mad all the time. Today, after a soon to be former colleague publicly treated me like crap - bascially ordering me to do admin work for her, and figuring she can because I'm no longer worth treating nicely - I heard myself wishing a slow painful death on her. Out loud. Really, this economic instability is a bad thing. I'm not quite sure whom I have become.

Given that we're less than a week out from the Jewish holidays, I think if my personal atonement is going to be worth anything, I have to be more conscious of just how horrid and unpleasant I am these days. I know I have limited patience, and limited resources, and there's a big part of me that just doesn't feel like being nice, and is tired of good things happening to rotten people. So in that vein, here are the things I am hoping I will stop doing, at least in the immediate term:


The To-Don't List

1. Stop wishing a slow and painful death on people I don't like. You know who you are. Besides, I always have books in which to kill them off.
2. Stop coveting Rock Band, the two Remastered Album collections, and all other Beatles products that are out of my budget right now: I'm only making myself miserable.
3. Stop being a bitch in committee meetings. No one wants to be there. Not just me.
4. Stop wishing in vain for a change of heart. Inertia is a cruel mistress.
5. Stop skipping my first dose of metformin. If I didn't need it, the doctor wouldn't have prescribed it.
6. Stop worrying about moving back home. Mom is cool and she loves me. Maybe I will even learn how to share space with someone. It'll be fine.
7. Stop feeling restricted by other people's expectations. Dude, I am almost 40. Old enough to know better.
8. Stop drinking Coke. Even though I'm only drinking it once a week. Metformin does NOT make it OK.
9. Stop wasting time on Facebook, Twitter, etc. I have another book to write. At least one.
10. Stop feeling so awful. Find yourself. Look outside at the sunlight. It is still a beautiful world, full of light and love and friends and chances. I am going to be OK.

Right?

A new year awaits. May we all be inscribed for a better one.

Shana tova u'metuka.

Follia

The MSN Italian to English translation says that the word Follia means 'complete irrationality.' It is also a "feminine" adjective. How perfect that I have actually reached a state of complete irrationality at this point, and all because of a bridesmaid's dress.

Not to belabor the subject, but life is bad enough when you know you're the fat maid and that none of the dresses are going to look that great on you. Let's face it. The bridal industrial complex has an image to sell. I think, when most women come face to face with that image, a fair number of them don't see themselves in it. I know I don't. But even women I know with gorgeous, nothing-to-be-ashamed-of figures fall prey to the lure of perfection. I would love nothing more than to be a perfect woman with a perfect figure for this weekend, but I've got some curves (or, calling a spade a spade, batwings and pooches) that need assistance.

In addition to having my dress literally re-made, because the three-sizes too big version was still too small in the chest, I've had to procure a number of frightening undergarments in order to, shall we say, smooth things out. I've got two different versions of the undercarriage model - one from Spanx and one from Dr. Rey's. The only real difference is that one has an additional giant panty installed in it, and I can certainly see how that would come in handy. I do not make this stuff up. I only report on it.

I have also purchased something called an adhesive bra. I will spare you the details of this monstrosity, except to say that I am unsure of its effectiveness on a hot, humid day in northwest Philadelphia. But I really hope the hotel has an engineer, or at the very least, a mechanic on call. Because it is going to be all jacked up underneath that dress.

Speaking of which...on my way to pick up the Bionic Dress yesterday, having gone through three fittings and seen the original Electric Hemorrhoid transformed into a charming taffeta and pleated chiffon deli meat casing with a ruffled hem and a back bow, I was, shall we say, detained by the Law in New Rochelle. Apparently, even when you're talking on your speakerphone, you can't pick it up to hang up the call. So, I've got my first moving violation. Ever. No points, but a blot on my eternally perfect driving record. And yes, I actually cried in front of the cop, which in addition to making me feel like a complete loser, resulted in me showing up to pick up my dress looking like a cross between a stewed beet and a hot, snotty pot of snuffling shame. This was in addition to having attended a funeral earlier in the day which was so upsetting and unjust that I can't even talk about it. Overall, not a good day.

To top things off, today I called Follia, the White Plains criminal enterprise operating as a bridal salon, to find out where the hell my shawl is since I have to leave in less than 48 hours. Follia called me back to let me know that it arrived. So I trekked down Mamaroneck Avenue, actually thinking sort of lightheartedly about getting a fruit smoothie or a sugar-free cookie at MeMe's, the awesome new bakery across the street. When I arrived, and ascended the stairway to complete irrationality, I was informed that it was going to cost me another $40 (cash only) to get my shawl, due to a so-called "rush charge" that I was never informed about.

Sorry for the bad grammar, I'm just all mad now.

Now, you know and I know that any decent business would give you a heads-up. And that they'd let you know about additional charges at, oh, say, the time of purchase. But no, with less than two days before having to leave for the wedding, this is the story I'm getting. The shawl actually comes packaged like one of those $2 pashminas you get in midtown. And she had it carefully packaged for me in a wrinkled, reused Stop and Shop bag. Yep: stay classy.

So having paid $64 for this piece of fabric, which is necessary for me not only to cover the batwings but also to preserve some small sense of personal modesty as I am not a wearer sleeveless or backless garments due to some religious reasons, it is now going to end up costing $104. For a piece of fabric. Seriously.

At this point, all thoughts of smoothies and cookies had flown out of my head. I was left feeling a hot, sick sense of rage. Rage that was massing red and purple and fuschia behind my eyes. Rage that matches the color of the dress. I had achieved, beyond all expectations, a state of Follia.

So I asked if I could come back with the cash tomorrow. I felt I would need time to gather my thoughts and words, because if I was forced to hand over the money just then, there might have been a homicide. Or at the very least, as my father used to say, a practical demonstration in police brutality.

And that's the story. I have some idea of the telling-off this bridal salon criminal is getting tomorrow. But in all seriousness, only my deep and abiding love for my friend the bride is keeping me sane. Because if I didn't love and respect and cherish my friendship with her so much, I would seriously consider jail to be a viable option this weekend. The honor of standing by her side as she continues her beautiful life journey is really what's kept me going - through the fittings, through the freakshows, through the Follia.

And so, on to Saturday evening. The big mazel. I can't wait.

Aporkalypse Now

Well: hello again, friends. I'm back from a glorious week in Long Beach Island, NJ. All I can say is: wow. Amazing beauty. Total peace. Tremendous enjoyment. You Jersey folks have been holding out on me! I've never enjoyed a vacation as much as this one. Along with my sister, her adorable boys, my mom, and two beloved cousins, I stayed in a beautiful beach house right on the Atlantic. A 35 second walk to the beach. A deck with deliciously comfortable chairs where we sat together every morning and chatted over breakfast in the ocean air, and had cocktails most nights. We even had a designated cocktail theme each evening (the cosmos were my favorite). My cousin JoAnn, a strong a courageous woman in her own right, also happens to be an amazing professional chef who cooked the most gorgeous and authentic paella I've ever eaten. Jeanine, my other cousin, kept me laughing - and more importantly - thinking, every time we talked. And best of all, I got to spend a week with two of my favorite people in the world, Connor and Ryan, who showed me that I could really enjoy the beach, and basically forced me to get on a boogie board for the first time in my life. "We know it's not fun for you," seven year old Ryan quipped while standing on the shoreline, "but it's really fun for us to watch you getting messed up by the waves."

I and my crazy awesome Italian family also managed to consume some form of pork every day, until we finally started calling our sojourn, "doing the Porkfecta." This was capped off by an insane late night conversation about Taylor ham which was presided over by my mother, who in her long ago and misspent youth was a huge fan of the stuff. I lived in Philadelphia for almost three years, never once had it. Perhaps it's because the packaging makes me think it has spent the past forty-plus years sitting in a warehouse. I mean, you just don't see design sensibilities or fonts like this anymore:


I'm not a great vacationer, not a summer or a beach person, but there was something truly magical about the week. Normally, when I go on vacation, I start counting the days until I get home. Unfortunately, I'm just not the kind of person who gets turned on by exploring the unknown or seeing new places - I mean, it's nice, I love the perspective change it imparts, but I'm a homebody at heart. I start missing my friends, my stuff, my routines. But this time, I really didn't want to leave. Maybe it's because this was the kind of vacation where I could kind of bring routine and the comforts of home with me - except that this time, those comforts revolved around reading out on the deck early in the morning, helping to defrost shrimp and cut up Jarlsberg for cocktail hour, heading out to explore the town with my mom, taking the boys for ice cream after dinner. When it was time to leave, all I wanted was to stay. More than that, I wanted to cry that this wonderful week was at an end.

One night while I was out on the deck, watching the changes in the sky as it darkened and listening to the sounds of the ocean, I started thinking about the word shalom. How it means not just peace but wholeness. This week was the first time in five years that I felt whole again, like the terrible business of illness and grief and bullies and struggle might finally be in the past. There was even a part of my heart that felt like missing my dad was okay, after all these years, because I could simply imagine him getting right into the surf on a boogie board with the kids, just as if he was there with us. And because he wasn't there, it was my job to go boarding instead. Because I am finally well enough. And because I wasn't afraid.

My comfort level in this sunshiny, beachy environment - normally hellish for me with my pale skin and my less than slender figure - may also have been helped by the fact that I found a swimsuit in which I not only felt comfortable, but downright gorgeous. I would have let anyone look at me in this suit, would have happily posed for the full figured edition of Sports Illustrated. I've rarely felt so pretty in something as revealing. As I said to my sister, you know you're feeling good about your figure when you start judging all the other overweight people in your head. Being down nearly sixty pounds does wonders for one's self-esteem, even with a ways yet to go.

Speaking of the figure wars, my latest fitting for the bridesmaids' dress took place last night. The seamstress is a genius; basically it has been transformed into the bionic garment. While the color, style and design have now conspired to make me consider posting a "wide load" sign on my rear end for the duration of the nuptials, the length, I have to say, is charming - tea-length with a little flounce at the bottom - seriously cute. Moving upwards, however, not so much. This dress is the total opposite of the swimsuit - I am going solo to this wedding because I think it is better to spare those you love. There is no male friend, hetero, gay, or otherwise, that I would force to endure the sight of me in this color. I thought getting a tan would improve matters. It has not. Now my skin looks greenish with an overtone of orange. But the fabric color itself - previously named electric hemorrhoid - has been upgraded, in honor of my family, to Taylor Ham. It is offical. I am the Haminatrix. I am the aformentioned pork roll. Glue some pistachios to it, and I'd be a freaking mortadella.

On a less self-deprecating note, I was fortunate to finish my vacation by attending the Paul McCartney show on Saturday night at CitiField. First of all, the stadium is unreal. I didn't mind Shea so much despite the concrete and the aroma of eau de beerdrinker that pervaded the place. But the new stadium is magnificent. I just hope it stays that way. Laura and I relaxed, after a full day of packing and driving and unpacking and playing with the kids, in a club-like lounge with great music and top-shelf vodka, for about an hour before the concert - it hardly felt like we were in a sports arena, waiting for the show to begin. The show itself afforded me the opportunity to sing, dance, cry, experience ecstasy in a way that I ordinarily do only in temple, and generally geek out to the music I've loved for so long. It's so strange to me how meaning in the music changes over the years. Even songs I don't love, like Helter Skelter, were cathartic in a different way at 39 than they were when I was a scared 11 year old listening to it in Ellen's upstairs bedroom and hearing about the Mansons for the first time. The concert also blew me away just by virtue of the sheer talent - hearing the person who wrote Yesterday and Hey Jude and Band on the Run and Let it Be sing them live, in the same key as they were written all those years ago. I can't even imagine having the talent to have composed some of the greatest music of all time, to be in the same environment with such a great gift. It's an experience I'll always treasure.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming. Until next summer.