I remember thinking when I reached a certain age I’d know pretty much everything.

Turns out, no.

I still don’t know even the most basic things, and a lot of what I once knew I can no longer remember.

Here’s a short list of things I still don’t know:

1. What to pack or wear no matter where I’m going or what I’m doing aside from a black turtleneck and ten pairs of underpants.
2. What I can and can’t eat. For example: Eggs? Yes or no? Nobody knows.
3. If I’m a tiny bit autistic or just very sensitive to all socks.
4. If my mom really loved my sister more than me.
5. What I look like.
6. Where I should live.
7. Whether or not I should stop coming up with ideas for businesses.
8. Whether or not I should start a small pharmaceutical company.
9. Where my social security card is.
10. What I smell like to other people. I think it’s somewhere between 14 year old boy and shampoo.
11. How to sew a button on my shirt without accidentally sewing it to my pants.
12. How television shows get in the tv. It doesn’t seem possible.
13. How to drive so as not to appear drunk.
14. How to make my bed.
15. How to park so as not to appear drunk.
16. How to know when someone’s lying.
17. How to know when someone’s stealing. For example: Where are all my bras and forks? I know for a fact I had a lot more forks.
18. How to wear a hat indoors without repeatedly mentioning it.
19. How to grow my own food or even one tomato.
20. What do they mean by, “first down?”
21. How  the internet works.
22. How electricity works.
23. Who’s paying all of my bills?
24. Is the air fryer supposed to just clean itself.
25. Should I take my statin or not. Again, no one knows.
26. How did I tear my meniscus? I was just sitting there doing nothing.
27. Why does my hair turn orange every time I wash it? Who is doing this to me?
28. Is my water contaminated?
29. Is the stock market real or are they just making up numbers?
30. See? I don’t know anything.
31. How long can I possibly go on like this?

If you know the answers to any of these questions please feel free to call me.

32. What is my phone number?

I love telling this story because so few people have ever met and fallen in love with a porn star. Mine was gorgeous.

I first saw her while waiting to board my flight from LAX to New York. She was pacing back and forth like she’d been crying and was trying to calm herself down. You couldn’t not notice her because she was walking much too fast. You could tell she wanted everyone in the airport to see how upset she was. I assumed she was a model or an actress who’d gotten a bad break in LA and was still hoping to get discovered.

Once I boarded the flight and got comfortable in my seat, I heard a little commotion where the flight attendants were greeting the other passengers. I knew it was her.

“Back off,” she said to one of the female attendants. “I can smell your breath; you’re so in my face.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not…,” the flight attendant attempted to answer her.
“Just stand back. I have a right to my personal space.”

I’d never seen an insane person board a plane. It’s scary, but also entertaining.

I immediately texted Dan to tell him the flight would most likely be delayed because a deranged model was about to get kicked off the plane.

But that’s not what happened.
What happened was her seat was right next to mine.

I twisted my head toward the window so she would get the message that I had no intention of invading her space.
An announcement was made instructing everyone to find their seats.

“Oh! Here come the announcements!” the girl called out, “What is this, Walmart?”

It took me a second to make the connection that they make announcements at Walmart too.
A few minutes later, the flight attendant came back to ask us if we’d like mimosas or plain champagne

“You need to stand back. I’m not gonna say it again,” the girl said.
“I’m sorry, Miss. I’m just trying to get your drink order.”
“Fine. I’d like two mimosas, and keep them coming,” the girl said, and made a swirling downward motion with her finger indicating her drink should land on her tray.

The flight attendant nodded like she agreed it was for the best if the girl got drunk as soon as possible. Her sober personality was ruining it for everyone.

When it was my turn to order, I mumbled the words, “sparkling water please,” as quickly and inaudibly as possible, hoping to remain invisible, and turned my neck back around to fully face the window. But suddenly the girl needed to know where things were located on the plane.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but is this the charging outlet?. . . Again, so sorry but where’s the light? Are you cold? I’m so cold. How do you turn this fucking thing off?”

I reached up, turned off her air, smiled at her with no teeth, and stared straight ahead. I sat as still as humanly possible, but she needed so much attention I could feel her eyes pressing on me.

“I can’t tell you my name, but it’s nice to meet you,” she said and put out her hand for me to shake it.

 I wanted to be polite without encouraging her. She was trying so hard to show me she was a nice person in spite of her earlier behavior, but I sensed she could turn on me at any minute if I let my guard down.

“My name is Stephanie,” I said, lightly shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you too.”

Why did I give her my real name?

“I’m somebody who needs to be careful,” she said. “People are out of their minds, you know.”
“So it seems,” I said.

We sat in silence while I contemplated what steps I would have to take to move my seat. There was no way around the fact that I’d have to pass by her, which was completely out of the question. What if my leg touched her leg?

Then, out of nowhere, she tapped me on the shoulder, and said,

“I feel like you were seated next to me for a reason. Like God chose you to sit next to me.”

The truth is I believe in God. No matter how silly I know it sounds to certain relatives every time I say it, I believe in God. But I do not think he chose either of our plane seats.

Please don’t talk about God anymore, I silently prayed knowing how long a conversation like that could take.

And then she said,

“I just have to tell you, you have a beautiful energy.”

My head whipped toward her.

“Oh my God, thank you!” I said, reevaluating the entire scenario. That flight attendant may very well have been standing a little too close to her once I played it back in my mind. And I did seem to be calming her down with my energy.

“You’re hot, you know that, right?” she continued.
“Stop it. Me? You really think so? … really?  It’s just so not what I was thinking you were thinking. I mean, I’m flattered. But also very old.”
“Come on. You know you’re hot.”

I turned my whole entire body toward her, thinking what a fascinating person she turned out to be.

“I think it’s important to tell people they look good. No one ever told me I was pretty when I was growing up,” she said, downing her second mimosa and signaling for another one.

In her defense, the champagne flutes were deceivingly small, and she must have worked up quite a thirst back there at the gate.

“Well, just so you know, you are very pretty,” I said, touching her lightly on the arm. “You are beautiful, in fact. When I first saw you at the gate, I thought you were a famous model or an actress; I’m not kidding, that’s how pretty you are,” I said.
“My parents weren’t parents,” she said as the flight attendant gingerly placed another mimosa down on the girl’s tray, looked directly at me, terrified, and scurried away.

I tried not to look back at the attendant because it was obvious I was a traitor. My seatmate, who had berated that poor, sweet woman just minutes before, had now become a very close friend and confidant of mine. I should have at least rolled my eyes a little to act like I was just going through the motions of being friendly to my seatmate in order to remain alive, but my loyalty had switched.“That’s so sad,” I said to the girl the second the flight attendant was safely out of earshot.

“My life has not been easy. Not one person helped me. No one supported me.” she continued.  “I had to do everything on my own. But the truth is I am famous.”

She stood up to adjust something in the overhead bin. I noticed she had a Gucci belt bag tied around her very small waist. I had so many questions. Mostly about what she ate in a day. All in good time.

“I knew you were famous,” I said. “Have you been in anything I would have seen?” I asked her.
She laughed a little so I assumed she was VERY famous, but in a way that hadn’t trickled down to a middle-aged-plus white woman like myself.

“Wait! Are you someone my kids would know?” I asked, thinking she might be a singer. It was possible I had never heard her music, the same way I had never heard of Lizzo until that episode of South Park where they explained that body positivity was just Diabetes.

Another little laugh came out of her mouth.

“My kids are grown, so I’m kind of out of it when it comes to celebrities,” I prodded her. “Hold on. I know! Are you a Disney princess?” I asked, and I swear to God, she leaned over and hugged me.

“I love you,” she said.
“Oh my God! I love you too,” I said, although it didn’t feel 100 percent sincere yet.
“I’d rather not say why I’m famous,” she said. “Because right now you’re thinking about me in a certain way, but if I tell you, your whole opinion of me will change,” she said.
“Oh, I’m not like that at all,” I said. “Whatever you’re famous for, I’ll think it’s cool. Trust me.”
“I’d still rather not say,” she said, and I felt a whiff of cold air settle between us. I sensed things might turn ugly when a different flight attendant appeared ( a man this time) and asked what we’d like to order from the menu.

My seat mate picked up her menu and handed it to him.

“I don’t eat animals or any of this other stuff,” she said, as though he was trying to poison her.

“Me neither,” I whispered to her, trying to calm her down again.

“Alrighty, what would you like then?” he asked me.
“I’ll have the chicken,” I said.
The girl turned to look at me.
“I don’t know why I just ordered chicken,” I said. I was in a panic.
“It’s okay,” she laughed. “

When the flight attendant walked away, she said, “You really shouldn’t eat anything in America.”

“Nothing at all?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Not even popcorn?” I asked.
“Try not eating for a few days and see how much better you feel.”

“I mean, I try not to eat anything, but food gets in occasionally. Like chicken. I know our food supply has been tainted,” I said. “I have acid reflux, which is also called GERD. It’s probably due to all the Glyphosate. I think I’m very sensitive to it, but I find that I do well on most soups.”

I couldn’t stop talking knowing anything could happen at any moment to change her mood, and there was still so much to learn.

“Can I ask what you eat in a day? For example, what did you have for breakfast?” I asked. I was both curious and desperately trying to keep her distracted.

“Raw sea moss,” she said.
“Oh wow. I was not expecting that. So, just sea moss?” And Mimosas?
“Yup, I only eat sea moss. But mostly I don’t eat. Ever.”
“Huh. Well, I have to say, you have a perfect figure. Really extraordinary.”
That made her really laugh out loud. And then she leaned in and whispered in my ear,
“I’m an adult film star. There. Now you know.”
“No kidding,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could.

For some reason, that made me think she had COVID. I reached into my bag to pull out my hand sanitizer, but then I thought better of it. I’d wait until she went to the bathroom. She was right. though. My opinion of her did change. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it happened immediately. I’m afraid of porn. It feels like violence to me. I don’t know why. It might be all the yelling. And nudity.

“I’m famous,” she said again, “but I have no one in my life. Not one person. I’m all alone. I married into a very famous real estate family and now I’m in the middle of a horrible divorce. I’m sure you can guess the name of the family.”

“Does it start with a T?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Have you seen the movie, ____?”

She named a porno movie that I assumed went viral. I would tell you the name of the movie, but I don’t want to expose her. I would never do anything to hurt her. Everything about her life was too painful to imagine, and there was nothing I could do to help her. My heart was breaking for her, but all I could think about was Purell.

I guess I wanted her to know my life was hard too so I told her I have Glaucoma and occasional heart palpitations. I didn’t bother telling her I have high cholesterol and low Vitamin D.

“You  need stem cells. There’s a place on Madison Avenue called Next Health. Go there,” she said.

She ordered another drink. It was her fourth or tenth, but she wasn’t getting drunk. I wondered if porn stars were internally just plain different. Like they could withstand more things going into their bodies without feeling anything.
“I’m so sorry about your divorce,” I said.

And every decision you’ve ever been forced to make. I wish you had a better mother and I can’t even imagine what kind of a father. I feel so ashamed that my mom was so nice to me.

I almost put my hand on her arm again, but I didn’t.

“Do you think when we get back to New York, we could have lunch together? Maybe go for massages or something?”
“Of course,” I said, with no indication whatsoever how incredibly afraid I am of germs.
“I really love you,” she said.

“I love you too,” I said, and slowly turned my head.

My daughter had a baby girl. Understandably, I prayed constantly before the baby was born. First, I prayed my daughter would have an easy delivery and a healthy baby. And then I prayed that I’d be there for every milestone and that the miracle of life would add another layer to our relationship as we transition from mother/daughter to grandmother/mother. I prayed that we’d finally let go of generations of adolescent mother-daughter issues and focus all of our energy on the entire family joining together to nurture and guide the next generation.. .

Okay fine. . .

I obviously prayed the baby would have a cute nose.

I also prayed she’d get my daughter’s lips, waist, hair, velvety skin, cute personality, and at the last second, I added brains. Next, I prayed the baby would get my son-in-law’s incredible blue eyes and then I threw in his kindness and ability to create things like robots out of thin air. I also requested that the baby be provided with double the amount of eyelashes necessary to protect her eyes from allergens, and for once, ears that don’t require generations of discussions about the moral implications of plastic surgery.

I wasn’t praying for this designer baby girl because I have a mother who once famously said,

“I don’t know if you know this about me but I don’t like ugly people.”

I prayed for her looks because I’m not blind.

I know some extraordinarily good looking people and I’ve seen other people literally hand them money for no reason. Who wouldn’t want that for any child?

Of course, like anything else, there’s a right way and a wrong way to pray. I think I covered this in a previous blog, but you don’t want to sound overly demanding, or like you’re begging, or having a full-blown temper tantrum. Try to sound friendly and humble, like a receptionist or a farmer. And make sure you apologize for something before you start asking for favors, and always throw in a compliment that shows you notice how hard God’s been working. Trust me, if you hit the right notes, miracles can happen.

For this particular prayer, I went with this:

Dear God,

OhmyGOD! Hi! How are you?

First, I’d like to thank you for everything you gave me, particularly my children, my husband, and my house in the Hamptons. I’m clapping just thinking about all of those things. Also, I’d like to apologize for all the lies I told to all of my teachers as well as my children’s teachers. None of us were ever sick.

As far as my feelings for you, I hope you know I love you and I think you deserve a huge trophy for how you designed the human body.I never would have thought of adding hair, and yet it makes all the difference. And I honestly don’t think it’s your fault that humans beings are shallow, impulsive and judgmental. I completely  understand why you went with the idea to just draw a straight line from the human eye directly to the part of the brain that judges people. You were probably so exhausted by that point. No one does what you did in seven days, and it’s always better to keep things simple when it’s getting down to the wire. Eye to brain. I would have totally done the same thing if I had been in your shoes.

The only thing is now we’re in this situation where people just walk around sizing each other up all day and making decisions about each other based on their looks. Sure, over time our opinions can change about a person, but remember the book, “Blink?”  We think with our eyes.

A person would have to be crazy not to pray for her granddaughter to get the pretty gene. I know there are more important things, like being good at math or building hospitals, but she’s gonna need to survive.

I’m not saying she won’t have a good life if she’s an ugly baby. I’m sure there are unattractive babies out there living very happy and fulfilling lives. Possibly even spreading joy. Somehow.

And of course I’ll accept it graciously if my granddaughter is not born with the exact shade of blue eyes I’m praying for. Her life, and I guess mine, will go on. I’m perfectly willing to accept the fact that she might get regular people genes and have to work on her actual character more than I was hoping she’d have to. If, in fact, her looks demand that she’s forced to tap into herself a little deeper to find her greatness, maybe she’ll go so deep and so far she’ll become some kind of wild visionary who can see the entire world all at once and know what it’s missing. Maybe she invents something that puts the carbon back into the ground or a molecule that eliminates all disease, or a new Ozempic that doesn’t make people throw up. Or she creates a new form of spiritual guidance, one that gives us a clearer understanding of you, and the universe.

 It’s even possible that she’ll become the first female world leader! Instead of focusing on her own appeal and what she can get from other people, she’ll devote her entire life to alleviating the pain of the human condition. Just imagine if she finds a way to open our minds so we can finally move beyond judging one another by our most superficial, external qualities. Imagine a human being who actually accomplishes true greatness and all because you accidentally gave her my original nose. That would be something.

So, God, if you’re listening, and I believe you are (my son is 6’3″ after all and I only prayed for 6′), the more I think about it I’d be just as happy with the sturdy, brave woman who fixes the world as I would be with the classic beauty I sketched out earlier in this prayer. Whatever you decide is obviously fine. I’m not gonna say anything.

But can you please just give the brave visionary girl the blue eyes with the double set of eyelashes?

Hugs,

Stephanie Lessing

And here we are, one year later.. . AMEN.

 

 

They say you should count your blessings instead of praying for ridiculous things you don’t need, like a barn or a fancy diamond ring, but I don’t see how that helps you get stuff. Instead I like to make lists of everything I want in case God reads my blog.

Number One: I still don’t have a way to house and feed everyone on the planet. That was something I was sure I would have invented by now because in sixth grade I vowed to devote my entire life to redirecting all the money we spend on going to the moon to feeding people on earth. The truth is all I’ve done so far is complain about it. I’ve yet to so much as google “How to feed the entire world.” My guess is my invention is going to require many billions of dollars. So far I don’t even have one billion.

Number Two: I know this sounds far-fetched but deep down I believe I could be the one to solve global warming if some kind and patient scientist would just explain to me how earth works.  I realize I need to get more in touch with nature. And I plan to.  By going outside. I know nature is where all of life’s answers are hidden. That’s why I need an outdoor project, i.e., a certain miniature horse, whose name may or may not be Bubbles, that I know for a fact would look amazing wearing a flower crown on my front lawn. If, perchance, I did get Bubbles, I would spend more time outside, on the lawn, petting and dressing Bubbles, making her hats  and getting in touch with nature, which is, as previously mentioned, where the answers to all of life’s questions are hidden. So, in short. I really need Bubbles if I’m going to save the planet.

Number Three: A pink cake mixer.  It just seems like a cake mixer would make it much easier to make cakes.

Number Four: A neck lift. I think this one is self-explanatory.

Number Five: A sunnier disposition. I never smile unless something is so laugh out loud funny I fall to the floor convulsing and peeing.

Number Six: I would very much like lower cholesterol. I really feel the number I was given is terribly unfair, rude almost.

Number Seven: A flat stomach, even when seated.  I’ve seen these types of stomachs and they are really remarkable.

Number Eight: A new car. Mine has a hole in it.

Number Nine: A brow lift. I know I just asked for a neck lift but my neck has migrated so far away from my brow it’s almost like I’m asking for two different people.

Number Ten: A barn. . . for Bubbles.

Right before I fell asleep last night, I was thinking how happy I would be if reincarnation were a thing. I was hoping I might come back a little more responsible next time. The type of person who holds on to receipts and returns things on time instead of partially using them, crumpling them up and making them look dirty so I can throw them away without feeling guilty. I was also thinking how nice it would be if I came back really gorgeous next time, like drop-dead, people give you free stuff, gorgeous.

I guess it was the hope of reincarnation that lead to my dream last night. The one where I’m trying to return my own coffin in ABC carpet.

A salesperson is eagerly hovering.

I expect her to float around in slow motion like a ghost, but she’s just a normal person with normal legs and a face.

Most of the coffins are early Colonial in design. Most have a little chip or nick in the veneer. The poor selection surprises and disgusts me. I pretend to hide my disgust to emphasize it.

I admit I tend to overact to anything I don’t like but anyone would have been disappointed by the overwhelming ugliness. And then I spot some cute square tufted cushions in a pile, still neatly encased in plastic. They look newish, but they’re upholstered in a dusty rose silk damask, which instantly re-depresses me. In my dream I list all the colors that depress me out loud, as though I’m talking to a psychiatrist, and what they remind me of: Dusty Rose (a bridesmaid’s dress that was so tight on me I took it off in the car on the way home, while I was driving) Brown (stepfather’s NYC apartment who didn’t want me living with him), Teal (eye shadow color on the cover of my first book), Tan (a pair of corduroy pants my dad had that didn’t look good), and rust (the 70’s). I search for  better fabrics and prettier color options, but all they have is something that looks like my grandmother’s robe.

As the dream continues, it occurs to me that I’m not actually in ABC carpet, and that none of the coffins in the entire store have lids! This is excellent news because it’s the lids that I find so unappealing.

After a lot of browsing I find something that looks almost too good to be true.

“I think I’d like to get some pricing on these styles over here,” I say, pointing to a collection of coffins that look exactly like chairs.

“Chairs are very popular now,” the salesperson says, “So are these new round tables.”

“What goes around comes around,” I say, hoping I’m right.

“Are you looking for yourself or for someone else?” she asks.

“Myself. I’m actually here to make an exchange,” I say.

“You were unhappy with your original coffin choice?”

“I just feel like it’s not me anymore. And trust me,  I slept on it. ”

“Are you sleeping right now…or?” she asks me.

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“I’m not sure,” she says.

“If I bought this chair would I be able to return it?” I ask her.

“Yes, but…” she says.

“But what?”

“You’re gonna need your receipt.”

My daughter got married. I don’t recommend this.  Planning a wedding is a miserable ordeal. I say that because my daughter planned her own wedding and it was terrible to watch. At one point she asked me to do one little thing and I forgot to do it. It was just too much for me. The thing she asked me to do involved the phone and I’m terrible at talking. And then she asked me to do something that involved counting, so I messed that up too. I should tell you my daughter makes me very nervous. First of all, she’s much older than me, and secondly, she expects me to mess up. This comes from years of her being late to birthday parties because I got lost, years of me claiming important school papers were “stolen” aka “accidentally thrown in the garbage” and years of me letting her take the reins because she’s more responsible and more competent that I could ever pretend to be. 

Add that to the fact that this kid, who used to stand at the bottom of the steps yelling at the rest of the family to hurry up so she wouldn’t be late for school, this kid, who stays on the phone with me for hours because I sound “a little funny” was about to officially, in every sense of the word, belong to someone else, nearly killed us. No one can ever prepare you for that feeling that your baby isn’t really your baby anymore. Laugh all you want, but you wait.

In the end, the wedding was everything she envisioned. It took place on a romantic vineyard in Santa Ynez, California, with the most awe-inspiring trees, fields of lavender, climbing roses, little dreamy archways and two giant lawns. She ran down the aisle, danced barefoot, and had the time of her life.  I’ve never seen a happier, more carefree bride. Everything about the night was perfect. I’ll never forget Kim in her dress, the way Alex looked at Kim, the flowers, the food, the way everyone was hugging and dancing. Everything was just a dream, until Dan and I had to give a speech. 

We practiced it several hundred times beforehand, but how could we possibly prepare for the microphone going dead. Or the fact that we somehow printed out the speech with the same page twice. Or that my husband was holding the pages I was supposed to read and I was holding his. We kept switching microphones and pages and we were both sweating like we were being tortured. I was standing there repeating the same paragraphs over and over, stumbling over words like dream and journey which I chose to pronounce as dweamy and jurtels, all while yelling to be heard. At one point, I felt my skirt slipping off my body so I started reading as quickly as possible before it could plummet to the ground. My cousin recorded the whole thing on her phone and you can hear her in the background saying things like, “oh god,” and “somebody help them,” every time the mic went silent.    

Afterwards I sat down and had that overwhelming feeling that we may very well have ruined our daughter’s perfect wedding. It was that bad. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m leaving out a lot of unfortunate details. As the days passed after the wedding, I would get flashbacks of the speech and try to imagine how we would do it better if only she would get divorced, remarry, and give us another crack at it. 

But then, a miracle happened. We got the pictures back. I could finally see my daughter’s face while we were giving our speech. It was impossible to see her when we were actually giving our speech because our faces were glued to our papers like we were being held hostage and forced to read a note we never would have written ourselves. 

My daughter must have known we were struggling, but you couldn’t see any trace of fear in her face that her parents were failing miserably. All I could see was her holding on to her husband and smiling, as if to say, “These insanely unprepared, bumbling fools are our parents.” and everything about that seemed to make her very happy, because even though she now belonged to someone else, nothing had changed.

Yesterday I spent the night in New York. I hadn’t been there in so long i wasn’t sure how i felt about it. it was almost like I was on a date with an old boyfriend.

I got in a cab to go to the flower market and I immediately sensed something was wrong with my driver. As soon as I got in the car he asked me to please wait a minute.

“I just have to take care of something,” he said.

Turns out he was checking his bank balance. On speaker. Apparently he had a thousand dollars in his account and I have to say I was happy for him.

“Okay Sweetheart, let’s go,” he said after he hung up.

He pulled out of his spot but he was going so slow I assumed someone was in front of us.
But no.

“I kind of have to get there before the flower market closes,” I said. “It closes very early.”

“We have time,” he said, his wheels rolling at a pace most people would use if they were pulling up to a red light.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t know what it is but ever since I turned 60 people really seem to love me. Like they adore me. I think it’s because I tell more jokes now.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said. “Can you go a tiny bit faster?”

“You should hear the laughs I get. I don’t know what it is with people,” he said.

“I think their expectations lower as we get older,” I said.

“That’s a good one, he said. You want to hear one of my jokes?”

“Sure,” I said. Looking out the window. Nothing was moving.

“Okay here’s one I told just the other day. What I said was, ‘I’m no Bradley Cooper but I’m gonna call him up and ask him if he wants to double date with me and wouldn’t it be funny if I ended up banging my date and he didn’t?’”

“What?” I said.

“That’s a good one right? You like that?”

“I’m not sure I understood the punch line,” I said.

“No, no I’m just saying, I don’t have as much money as him and I’m not a bad looking guy, don’t
get me wrong, but he’s a very, very good looking guy, like one of the best looking guys around, and he has a ton of money, so wouldn’t that be funny?”

“Yes, very,” I said.

“Here’s another joke, I don’t want to say anything bad about women but Kanye West is a good man. That I can tell you. For example he takes care of the baby. And she might be a whore for all we know.”

“Maybe it would be better not to call her a whore,” I suggested.

“But, it’s a good one, right? You like it? I tell that one all the time lately.”

By that point he was weaving in out of cars for no reason. He wasn’t making up for lost time, he was just annoying the other drivers and calling them names.

“You know anything about Bradley Cooper?” he asked me.

“Not really,” I said.

“Well, I do. For example, I know everything about him. He comes from a very good family. He
was raised right and he’s very good looking. People think he’s Jewish but he’s not Jewish.”

“I didn’t think he was Jewish,” I said.

“I’m kidding,” he said turning the wheel all the way to one side and then the other like a kid pretending to drive.

“Got me again,” I said.

“This is what I’m trying to tell you. The reason I get such big tips is because I tell jokes.”

And then we hit the car in front of us. But no one seemed to care. That’s how slow we were going. Anyone in their right mind could tell there wouldn’t be any damage.

“What a fucking loser!” he yelled, looking down at the seat. It occurred to me that he might be blind.

“You know why I’m so handsome?” he asked me.

“I have no idea.”

“It’s because I’m from New York. Get it?”

“Not really.”

“New Yorkers are ugly so I’m handsome here.”

“Ah, I see,” I said, catching up on my emails.

“For example I get a lot of women to sleep with me. I’m not saying I’m Bradley Cooper, but women like me. They always liked me, but I’m telling you since I turned sixty they love me. The other day I took a girl on a date. I’m not saying whether I had sex with her or not. I’m not the kind of guy that would tell but I’m just telling you what happened.”

“Okay,” I said. “I think I’ll get out here and walk the rest of the way if you don’t mind.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

When the tip options came up on the screen, I thought about how hard he worked trying to entertain me and I gave him 30 percent just like he knew I would.

“Goodbye, New York,” I said as I got out of the car.

“Goodbye, Sweetheart.”

Sometimes you read a truly great book and feel compelled to talk about it with everyone you know. You need to share it so badly, you might even give your beautiful hardcover copy to a friend. Sometimes you compare yourself to the main character and wonder what they would do in situations that come up in your own life. The main character becomes your own little imaginary friend who occupies that part of your brain that you never show. The part that thinks. And then sometimes you read a truly great book, put it down, and say out loud, “What in the world just happened?” Such was the case with Mrs. March by Virginia Feito.

Mrs. March is, without question, a mind bender on all counts. It’s suspenseful, brilliant, deliciously tropey, and it’s about an uptight, unlikable heroine. What more do you need? When was the last time you were given permission not to like someone? I never get to do that. I especially never get to not like someone while laughing at her. That would be mean. But Ms. Feito encourages you to flat out hate her heroine as much as she dislikes herself. All of this is accomplished with the use of my favorite kind of writing, the kind that doesn’t pat itself on its own back with endlessly long descriptions of things like grass or the nape of some lady’s neck. Any adjectives aside from “green” or “long” should be tossed, if you ask me. Most words ruin most books, but not this one. I especially loved when Mrs. March put a question mark after the word Slut. It was such a slick move and she didn’t need a single word to do it.

I’m sure you’ll read it after reading my description of it and that’s my intention. Because, I have no idea what actually did and didn’t happen, nor how the damn thing ended. Can someone please read it and explain to me what Agatha March did? Seriously, Agatha March, what have you done?

Ahh Memorial Day, the day that truly marks the beginning of summer. So much to look forward to. The beach, the parties, the pink drinks, the unfortunate spray tans that wander off the skin. And of course the reemergence of the arms, particularly the part of the arm that’s very white and soft and just below the arm pit when your arms are hanging by your sides and above your arm pits when you lift your arms in the air. If you’re under forty you should leave the room. You don’t need to know what horror awaits you. You’re still walking around flinging your limbs to-and-fro without a care in the world. I see you there, reaching for things, saying, “hellooo!” to friends and sometimes accidentally to strangers, hailing cabs, pointing. It’s all fun and games until one day you’re looking in the mirror, happily blow drying your hair, or, in my case, dancing, and you see something so horrific, you are forced to lock the door and call your sister.

“Something terrible just happened,” you will say.

“Oh no, what did you do?” your sister will answer.

“I just lifted my arms in front of the mirror.”

“OH, I should have warned you. You shouldn’t do that.”

“You mean to say you know what I saw?”

“Of course I know.”

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I was hoping you still had a little more time or that you wouldn’t notice it.”

How could one not notice a whole pocket of skin that magically shrivels overnight and becomes a dangling pile of stretched out weird crumply lines.

“Who is responsible for this?!” you might hear yourself scream.

“It happens to everyone,” your sister will say right before you drop the phone so you can resume standing in front of the mirror trying a bunch of different waves. None of them will work except the salute.

From that point on, you will spend a lot of time trying to identify what your mangled underarm skin reminds you of. Sometimes it will be the underbelly of a whale, sometimes a pelican, and sometimes an old balloon. You’ll also try to sneak a peek at all of your friends’ under-upper-arm areas. You can do this by asking them questions and demanding they raise their hands before answering. At times you’ll find yourself having so much fun you’ll forget what happened to your arms. Other times you may randomly cry out, and a day will come when you try to iron yourself.

As much as you’ll want to hide that whole part of your body, you’ll also find yourself desperate to confide in people

about it. It’s that alarming.

“Did you see what happened here?” you’ll say over and over, to anyone really.

Nobody will admit they already saw it.

The good news is there are options to deal with the situation as it unfolds…and drops even further:

1) Have your arms removed. 

2)Wear long sleeves .

Or…

3)Accept yourself for how old you are and learn to love your new body. You earned every wrinkle. Think of them as lots and lots of tiny smiles all over your face and body. And the truth is you should be grateful that you even have arms. Maybe it’s time to stop worrying about every little imperfection and just be happy you’re alive, the sun is shining, and it’s Memorial Day!

I’m kidding. Wear long sleeves.

My daughter Kim is engaged! I’m trying not to make it all about me. So the first thing I did was try on my wedding dress. And then I started looking through my wedding photos. And then I estimated how many pounds I would have to lose to actually zip up the dress. Not that it matters, I’ll never wear the dress again. My guess is 12. And then I made my guest list.

I’m trying to keep it small, but how do you not invite everyone you know? What if I run into someone who wasn’t invited? I’ll have to lie and say we had to keep the wedding small and then I’ll have to photoshop all the photos, take all the people and food out and blacken out the faces of people who were invited who are close to the people we didn’t invite. I don’t know what I’m going to do. About my wedding.

And then there’s the issue of where to have the wedding. We could do it here at my house but then I’d have to build an addition in case it rains and people want to come inside. I’m just not sure that’s the best use of the wedding budget. Of course we could have it at a hotel but do I really want that kind of a wedding? Gosh, I don’t know. And what to do about my neck? It’s falling off again.

The real question here is do I have enough time to have plastic surgery and plan a wedding. It just seems like a lot.  I could ask Kim to elope but that seems cold. Maybe just a few nips and tucks and a diet. Or we could all elope! That might be fun. Dan and me on a beach somewhere, renewing our vows, me in my zipped up dress! It’s all coming together. But enough about Kim.