The Nature of Life by Tami Ackerman

The Nature of Life by Tami Ackerman

1.How to have a good life: Try not to suffer too much.

2. Don't pick mean friends.

Look both ways before crossing streets.

Avoid Philosophy.

Take your pillow with you on trips.

See an attorney when you act VERY greedy.

Don't run out of bubble bath.

Where there is love, I'll be there.

Lovely

"Lovely", in and of itself, is such a lovely word. Melodious and expressive by its combination of vowels and consonants alone. But the sentiment of "lovely" just tickles me, alluding to something delicious, delightful, touching, pretty. It is one of my favorite words. I use it liberally, peppering my speech with "lovely," as a delicate spice and an emphatic superlative. I love when men use the word "lovely." I know many women who readily release "lovely" from their lips. But when I hear it from a man, I actually feel the sensations associated with that promising sound.

Enter

The door is open.

Improvisation

• Yes, and
• Focus on your partner(s)
• Commitment to the moment
• Choices
• Remember that you do not have to do it all yourself
• Give gifts
• Anger, fear, sadness, happiness
• Play

These basic precepts of improv are applicable anywhere, indeed.

Bit

Spring in the garden,
Dusk falls and the night blooming jasmine bursts with fragrance.
Suddenly
I want to check on the newly planted blooms and my new friends.
All is thriving in the warmth of this new season.
I watch the jays taunt in evening song and cacophany
The cats nonplussed and disinterested.
A star, or is it a planet, becomes visible as the evening sky darkens
Brightening in reflections of other stars, oh so far away.
The light continues to fade.
Noctural pests begin their scavenging
I am bit.

ccMixter.org

It is official -- I am addicted to ccMixter.org, a shared music site where musicians from all over the world create colloborative pieces under the Creative Commons license. Artists upload tracks which are then available to remixers who invariably do something magical with the source material. The talent pool is vast and varied. Additionally, there is a kind community of artists who provide feedback and support. It's totally awesome. I can be found here: http://ccmixter.org/people/SackJo22 where my acapella vocal tracks are posted, along with links to remixes.

Therapy

I'm thinking about going into therapy so I can unabashedly talk about myself. I have strong enough narcissistic tendencies that I would enjoy that tremendously. According to Freud, I am perfectly healthy as I work and love just fine. I do not believe I am totally neurotic. I have sufficient self-awareness to understand that in most situations, people are generally more interested in talking about themselves than talking about me; thus, I do try to refrain from unfettered "me-isms" when I'm in social situations. However, the desire to talk about myself is ever present and growing as I listen more and more to others talk about themselves. Sometimes I feel like I could burst with myself. I think the only way to satisfy this need may be to seek the services of a professional.

The Satisfaction of Completion

I uploaded two new demo mixes on my myspace page -- www.myspace.com/mrsjoseph39skitchen. I get so jazzed when I make something new -- just the accomplishment of finishing a project. Quite satisfying, indeed.

The Hills

The light was very clear. The sky was uninterrupted by clouds or haze or birds. It was just blue. It was sharp. The hills were soft, mohair covered swells like camels sleeping, their lumberous backs still as the air was still. The trees that lined the base of the hills, each of the many of them, were deeply green as if shadowed, but there were no shadows. The pieces of earth and sky were so perfectly matched that the distinct boundary between them was as much a connector as a separator.

What Is In a Name?

All of the women in this picture share my name. I have been googling. I googled several of my old friends that I no longer keep in touch with -- just to see if I could find them. I did not find anything substantial about any of them. Then I wondered, what would my old friends find if they googled my name? They might find that I have become a well respected feminist theologian, or a neurobiologist, a taxi driver, a music teacher, a realtor, a radiologist, attorney, artist, anthropologist, political science professor at Yale. . .

Of course, I am none of these things.

Saturday Afternoon

We talked about regrets and identity
over tepid cups of milky tea
satiated
this languid afternoon interrupted only by
slamming doors
the children came and the children went unconcerned
their wet hair fragrant with the first chlorinated taste of summer
with hints of jasmine lingering in the air every time the door was left ajar.
The cats snaked back into the house flopping sloppily on cool wood floors sobered by the heat that kept us indoors watching with envy as the shadows crept across the lawn.
We were deceived.
The monarchs in the bushes, the breeze in the trees
There was no comfort in the garden today – only the heat.

We have a past and a future
And are still trying to come to peace with who we are and who we thought we would be.
This is a recurrent theme extending our adolescence into middle age
Wizened questions unanswered by our mature unwillingness to make assumptions about anything – we know better than that after what we have been through and what we can now surmise
It takes so much more to be surprised
It is easier to see the changes in others than the changes in ourselves
Our temperaments unaltered by time despite experience
Choices may change but our hearts remain
the same.

That's Entertainment

This past week, an article about Chelsea Clinton stumping for her mother, Hillary Clinton, was published in the Los Angeles Times entertainment section. Now, the fact that Chelsea is "finally" campaigning for her mother is not necessarily front page news -- but the entertainment section. . .Actually, perhaps all of the stories about the campaign should be published in the entertainment section.

Happy New Year

I am not resolute.
I hope for the best.
I linger in the quietness until worry spurs my tightened chest.

I sit among my papers waiting for motivation to rush to me as if I were sorely missed and then, then I could attend to the sorting and the tidying that I glibly declare I shall complete.
What a treat – to start the new year clean.

David cannot wait for 2008.
It's just another year for me -- growth and more maturity.
Perhaps this year I will keep the gray.

I need not reflect.
I hope for the best.
I cherish my daughters and their lovliness.

Not at all tired, I spy a satellite, or a star it seems, in the brief visible patch of sky between
the window and the window pane, and upon that I meditate until I fall asleep.
These days, they are active, my dreams.

Today is not the head.
‘Tis merely, the turn of the calendar page and the date of my age.
I have no intentions to change.

I do not project.
I hope for the best.
I hope for the best.

Death in the Family

My father in law, A. died last Sunday, December 16, 2007. This past week his wife and his children (my husband and sister-in-law) sat shiva for him. Prayers were held at the home every morning at 6:15 and every afternoon at 4:15. There was always a minyan. We had a lot of food. Too much food perhaps. The atmosphere was lively. There were 40, 50, 60 people at the house every evening reminiscing about A. My mother in law, E. veritably held court as people came to offer their condolences and share stories of the subtle, yet influential ways in which A. touched their lives.
My husband assumed the obligations of his grief respectfully and without question. He has not shaved since A.’s death and his beard is peppered and thick already, after only a week. We seem to circulate around each other as he leaves the house early to attend shul.
After ensuring there was enough food in the house for the mourners and the visitors during the week of shiva, I became ill and have not quite recovered.
My oldest daughter has been a woman through all of this. She too cooked and served food. She stayed with my mother in law to comfort her. She got up at 6:00 on the morning to make sure there was coffee for the men who came to the house to pray in the morning. Her heart is generous and kind.
My youngest daughter returned to school after a day or two. She seems fine.
A. was a strong, giving, decent, observant, caring and humble man. He was 85 years old at the time of his death. He lived a good life and died a good death – peacefully, quietly. We are going to miss him.

Sensitivity

I spent three hours in the dentist chair on Friday because I was unable to become numb. I find that ironic, since I have become acutely aware of my overall numbness in general. I am content, complacent and not easily riled. I do experience acute anxiety rather frequently, but it seems to abate with regular exercise and a sensible diet. When I was young, I felt everything so deeply that I was compelled to write, paint, dance, make music -- anything to exorcise those deep feelings that were so overwhelming that my functioning was impaired by their insistence for my attention. How could I work at a normal job when the world's woes were my own? How could I bother to clean the kitchen when my elation was so prominent that I burst with energy? Of course, in my youth I suffered debilitating mood disorders that drove me to self-medication, therapy and an alternative life style. Now, I am settled, mature. I have held the same job for over seven years. I raised children. I am a homeowner and drive an older luxury car. I am tired with responsibility and not at all unhappy. I have that middle class lack of feeling that surprises me because it is so easy to live with. Nevertheless, I cannot get really numb, for which I am grateful.

What I did This Summer and Death

My 85-year old father-in-law has been seriously ill; he was in and out of the hospital/rehab facility for six weeks. On July 4th, I worked 25 hours straight. I did a natural de-tox program and lost 3-1/2 inches around my waist. A stranger threw a brick at my car windshield while I was driving at 30 miles an hour down a local thoroughfare. I read several books (none of them life changing). I had my hair cut and colored. I lost touch with some friends and increased contact with others. My oldest daughter started a new high school. Last week, I went through drama at work that caused me tremendous anxiety. With great pleasure we celebrated the simcha of my youngest daughter's bat mitzvah. We are still in the midst of the Jewish high holidays, which were are observing in a relaxed manner with deep gratitude for the friends and family who are here with us.

This past Monday the 22-year old son of a colleague died. When I learned the news, the sympathy I felt for my colleague and his wife was deep, palpable. Yesterday was the funeral. At least 300 people were in attendance. (There may have been more -- I am not good at estimating crowds, but there was overflow seating in the hallway outside of the enormous chapel where the service was held.) I did not know the deceased personally, yet the consistency of the description of the deceased in the eulogies and the warmth in the overcrowded chapel made me understand the scope of loss suffered by his family and friends. I felt limited by the parameters of the relationship with my colleague because I want to offer comfort to him and his wife (in part, I suppose, to comfort myself), but I am really just on the periphery and cannot offer true solace -- who can when a tragedy like this befalls a family? All I could do was come home with renewed appreciation for my loved ones.

Pavlova

I attempted to make a Pavlova. The LA Times Food Section had a feature article on Pavlovas -- crispy, gooey meringue shell filled with whipped cream and fresh, seasonal fruit. It looked so simple and delicious, I thought I would give it a try. Now, I can cook up a storm. As I am cooking, I can anticipate how my ingredients will blend, transforming into a savory delicious dish. But baking is altogether different. Baking is science. The ingredients go into the oven one way and emerge another way altogether. I have no sense of control over the outcome when I bake and have to completely rely on recipes. When cooking, I trust myself to tweak or experiment. If I do no have a particular ingredient, I can substitute with confidence. Baking however. . .well, baking gives me the willies.

Nevertheless, I thought I would try to make the Pavlova. Meringue has no fat. The non-dairy whipped cream I use is low calorie. Berries are full of antioxidants and a family favorite. How could I go wrong?

The first way I went wrong is by not having the right equipment. I notice that many dessert recipes call for an electric mixer. I do not own an electric mixer. I do have an old hand held Braun infusion mixer which I use in a pinch. (I received it as a wedding shower gift 18 years ago and it still runs.) The recipe calls for eight egg whites whipped on medium speed until peaks form, about three minutes. I whipped the egg whites. At three minutes, the egg whites were slightly foamy and still very liquid. I whipped some more. The eggs whites became frothy. I continued whipping. The eggs whites eventually became somewhat solid, creating a soft mound more than peaks. I was sick of whipping and decided to move on.

The recipe next called for 2-1/2 cups of superfine sugar, gradually blended with a whisk. I had the sugar and I had a whisk. As I added the sugar, I thought it seemed like an awfully lot of sugar. However, because baking is a science, I felt compelled to follow the recipe exactly, and against my better judgment blended all of the sugar into the egg whites. The egg whites became a dense, opaque creamy color. The foam and whatever peaks may have existed within the foam disappeared as the mixture began to resemble batter.

I added the corn starch, vinegar and vanilla called for the in the recipe. I had definite concerns that the gooey mass in my mixing bowl was not right. But I followed the recipe.

I was supposed to make a circle on parchment paper placed on a cookie sheet, place the meringue on the sheet and bake it. My mixture was too liquid to put on a cookie sheet, so I poured it into a pie pan.

Because I was uncertain about my meringue, I thought I would try again. So I mixed up another batch, again carefully following the recipe. The second batch was very similar to the first batch despite my efforts to whip the egg white a little longer. I placed the second batch on the paper covered cookie sheet as described in the recipe. It did not lay in a pile as suggested by the recipe. Rather, it spread across the cookie sheet as if I was making cooking bars. It was all an experiment, so I let it go.

I baked the meringues as directed.

When it came time to assemble the Pavlova, I discovered the meringue in the pie pan did not cook all the way. While there was the white, crisp meringue crust at the top, underneath was uncooked egg white syrup. Yuck! The meringue on the cookie sheet was thoroughly cooked, so much so that the the paper cooked right into the meringue.

I was able to salvage some of the meringue from the cookie sheet. I lined a bowl with pieces of paperless meringue I manage to break off the large sheet of meringue that filled the cookie sheet, and I topped it the with whipped cream and fruit. It was delicious -- despite the meringue being a bit too sweet. My family decided we would have been just as happy with simple fruit and cream.

mrsjoseph39skitchen.myspace.com

Since I'm in the process of coming out of retirement, I felt it was important to start a myspace page where I could do my music thing like millions of other musicians. I had a regular myspace account so I could comment on M.'s myspace page. But to upload songs, I needed to start a new account as a musician. When I was signing on as a musician, I was prompted to name my URL. I typed in "mrsjoseph'skitchen." Unfortunately, myspace interpreted my URL name as "mrsjoseph39skitchen." How is anybody going to find me as "mrsjoseph39skitchen"?

Kind of like my imperfect kitchen -- I now have an imperfect URL.

Joshua Tree

I chaperoned my daughter's sixth grade class trip to Joshua Tree National Park. We camped in the desert.

The highlight of the trip was the boulder pile. The geography of Joshua Tree is characterized by giant rock ridges that look as if boulders were dropped from the sky to create mountains of stone that line the desert floor. The rocks are rust colored and contrast sharply with the clear blue sky.

We climbed the boulder pile from within, starting at the bottom and making our way through the various passages and rooms created in the spaces between the boulders to the top where emerged high above the desert floor. Some passages were merely the small space between the bottom of an enormous rock and the ground below it. I snaked through on my side, pushing and pulling my body with my feet, my hands, my abdominal muscles. Narrow passages would open up to "rooms" where a shaft of sunlight entering through a high gap in the boulders above illuminated the quartz crystals in the surrounding rock so that the space gently sparkled. It took every bit of my strength and flexibility to pull my way out of rooms that had no obvious exit. More than once, I leveraged my rear against one rock, my feet stretched out to a rock in front of me, and my arms outstretched to rocks next to me, so I could perform a crab-like backward scoot up the rock until I could make it up and over the rock in front of me.

Every single girl on the trip made it all the way through the boulder pile. I was so proud of the girls who worked together to overcome claustrophobia, fear of falling, self-doubt and spider webs to help each other through the course. I was also proud of myself for making it all the way through. I was not afraid, but there were moments that I was concerned about my physical ability to do the climb. (I was particularly concerned that my big fat rear end would not fit through some of the narrow passages we had to make our way through.) I joke with Tony the trainer about being the strongest middle aged mother of two in the Valley. But I don't think it's a joke. . .I really am strong. This opportunity to successfully test my strength made this one of my life's most profound experiences. I can't wait for my next wilderness adventure!

kindofpopfolkadultcontemporaryjazzcountryalternativewhatever

Someone is going to ask me, "what kind of music do you write," and I'm going to say, "I dunnno. . . .kindofpopfolkadultcontemporaryjazzcountryalternativewhatever."

Much to the dismay of my family, I have been working diligently with the recording unit. I basically have locked myself in the garage/office/studio where we keep the equipment. I yell with exasperation at anybody who opens the door, particularly if I am recording a vocal track. (There are many deleted tracks with a soaring vocal interrupted by the sound of the door opening or the phone ringing or the neighbor's gardener mowing the lawn). I do not have monitors yet so my ears are slightly red and swollen from wearing headphones for hours at a time.

I usually write on acoustic guitar but as I record the songs, they evolve into something altogether different as I negotiate any sonic possibility within my limited instrumental skills. While I can sing, my guitar/keyboard/drum machine skills are very basic. Nevertheless, I am so excited to listen to the rough CDs I have been burning off the unit. My kids can't believe it. "You like listening to yourself," they ask incredulously?

Despite my enthusiasm, I still have a lot to learn. What I really need is a producer. Someone who is comfortable with a middle aged soprano who writes songs that are kindofpopfolkadultcontemporaryjazzcountryalternativewhatever.

I'm Considering Coming Out of Retirement

After 15 years of not writing or thinking about having my own band, I am seriously considering coming out of retirement. When I became pregnant 15 years ago, I was a struggling artist scraping by to pay for demo recordings and performing in the middle of the week at dive nightclubs in Hollywood to a roaring crowd of three. Once I had my baby, I was so devoted to her that I was disinclined to spend time away from her. I still had to work a day job to earn money; the rest of my time was devoted to her. As my family grew, music as a vocation or even an avocation grew farther and farther away as a possibility.

Not to mention the fact that the demands of my life sapped me of any real inspiration. I no longer had the emotional impetus of infatuation or heartbreak, being happily married and the mother of two beautiful daughters. Once I became a mother, I pretty much stopped being depressed. I also stopped imbibing in inspirational substances. I became pragmatic, exhausted and focused on providing for my family financially and emotionally. That took its toll on me as an artist.

Now my kids are big. I have a job where overtime work is not permitted. I am strong, healthy, energetic. And I have become inspired.

It started when my dear, dear M. sent me some lyrics she wrote and challenged me to put them to music. Instantly, I wrote music, tweaked some lyrics, and turned them into songs that I really, really like. Even my husband, who is extremely discerning musically, like them.

M.'s gesture was a gift. She really helped get me going. Since then, I have been writing regularly. I have enough songs for a set now. I purchased a multitrack digital recording unit and am in the process of learning how to operate it so I can demo the songs. I even started horning in on my daughter's voice lessons. (On days she cannot go for some reason or other, I take her lesson).

. . .to be continued. . .

In God We Trust

We were at A.'s house for lunch. Several people were sitting around the table after the meal having vigorous discussions. At my end of the table, K. brought up the issue of God's involvement in our lives. She does not believe God micromanages our lives. If someone gets cancer, for example, she does not believe that is necessarily God's doing. How could God allow for the Holocaust? She could not understand how tragedy could be intentional or part of some greater plan. She could not reconcile tragedy with God's ultimate benevolance. She had not really thought about how tragedy in the bible is often explained as being the will of God and shown to serve some higher purpose. This idea caused her to think a moment about her thesis, but did not give her much comfort about God's involvement in the world.

R. disagreed wholeheartedly with K. She believes God is present in her life in an initimate way. She knows this, she explains, because every single day she finds at least one penny. When she picks up the penny, it always says "In God We Trust."

The Bobcat

This weekend I went up to Castaic to practice with G. & S. who graciously invited me to sing with their band at an upcoming show. G. & S. live on a former Clydesdale ranch at the end of a dirt road in the hills of Castaic. The landscape was California chaparral with small shrubs, patches of wild grass, and ragged, crooked trees. The hills remained brown despite some recent rain showers.

While M. has been friends with G. & S. for 10 years, I am just now getting to know them. They seem to be solid, down to earth people imbued with creativity and generous, positive spirits.

After singing together, we sat in the living room of the ranch house. The room had a large plate glass window overlooking the yard. G. & S. leave a children's pool in the yard that is visible from the living room. They keep it filled with water for the wildlife that frequents their property.

While we were talking, their beautiful cat, Cesar, came into the room. Cesar has unusual markings and big blue eyes. Apparently, he is generally slow to warm up, but for some reason, Cesar like me. He jumped into my lap, pushed his head into my hand and insisted on getting my attention. G. & S. were surprised. "He never does that to anybody," they both told me.

As I stroked Cesar, S. described the myriad of wildlife that they have seen since they moved in: deers and fawns, condors, ground squirrels, rattlesnakes, coyotes. She said they have even seen a couple of bobcats that come down from the hills, but they do not see the bobcats as frequently as some of the other animals.

Almost mid-sentence while she was describing the bobcats that come to their house, she interrupted herself, exclaiming, "NO WAY!!! -- look out the window."

Her exclamation caused Cesar to jump out of my arms. G. and I got up from where we were sitting and approached the window. There was a bobcat drinking out of the pool.

Just Living Life

While at the downtown courthouse where I was working on a trial, I ran into a woman, S.S., who I knew when I was seven years old. She is now a high powered, high profile attorney. I am just the paralegal.

(Ironically, M. mentioned to me that she recently called S.S. regarding a legal matter. I actually had no recollection that M. knew S.S. and still cannot recall how M. knows S.S. -- but my selective memory will probably become the subject of a future post.)

I saw S.S. walk into the court cafeteria and recognized her immediately even though I have not seen her for close to 40 years. She is an exquisite looking middle aged woman who looks younger than she is. She was wearing a beautiful overcoat over her expensive suit. Her hair was pulled back. Her features are well defined. She has a big smile. She was wearing big diamond stud earrings and shiny black patent leather high-heel shoes. I waited until I overheard her name mentioned, and then I introduced myself.

"Are you S.S.," I asked.

"Yes," she replied firmly, and not at all quizzically. Being a high powered, high profile attorney I assume she is accustomed to being recognized in public places.

"I am S.A.," I said.

She dropped the purse she was carrying. Her mouth opened in astonishment. She doubled over with surprise and disbelief, sort of swaying as she repeated, "No way. Get out of here. . ."

"You look just the same," she told me.

We chatted briefly and then returned to our respective colleagues.

A couple of days later, I googled her. I read about her career, her achievements. I saw that she I were at both at UCLA, English Department for our undergraduate work. I do not remember seeing her there at all, but imagine we were there at the same time (again, my selective memory which shall be the subject of a future post).

I felt sad because at this point in my life it is hard to imagine that I will have any meaningful career achievements. I have been a dilettante, trying too many things to become an expert at any of them. My interests have not been mere dabbles -- but my lack of fortitude prevented me from really excelling. It seems like every 10 years or so, I switched gears. In my 20's, I passionately pursued creative interests with deep dedication and focus. I was prolific -- writing, singing, dancing, painting. In my 30's, once I started having children, I studied and started practicing as a clinical intern (marriage and family therapy). Just prior to turning 40, financial burdens forced me to switch gears (I was not making any money as an intern), and I found myself working for my current employer where I learned to be a paralegal.

I am just living my life. Like so many others, I am just living my life.

The Equivocal Love

I asked my husband if he would marry me if he met me now. With an equivocal tone he responded, "possibly."

The Memorial Service

Today was the memorial service for R. I was not planning on attending because it is Saturday. I do not drive on Saturday because I observe Shabbat. I felt conflicted about not being able to attend because I was friends with R., but more importantly because I knew that M. needed support. Nevertheless, I told M. I would not be able to attend. As I told her, my heart was in my chest because I knew it would hurt her. I also felt residual guilt because I missed her father’s funeral so many, many years ago. When M.’s father died, I was out of town and unreachable (this was before cell phones and constant access to anyone at anytime). By the time I returned home, the funeral had occurred. This has been a sore spot in our friendship – even though I had no way of knowing that he died and certainly would have been with her had I known. This was an opportunity to repair, in some small way, that particular rift. I told her I would go.

M. came to pick me up. B. was with her. I have not seen B. for at least 15 years.
B. was a close friend of R. and M.’s and was part of the circle of friends that spent time together. When we were in college in the early 1980's, there were groups of us whose relationships overlapped and touched each other starting with the core of M., S. and I. Our boyfriends, bandmates and other friends were brought together by the various parties, shows and other events at which we all congregated.

The memorial service was held on a cliff at Point Dume. M. asked me to drive her car. She quietly and intermittently cried during the ride. It was a beautiful day today – clear, warmer, pure. We ran into C. and G. in the parking lot and walked together to the deck overlooking the ocean where the service was to be held. While not terribly rigorous, the walk was about 1/3 of a mile uphill. G. has become quite frail (she is going to be 74 years old this year) and had to slowly ascend to the site. Our slow pace allowed us to appreciate the pelicans that majestically soared above us.

Several people spoke about R. B. commented on R.’s philosophical nature drawing on references to Nietzsche. He described R. as being "cultured," defining "cultured" as one who seeks to experience life fully, directly and with integrity versus a "philistine" who is only interested in immediate satisfaction. R. commented that his talks with R. always inspired him to live a more "cultured" life. I felt that way after just hearing B. talk about R.

One of R.’s brothers articulated the anger and hurt survivors of suicide feel. "You life was not yours to take away," he lamented. Everyone agreed that although R. was well loved, he did not know that he was well loved.

After the service, we went to a local restaurant where everyone drank and ate until quite late in the afternoon. I did not know R.’s family but clearly the four brothers, their significant others and children were hurt and angered by R.’s suicide. I thought they appeared close and loving, and it was not until later this evening that B. revealed to me that there are numerous dynamic rifts in the family – alliances and chasms – that were not apparent today.

I drove home because both M. and B. drank fairly heavily during the afternoon. On the way home, the three of us reminisced about our lives in the 1980's. We agreed that was a splendid time for us – perhaps the best time of our life when everything was exciting to us and subject to deep discussion. Our best memories of R. are from that time and his unexpected death gave us an opportunity to revisit that period. Our sense of loss exasperated by his death and the distance we have traveled from our youth.

Evite

We hosted a new year's eve party. Since we hosted a new year's eve party last year, it seems that we may be starting a precedent. I was not intending to host a party, but at least two of my friends asked if we were going to host a party this year -- so we did.

I'm always happy to entertain. My parties are usually quite nice. But, despite all my experience throwing parties, I always get anxious that no one is going to come.

For this party, I sent out invitations via Evite. Evite is an electronic e-mail invitiation service that sends out invitiations, tracks responses, and even lets you send out photos of the event to all the guests. One of the features of evite is the rsvp page which shows who has rsvp'd to the event and any comments they may leave. We invited over 25 couples, but only a handful rsvp'd through Evite. Of that handful, only three rsvp'd that they were coming. There were at least five people who posted on Evite that they would not be coming. Two were undecided. This really disturbed me. I know that I certainly would think twice about going to a party where only three people said they were coming but more than that said they were not. What good is a party without guests? I knew in reality that more than three people were coming to the party because I spoke to them directly -- but the other guests responding on Evite did not have this information. I became anxious -- what if the guests who had not yet responded saw the rsvp list and thought going to this lame party would be a waste of time?

Of course, if the guests did not respond on Evite they would not see that only three people said they were coming and all of this concern is really for naught.

P.S. The party turned out lovely, with a houseful of friends eating, drinking, visiting, playing music and bringing in the new year together.

Not Such a Good Night

Last night I found out that R. committed suicide. He was M.'s boyfriend when we were at UCLA. M. is one of my best friends, and has been for over 30 years. I have not seen R. for many, many years and only heard about him occasionally from M. He moved out of state to teach history at the college level. He was an intellectual bad boy with a lot of charm, charisma and sufficient hipness factor to win us over when we were at university. He rode a motorcycle. He rolled his own cigarettes. He read German history in German. For several years I wore one of his leather jackets until he eventually reclaimed it. I painted his portrait.

* * *

Also at about 10:00 last night, my younger daughter burned her upper lip/nose. She was roasting marshmallows in the fireplace. While holding a particularly seared marshmallow on its long metal skewer, it slipped off the tip of the skewer onto her face. While she was in a lot of pain, the burn itself did not look too bad. As per the first aid instructions I googled, she kept a cold compress on the burn and took some pain relief medication. While she was very uncomfortable, I was confident she would be alright.

At about 11:00 my husband came home after being at the gym, and then the supermarket. He panicked when he saw my daughter's face which during the hour became redder and slightly blistery. We decided to take her to the emergency room. Fortunately, the closest hospital specializes in burn treatment. Because it is a small hospital, we not have to wait to long for treatment. We were reassured by the burn specialist who told us the burn was superficial and she would probably have no scarring.

The Roches

The Roches are one of my most significant musical influences. They are my heroes! The trio of sweetly singing sisters has been a part of my life since 1979 when my mother first turned me on to them. Singing along to their intricate harmonies (I always sing Terre's parts) is how I learned to sing and to harmonize. The intelligent, humorous and sometimes whimsical lyrics of their songs became one of the standards I held myself up to as I wrote songs. If you look at item 86 on my list of 100 things, you will see that The Roches are one of my desert island artists. I sang their song, "Hammond," to my children for years as a lullaby. I have covered three of their songs in various bands I have played in ("Pretty and High," "Mary" and "Mr. Sellack"). I have not become bored of their music in any way whatsoever. I do not even know if I have the ability to express what a devout, dedicated, admiring fan I am.

This past week the Roches played locally. They rarely play in my city. Months ago, I saw that they would be playing. I did not buy tickets because the show was advertised as a holiday show and I did not know if I wanted to see even the Roches singing Christmas carols for the evening. My husband, however, knowing the fan I am, surprised me by getting tickets for the show.

I was so glad that he did! The show was fantastic and it was not Christmas carol laden as I was afraid it would be.

At the end of the show, The Roches invited audience members on stage with them to sing (a Christmas carol actually). I rushed the stage, hurrying as fast as my middle aged ass would go, down from the balcony, to the stage door, where I was the last audience member to make it up there before they closed the stage door. They sang "Silver Bells," which I do not really know, but I faked it anyway "ooing" and "aahing" along in harmony. I could not believe there I was on stage with my idols! What a thrill!

Afterward, I had an opportunity to speak with them. First I told Terre what a huge influence their music had on me. After I told her I sang "Hammond" to my kids as a lullaby for years, she said, "Let me give you a hug," as she appeared generally touched by my devotion. I told Suzzy too. She also gave me hug. I also told Maggie. Maggie did not give me a hug, but she looked at me very sweetly and ever so prettily.

My Father's Wife

My mother died on July 2, 1984 after a protracted illness. I graduated from UCLA two days before she died. I turned 23 years old two weeks after she died. My mother was 43 years old when she died.

Within weeks after my mother's death, my father started bringing women home. At the time, I was living in his house, having moved back during the last few months of my mother's life. My father's room was right next to my room. I could hear him having sex with these women while sobbing about my mother. One night, I could not take it any more and I chased the woman out of the house.

In the autumn of 1984, my father met S. in the waiting room of his psychologist's office. She was also a patient. They started dating. She started spending more and more time at our house. She would leave her young children at our house while she went out with my father. I remember seeing her little girl, who was 5 years old at the time, sitting sadly in my father's bed room watching tv and having no idea where her mother was.

She was a born again Christian and would not sleep with my father unless they were married. By May 1985, they planned on getting married. My brother and I were appalled. This woman was nothing like my mother who was intelligent, emotionally sophisticated, Jewish. At the time, all we could think about was what a horrible lack of respect to our mother, to us. We felt betrayed and abandoned by our father. My father just could not tolerate being alone. He needed a woman to take care of him.

I was told I had to move out of the house. I was not emotionally or financially prepared to move, but I had little choice. I felt like the princess in the fairy tale who was forced to leave the castle when the wicked step-mother took up residence.

In July 1985, the same week that my mother's grave was unveiled, my father married S. I did not speak to him for years thereafter.

When I became pregnant with my first daughter, it was important to me to repair my relationship with my father for the sake of my child. My father agreed to go to family counseling together. We had sessions alone, with my husband, my brother, S. and her children. Without getting defensive, he was able to listen to how his actions hurt me. My father's ability to tolerate my anger was tremendously healing. I developed a great respect for him after that experience.

We worked out a plan -- every Sunday, while S. was at church, my father would meet us for brunch. (We did this for many, many years until the kids became older and started having sports and music lessons on Sunday mornings.)

While I did not have any love for S., I endured her at family functions. I could never look her in the eye however, because the sight of her upset me so much.

Several years ago, S. was diagnosed with Huntington's disease. Ironically, my father again found himself in the position of caretaker for his wife. S.'s condition steadily deteriorated. About 18 months ago, she fell and broke her back. She has not been home since as her care requires more than my father can handle on his own.

Throughout her illness, S. has been positive, uncomplaining -- rather inspirational actually. Despite her disability, she attended family functions. She could hardly walk, but she had her hair and nails done regularly. Until she became totally debilitated, my father took her to the beach or to the movies, to church. We all recognized that her belief in Jesus was fundamental to her positive spirit and were grateful that she had religion.

I still did not have any love for her.

My father and S. come to my house every Thanksgiving. I also invite my S.'s children. She has two sons (one of which is married with two babies) and a daughter. This year, her daughter asked if she could bring S. "Of course," I said. So the daughter and her friend brought S. in her wheelchair from the nursing facility.

Everyone who was here for Thanksgiving thought S. looked good. I thought she looked terrible -- frail, bent, her hair grey. Even though I still do not have any love for her, her frailty touched me -- having a sense of my father's hardship saddened me. Seeing S. made me cry.

Pre-Thanksgiving

I have hosted Thanksgiving dinner for my family for close to 20 years. My parents used to host Thanksgiving. Our home was open and filled mostly with friends -- their friends, our friends, friends of friends. Food was plentiful, as were various substances with which to imbibe. Music was always playing. People were always laughing. The house was warm, inviting and full of life. I hope I've maintained that tradition.

Many of our friends who regularly join us are unable to come this year due to illness or travel or other familiy commitments. That makes me rather sad. Even so, we will be at least 20 around the table.

This year's menu consists of:

• Roast turkey
• Tandoori style turkey breast
• Simple stuffing with celery and onions
• Stuffing with carrots, dried cranberries and pecans
• Sweet potatoes (either roasted or sauteed with mustard seeds and warm spices)
• Mashed potatoes
• Sauteed Brussels sprouts with fennel, shallots and walnuts
• Roasted beets
• Roasted asparagus
• Pureed cauliflower and carrots
• Steamed green beans
• Carrots (not sure yet how I will cook them)
• Balsamic glazed squash with pine nuts
• Port glazed onions
• Green salad
• Spinach Bhajee
• Traditional pumpkin pie
• Coconut pumpkin pie
• Low-carb, gluten free pumpkin pie
• Apple pie
• Pecan pie
• Pear pie with glazed ginger and figs
• Chocolate chip pie
• Mandel Brot

I think that's enough.

I have good intentions, and secrets too secret to mention

gathering dust

because I lost the references.

Lost

I am not a big tv watcher. We have two televisions in our household of four. Up until a year ago, we had only one small television we kept in our bedroom. We do not have cable so we need to use a rabbit-ear antennae to get any reception. Even with the antennae, we do not get channel two. Because my husband and I could no longer stand to have the kids in our room when they wanted to watch their television programs which we could not stand, we finally relented and bought a small television for one of our kids. I watch the morning news on a daily basis to catch the traffic and weather reports. While I sporadically follow a series, I do not do so regularly, except for "Lost."

I love "Lost." On Wednesdays, I organize my day around "Lost." I do not schedule any activity for Wednesday evening, for myself or my children. I make sure dinner is cooked, consumed and cleaned up well before the 9:00 starting time. I prefer to watch "Lost" in bed after changing into my night clothes, brushing my teeth and washing my face.

I do not accept phone calls while watching "Lost." One night when "Lost" was on, the phone rang. My kid, knowing I won't pick up the phone, answered the call which was from one of my dear friends, who apparently was not yet attuned to my devotion to "Lost." My kid said, "You'll have to talk to her later, when "Lost" is over." When I called my friend back, she said "At least you admit it."

"Admit what," I asked.
"Watching Lost."
"Yeah, so what," I replied.
"Well aren't you embarrassed."
"Why should I be embarrassed. It's a really good show -- intelligent, suspenseful with good plot and characters."
"It's not a reality show?" she asked.

I spend an inordinate of time perusing "Lost" blogs. My favorite is darkufo.blogspot.com which is an attractive, comprehensive and accessible blog. I also recently discovered lostopedia.com which summarizes the story of each character, a feature I particularly appreciate.

As far as I'm concerned, "Lost" is the pinnacle of hump day.

One Of The Stones In My Foundation Of Guilt

When I was about four years old my mother got into a car accident and I thought it was my fault. At that time we lived in Fountain Valley which is in Orange County, south of Los Angeles. In the early 1960's Fountain Valley was a sprawling developing land of contained townhomes and track houses. We lived in a small house that had no living grass that I could recall. There was a metal swing set in the backyard. I hated going into the backyard because the dirt was hard, the grass was dry and there were gopher holes every where. I did not know that a gopher was just a small rodent. To me a gopher was a monster that lived under the ground and made the swing set a dangerous place so I rarely went into the backyard.

I went to nursery school which I don’t really remember too well. My mother told me that I loved nursery school and that the teachers loved me. I was a charming little girl with big round deep brown eyes, an easy smile. I was bright, learning easily and participating readily in any activity that presented itself to me. I was a good girl too. I did not make many demands, I listened to the adults and did what I was told to do. I still have my nursery school diploma pasted in my baby book. I always did well in school – even nursery school, I guess.

The day of the accident, my mother brought me a gift when she picked me up from nursery school. She brought me a porcelain figurine. The figurine had a little booklet attached that explained who she was. We were driving home in my mother’s pale blue station wagon. I was sitting in the front seat next to my mother. I asked her to read to me what the booklet said. She read to me as she drove. We approached a cross-walk where a woman was crossing the street. My mother somehow noticed the woman, even though she was reading to me, and she hit the brakes but there was not enough time for the car to stop before it struck the woman. The woman made it to the sidewalk where she sat on the corner crying, a rag wrapped around her bleeding ankle. My mother was shaking. I was shaking. We later learned the woman was a nurse and she was okay.

For years I thought the accident was my fault because my mother was reading to me as she drove. It was not until I was an adult that I learned that the brakes went out on the car and that it was the car did not stop. By then however, guilt was the foundation upon which my personality was formed and the knowledge didn’t really help to absolve me.

Life's Bottom Line

I'm pretty sure I have body dysmorphic disorder. I have no idea what I really look like. There is a huge disconnect between what I see when I look at myself in the mirror and what I see when I look at myself in photographs. The truth is, I am not particularly photogenic. Even my friends tell me, "Oh, you look much better in real life." I am not ugly. I am just disconnected. Always have been.

I am fortunate that my husband thinks I am an attractive, sexy woman. But I do not really think of myself as a sexy woman. I think I can muster enough style and poise to get away with attractive. . .but sexy? Sexy is the purview of the thin, the bare, the confident. What does it take to feel sexy -- particularly if you are fat? What does it take to be sexy -- I mean really "be" sexy, not just act sexy? As I developed into a woman, being "sexy" was such a mandate. The media, populated with images of "sexy" looking women gave no real direction about what it mean to "be" sexy. And what is so important about being sexy anyway? It all comes down to being loved.

We all just want to be loved. Post 1960's "sexy" = "lovable." What a superficial analysis. But that's it really -- to be connected, to be loved. It's life's bottom line.

Sick

I have been sick all week and will post properly upon recovery.

Liar

I found out, in a surreptitious way, that my teenager is lying to me. Because my method of discovery is surreptitious, I cannot tell her I know that she is lying to me. The thing she lied about is not a major thing in and of itself -- but the fact that she lied to me is very disturbing. Furthermore, when I tried talking to her about the subject about which she lied, she continued to lie to me even though I gave her ample opportunity to tell me the truth.

Most people do not think there is anything unusual about a teenager lying to a parent. While that is not acceptable behavior or expected behavior(especially for certain prize teenagers), it is not unsurprising that a teenager will lie to his or her parent. By temperament, my teenager is reticent, withholding and not terribly articulate. She does not like talking to me when she is eating even though meal time is one of the few times we are together as a family. She does not like talking to me on the phone when I check in with her at the end of the school day. She does not even seem to like talking much to me when I go in her room, sit on her bed, and chat with her. She is a shut-down master. As a result, I have little true knowledge of what is going on in her life.

I do know that my teenager is in a safe school/social environment and believe she is not engaging in dangerous or excessive behaviors (certainly not the kind of behaviors I was engaged in when I was her age). I also recognize her need to individuate and all that entails. Nevertheless, knowing that she lied to my face is an alarm I need to listen to. I'm just not sure how to respond.

Cheating

I discovered an entertaining way bloggers can cheat on content development: www.blogthings.com. It gives you all kinds answers to hypotheticals that are meant to describe your character. The past life generator turned me into a diseased belly dancer who lived in New Zealand and died by decapitation. At first blush, I thought this was just random. Then it dawned on me -- I am indeed a belly dancer who longs to go to New Zealand and who is very, very attached to my head. Provocative.

I cannot count how many times my friends and I discuss what we will cook for dinner while we are in the the middle of eating lunch.

I love food. It is not that I just like to eat, which I do, but it is more about loving food -- the idea of food, the preparation of food, the feeding of others, thinking about food, talking about food, reading about food. Food as an art form. Cooking as a challenge.

Considering the obesity rates in the U.S. it looks like food is a weapon of mass destruction in this country.

Contrary to the foregoing, my whole life is not centered around food. While I am a creative home cook, by no means am I a gourmet cook with fancy techniques. I peruse cookbooks, but only rarely make recipes from them, preferring to create my own version of whatever has been tested and published. Because I keep kosher, there are many foods I do not touch. I do not even eat out all the much, and when I do, I tend to go to the same restaurants and order the same dish.

I hate eating out alone. That seems to run in my family as my father hates eating alone too. It makes me so sad to see other people eating alone, especially if the person is fat or cranky looking or old or so tuned into the food that s/he is oblivious to the surroundings.

I do love the social aspect of dining. I so look forward to mealtime when I am with a friend at lunch or hosting 25 people for Thanksgiving dinner. As noted in prior posts, cooking for others is one of my all-time favorite activities. Here are 10 of my favorite foods:

1. Cutta (sweet and sour beet soup)
2. Asparagus roasted with olive oil and kosher salt
3. Chicken roasted with lemon and garlic
4. Coconut Curry
5. Cesar Salad
6. Grilled Salmon
7. Ice cream
8. Chai tea
9. Pureed cauliflower
10. Pie

You are welcome to let me know what some of your favorite foods are.

The Upcoming Reunion

I attended an alternative school during my junior high school years (7th to 9th). The school was a cutting edge experiment in 1973 when it first opened and I was one of the first set of students to attend the school. It had classes for kids from kindergarten to 12th grade. It was based on a humanistic model, where homeroom was called "family" and every week there were group sessions to discuss just about anything. Instead of P.E. we went hiking. The openness and experimental nature of the school fostered creativity in its students.

This year, the school is having its first reunion.

When I first heard about the reunion, I was excited. I had some dear, dear friends back then who I have lost touch with and am interested in knowing more about. What are they like as adults? Are they married? What kind of work do they do? Are they still the type of people I would like to be friends with?

Then I started thinking about my life when I was in junior high. Ages 12 - 14 are not really the best year's in anybody's life, and certainly not mine. I get queasy when I think about the things I did when I was that age -- things that would make me die if my children did them! I put myself in situations where I compromised my integrity, experimented dangerously and acted in ways that were just plain stupid. Now I'm not so sure I want to see the people I did these things with -- first drug experiences, first sexual experiences. The social mechanics of the young teenager are not pretty and certainly were not pretty in the permissive atmosphere of the early 1970's. Some of my most benign memories of that time:

• Listening to David Bowie's "Space Oddity" with Rachel
• Dumping a dead snake in a back alley in Hollywood with Jenny Belleu after she stole her mother's car (we were 14 years old and found the snake during one of our school hiking trips)
• Going to Disneyland with Marina, Kevin, Michael, Dimitri and Gary
• Being Dorothy in the "Wizard of Oz"
• Getting mugged in the neighborhood park with Danny and some other kids
• Seeing a giant potato bug in the "Garden"
• The smell of school lunch
• Going to the radio studio to catch a glimpse of Dr. Demento
• Hanging out at the La Brea Tar Pits when the park was filled with street performers, hippies and LA County Museum entrance was free
• Window shopping at Sadie

But the painful memories reside like a stone in my heart. Some of it is the normal angst of adolescence that comes with the negotiation of relationships. But I also did things that made me feel anxious and guilty because I knew then that what I was doing was wrong. My parents were permissive. They trusted me because I was smart and nice. But I did things I did not want them to know about, especially things around my sexual discovery. I put myself in situations that were not conducive to developing healthy self-esteem in a young lady. I still feel very sad when I think about it.

My Earliest Memory

I was around two or maybe three years old. I was outside with other children who were bigger than I was. I was wearing a new two-piece bathing suit. I was very proud of my new two-piece bathing suit. I felt like a big girl in my new two-piece bathing suit. One of the bigger kids told me that the bottom was on inside-out. Right away, standing outside on the sidewalk, I took of the bottom, turned it right side out and put it back on. The other children laughed at me because my bottom was bare for that moment. I felt a brief sense of shame.

My inner voice is low and not making itself heard.

Sukkot

This weeked was Sukkot. Generally, I have to work on Sukkot. While I am able to take time off for Rosh Hoshana, Yom Kippur and Passover, I usually cannot get the time off work for Sukkot. This year, however, since Sukkot fell on the weekend, I was able to be here. This meant I cooked.

And I cooked. And I cooked.

I was so pleased to be home for the holiday that I invited guests on Friday night. I invited guests for Saturday lunch. I invited guests for Sunday lunch. There were at least 12 of us at each meal.

And I was so pleased to cook for all of them.

I made cutta (sweet-sour beet soup), beef curry, lemon garlic chicken, spiced cauliflower, eggplant with basil, green bean bajee, rice, hashua, shufta, green salad, egg salad, baked eggs, cauliflower en croute, salmon with herbs de provence, tuna salad, autumn salad, greek salad. My daughter made lasagna. I served humuus, and challah, seven layer cake, checker board cake, apple pie, medjool dates, cashew crisps, rugalah, cookies, grapes and almonds. We went through several bottles of wine, and Pelligrino, soda, coffee, black tea, mint tea.

Every body ate. We laughed a lot. We had fresh flowers in the sukkah. In the garden there were hummingbirds, and butterflies the size of tea saucers fluttering among the purple sage blossoms.

What a blessing to feed my friends!

Listening to Dreams

In Selene's dream, all the action is slo-mo
She jumps and she's flying out of reach
In Selene's dream

The dreams of other people are usually not that interesting to listen to. Yet people want to share their dreams -- the dream experience sometimes being so real, so profound, so moving that telling the dream can dispel or cement that experience.

When recounting dreams, people tend to tell them in a monotonous, droning voice that makes my mind wander. Not only do my children share their dreams with me, but my friends do so, or at least they used to when we were in school together, in those days when our contact was regular, daily. Now my primary contact with my friends is on the telephone. All of us with our jobs and our families, we're no less committed to each other than I was with my daily school friends, it's just that we are all grown up now with evolving needs for connection. Much of that is satisfied by our families, who naturally, are the relationship priority. Not all my friends are married with families. But even my single friends, at this point in our lives, have jobs and routines that do not facilitate the immediacy of those daily friendship where one conversation is merely picked up the next time you see each other instead of these "catch-up" conversations that start with "So what's been going on?" In the "catch-up" conversations I learn momentous events have effected my dear friends tremendously -- cancer scares, job promotions, a shift in perspective. In my youth, it hurt me to learn of such momentous events anytime other than concurrent with the occurrence itself. I felt betrayed, left out, less loved. Now, the timing of the telling is not significant -- just the telling, and perhaps more importantly, the listening.

Hawks

This morning, I took my daughter to her friend's house. Her friend lives on a quiet suburban street. At the intersection of the street, the water had collected into a small hollow. As I turned the corner, a bird was standing in the water. I stopped the car, as the bird took no action to move out of my way.

The bird was a small hawk. I looked it in the eye.

I used to see hawks all the time. In the spring and summer, I saw them every day as I commuted to work. the hawks circled over the freeway, swooping with the air currents in that motionless flight unique to these birds. Why would they circle the freeway? There was no prey -- just the traffic. Why were they there for me to see?

I also saw hawks daily from my office window as my office is in the hills of Southern California. I often saw them in pairs. As the summer became hotter, I stopped seeing them.

Recently, I have not seen too many hawks. When I became aware that I had not seen hawks for a while I became a little anxious. The hawks are messengers that things are alright. To not see the hawks did not bode well. I do find it significant that today's hawk sighting, at such close range too (most unusual), corresponds with Rosh Hoshanna -- although I am not yet sure what it signifies.

I am always grateful when I see them. Their grace. Their flight -- as if they own the wind. I just learned that hawks are a powerful totem. They are messengers and guides to inspiration.

Ripe

Oh. Motherhood has left its mark on me
stained my flesh,
rivulets marking my womb.
I don't recognize myself anymore.
I can't see what you may see when you look at me.
I am
warm
torn
ripened.
There is so much more to me.
My flesh sets on my bones.
The trappings of my experience,
life's load.
Even my arms too, are soft,
like my belly,
from yielding.

100 Things

In no particular order:

1. I am middle aged but essentially feel the same inside as I always have.

2. I went to the same high school my mother went to.

3. I married a man who grew up in the same neighborhood I did.

4. I love my husband.

5. I love to sing.

6. When I was a child, I sang at the top of my lungs while I walked to school, hoping that I would be discovered.

7. When I was in high school, one of my teachers told me that I could not sing.

8. Now, people tell me I have a beautiful voice.

9. I have been in bands and made a record. The record did not sell very many copies.

10. I spent a large part of my adolescence and early adulthood depressed.

11. I was in therapy for 15 years.

12. I am no longer depressed.

13. I studied and trained to be a therapist but could not continue on that path because I had to get a job that paid money.

14. I lost a baby when I was 20 weeks pregnant.

15. I work out regularly with a personal trainer who has made me the strongest middle-aged mother of two in my neighborhood.

16. Lately, my favorite cocktail is gin and sugar-free tonic with a lot of lime, but I hardly have cocktails anymore on the advice of my trainer.

17. I also gave up caffeine, dairy and artificial sweeteners on the advice of my trainer.

18. I love ice cream.

19. I enjoy cooking for other people.

20. I always make Thanksgiving dinner for a lot of people. They insist I make the same dishes every year. Since that is boring for me, I always add a new dish. This means I make about 15 different dishes for Thanksgiving, not including dessert.

21. I contributed and tested recipes for a cookbook.

22. I am a control freak when it comes to throwing a party.

23. When I read, I become so totally immersed in the book that I become unaware of what is going on around me.

24. I do not watch very much tv.

25. I do not have cable.

26. I do tend to get hooked on one show at a time. When my children were little it was "X-Files." They had trouble sleeping and I would panic if they were not asleep by 9:00 p.m. on Sunday night when the "X-Files" aired. Lately it is “Lost.”

27. I hardly believe it when people tell me they love me.

28. I do believe it when my children tell me they love me.

29. I never really enjoyed taking my kids to the park.

30. I never went to PTA meetings.

31. I wish I was a better mother.

32. I grew up celebrating Christmas.

33. Now I keep kosher and observe Shabbat.

34. I like my job.

35. For the first 11 years of my life, my family moved every year or so.

36. I have four cats.

37. I am allergic to cats.

38. I fantasize about living in Hawaii.

39. I have traveled, but only a little bit.

40. I used to speak fluent Italian.

41. I had dreams where I was speaking in only French or Italian.

42. I have sold my artwork to people I don’t know.

43. I am shy.

44. When I am with funny people, I can be funny too.

45. Two of my dearest friends have the same name.

46. Sometimes, I believe I am truly empathic, feeling what my companion is feeling at that moment, although that could also be a narcissistic delusion.

47. I feel separate from most people most of the time.

48. I belly dance.

49. I am overweight.

50. When I was not overweight, I thought I was fat.

51. I used to think I looked prettier when I made a serious face. Now I think I look better when I smile.

52. I sometimes embarrass my children because I love to sing and dance.

53. My mother died the day after I graduated from college. I was 22 years old.

54. I did not speak to my father for many years, but then we reconciled. Now he is an important part of my life.

55. I get along with my in-laws.

56. I love color. I love looking at color displays such as the paint chip racks at Home Depot or bottles of nail polish lining the drug store wall.

57. I do not wear blue clothing.

58. I have to dye my hair every few weeks because I have fast growing grey hair.

59. People tell me I look younger than I am.

60. I love being strong.

61. I don’t know when I will be able to retire.

62. I enjoy being in my garden.

63. I am trustworthy.

64. I do not tell people’s secrets.

65. I am an honest person.

66. I struggle to be revealingly honest in my creative endeavors because I believe honesty is required for good art.

67. I thank God regularly for big and little things in my life.

68. I believe that the natural world communicates to us.

69. My parents taught me to be tolerant of other viewpoints and ways of life.

70. I am a spendthrift.

71. I like when people acknowledge my efforts, but it embarrasses me.

72. I have never won an award for anything.

73. I am very lucky in life, but so unlucky when I gamble. I never win when I gamble.

74. I worry about the world my children are growing into and what the world is going to be like when they are adults.

75. When my nieces were little, before I had children of my own, I used to get pleasure from strangers thinking they were my daughters.

76. People used to think my younger brother and I were twins.

77. I never drink regular soda.

78. I have journaled since I was 12 or 13. Most of my journals contain budgets, complaints about my weight and lists of things I want to do.

79. I once saw a UFO.

80. I surf blogs and try to let people know I have looked at them.

81. I don’t really like my name, but I have no idea what other name would suit me.

82. I am not particularly political which can be challenging because I am surrounded by political people.

83. My life is blessedly full which leaves me with insufficient solitude to make meaningful work.

84. I may be a bit of a dilettante, despite my serious commitment to creativity.

85. I have been a teacher of human development classes, mommy and me, and belly dance.

86. If I could only take five albums with me on a deserted island I would take: Joni Mitchell Hejira, Parliament Greatest Hits, Eno Before and After Science, The Roches The Roches, and John Coltrane Love Supreme.

87. I try to be nice.

88. While I do have opinions, I am not good at debating.

89. My eldest daughter is taller than I am.

90. Since I stopped being depressed, I stopped having dreams in which I fly.

91. My thoughts are auditory, not visual.

92. I learn better when someone teaches me than by reading on my own.

93. I truly appreciate learning new things.

94. I wonder what it is like to be a man, but do not actually want to be a man. I am very happy that I am a woman.

95. I have never been to the mikvah because I am too embarrassed to get naked in front of the mikvah lady.

96. My most significant wish is that my children grow up to be happy, healthy, safe and successful in whatever path they choose.

97. I have feet like a hobbit because I never wore shoes when I was a child.

98. I like having my back massaged more than ANYTHING else in the world.

99. I do not remember enough of my life.

100. I believe we make a choice between life and death everyday.

As The Story Goes. . .

Just like everyone has a mother, everyone has a story. And I think probably most people have some sort of tragedy in their life that becomes their story – some sort of experience that causes a profound reaction and may change the direction of life. Sometimes the tragedy is cruel. For example, one of the many tragedies in my life is that my mother died when she was quite young. Sometimes the tragedy is subtle and not even touched by cruelty; it is the entitled child who can comfortably take, take, take but gives nothing back because everything in his life has been provided to him. These stories must engender compassion. These stories are formative. They are the stories of our humanity and they are all familiar.

There was a period in my life when storytelling emerged as the theme of all of the music, films and books that I was exposed to. As I became more involved in middle-class survival on behalf of my family and myself, concepts like the importance of the story dwindled as existential demands of life forced me to focus more pointedly on doing versus ruminating. In other words, I didn’t think about any of this for years! Now that I am middle aged and my kids are not as dependent on me, I have reached the developmental stage where nostalgia emerges in full force. Story is the repository of memory, containing history and hope. While so many things inform our psyche and form our personality, there are usually some key experiences that are truly formative. They are the experiences that cause new ways of behaving – if not at the time, in the future.

For example, when I was in sixth grade, I had no friends. I started a new school and just did not fit in. When I started the new school, I was excited. My family moved frequently when I was a child, so I learned to adapt early on to new social situations. In fact, every time we moved, I looked forward to starting school because I always made friends easily. But this was different. This was the first time in my life when I did not make any friends. I was devastated. The other girls in the class teased me so badly that it hurt. They teased me about my clothes, my ideas, even my politics. (The politics weren’t actually mine – they were my parents but sixth grade was during an election year and we had a mock election. Mine was one of two votes out of 30 for the democratic party.) I cried all the time. I locked myself in my room and read books about orphans who made their way in the world on their wits, charm and the kindness of rich adults. By seventh grade, my family again moved. I started a new school where I took a school bus to school everyday. There were some ninth grade girls who also rode the bus. For some reason, the ninth grade girls did not like me. I had no idea why. I did not hang out with them or any of their friends at school. I was not even aware that they knew who I was. Nevertheless, everyday on the bus these girls teased mercilessly by calling me bad names, accusing me of saying or doing things I never did, mocking me. It was horrible! I could not understand why they picked on me. I fought back with them. I challenged their reasons for picking on me, and even slung a few nasty insults myself. After being bullied in sixth grade, I had no intention of being a passive victim. Fighting back was a new skill, one that developed out of the tragedy of my cruddy sixth grade experience. It helped to confront these nasty girls; I never had the same feeling of victimization that I had from my sixth grade experience. (I am so grateful to say that since sixth grade, I am blessed in that I have always had good friends around me. More stories. . .)

We go to bed with stories. We teach through stories. We connect through stories. We find resolution through stories. We touch the divine through stories. We kiss the sublime through stories. We waste time through stories. We survive through stories.