The Inconvenient Side of Superpower

So there I was this morning, once again bemoaning the fact that I can't fly.

I mean if there was anything I'd want to do that was extra special, it would be to defy gravity and float places so I never hit traffic or ruined the heel tabs on my Kenneth Cole knockoffs.

Think of the benefits: you're at a crowded party and stuck talking to someone you'd rather not be talking with. You're trying to be attentive and polite, but really. So you do that thing some people do, where you pretend you've suddenly seen an old friend -- "Oh, my goodness, is that Jenny?!?" -- and your conversation partner turns to look as you lift your arm to wave. Unbeknownst to this annoying guest, lifting your arm is the best way you know to avoid sludging through the other partygoers to get out of listening to one more anecdote about his toe corns. Kablam! You're aloft! Before he can turn around and wonder where you've gone, you're out the door and on the way to Baskin Robbins for a little Gold Medal Ribbon ice cream. You don't even have to remember where you parked the car.

Or suppose the kids get a frisbee or a hula hoop stuck in a tree. (I've seen the hula hoop thing happen. You don't want to know how it got there, but try not to judge.) You'd become the coolest parent on the block if you could retrieve tree-snagged frisbees. Maybe there's a precariously swaying tree limb hanging over your patio from your neighbor's back yard and your husband going up a 30-foot ladder with a chainsaw makes you want to check his insurance policy and light a few candles. Shazam! "Honey, I've got this. Just stand back." If that's not a romance starter, I don't know what is. 

But I bet there's a down side. Think of Superman, the ultimate flyer. Of course, he was an alien, so he could defy gravity because he was from another planet and the gravity there was presumably different. I mean, so he could lift off, but what kept him on the ground the rest of the time? Did he just think heavy thoughts? "Today I am totally feeling like a hippopotamus..." Maybe he played Wagnerian opera in the mornings when he got ready for school or later, for work.

And what about when he first started flying? Was it something he inherently knew how to do? Or were there multiple scenes in the fourth grade where Clark finally got multiplication and would eagerly raise his hand and... "Oh, dear, Clark, not again," his teacher would say as she called for the custodian the third time that month to come repair the ceiling. All of Clark's classmates would tug him out of the rafters, wood bits and plaster dust raining down upon their little towheads. I would bet there was an interesting learning curve.

Later, what about all those suits left in phone booths? I used to worry about that, watching the old episodes when I was a kid. I was that kind of kid. What happened to his clothes after he left the phone booth on a Lois Lane-saving mission? Maybe there was a news story, a sidebar by cub reporter Jimmy Olsen, detailing the odd phenomenon of a lot of well-dressed hobos stumbling around Metropolis. Maybe only the hobos that could fit 46-wide. The citizens would see them standing on street corners, arguing: "No, I know I look good, but I could still use your change. I'm starving here."

In some recent werewolf books I've read, organized packs keep lockers in different cities for when their members wake up naked after an episode of werewolfishness (not really a noun, by the way). It's part of the membership fee: you go out running on a full moon and wake up in Kansas City or Miami or Vancouver, and there's a U-Lock-It place with a combination only paying members know so they can grab a pair of jeans, a nice pressed t-shirt, and some Keds.

But Superman operated solo. He never came out of an alternate state in his birthday suit, but he couldn't really go back to the phone booth to pick up his trousers and tie. So what happened to his stuff? Did he have this account over at Brooks Brothers where he'd go once a month and they'd hand him a thirty-day supply? "Mr. Kent, the way you spill soups on things is just unbelievable..." And he was a reporter! How much could he have possibly earned? He wasn't independently wealthy like Batman or Iron Man. I don't ever remember anyone handing him a check for saving the city from doom. Ever. His credit card payments must have been enormous. I can't even imagine how the ladies at Motor Vehicles felt about him showing up, looking all sheepish, having "lost" his driver's license again from leaving his wallet behind in his pants pocket.

 Maybe he had a snug backpack under the cape that we never saw. It wouldn't have been aerodynamic, but it would've solved a lot of wardrobe problems. It wasn't as if he could call up Jimmy Olsen and say, "Buddy, could ya go grab my things from that booth over at the corner of 72nd and Madison? I've gotta go tangle with evil  again," because he was operating in secret. Maybe the whole operating in secret thing was part of the problem. If people knew who he was, he could've left lockers all over the city labeled Property of Clark (Superman) Kent, with a combination only he knew.

Perhaps my ability to fly would have its downsides, too, even if I didn't use it to save the world, but only to get to or out of places more easily. Nobody would ever believe my excuse if I was late. My hair would always be tangled. I'd have to shop for a decent cape, and you know, from the previous blog, I'm not big on clothes shopping. I'd have to weigh these problems against the plusses: being able to go whale-watching without the whole diesel-fumed, "how-high-are-those-waves", 5 hours of seasickness boating experience; or helping construction workers who were putting attenae on top of skyscrapers to make sure they were in perfect position. Never getting lost in the woods or in a corn maze.

I'll have to rethink this superpower thing, though. Maybe the better superpower, for me, would be psychokinesis -- you know, making things happen with my mind -- that way I could wash the dishes, do the laundry, write this blog, and finish writing my novel all at the same time.... 

Sigh. No More Skinny Jeans, Ever Again.

I weighed 87 pounds when I got married. 

Now, not to say that this had been a goal -- the BHE and I did all of the nuptial planning and there were some extraordinary family circumstances, plus daily 2-hour commutes to our jobs, downstairs neighbors in the throes of a noisy, adulterous breakup, and a pet dachshund that needed surgery after he ate a superball in the back yard ten days before the wedding. There was a lot going on. I was five-foot-two, eyes of blue, so thin you could nearly see right through. 

The adage is a pound goes on per year. So... twenty-two pounds. 109. Plus two kids. Okay, so say five more per. 119. And a change to a freelance job near my kitchen where I sit a lot. This is the part where I stop with the math, already.

And maybe some chocolate and some pasta. Because there are days when nothing lifts the mood like a good plate of ravioli and meatballs and some hearty red wine. 

The thing is, I recently had to buy pants. Not yoga pants (see last September), mind you. Real pants. To wear in a professional environment. This is generally a nightmare in any case -- since I am on the petite side, longitudinally, I can never find pairs that aren't clumped up around my ankles or hanging over and off my feet like a bad bridal gown train. It is more depressing for me to shop for pants than it is kidding myself I am still perky enough to brave Victoria's Secret, then actually going into Victoria's Secret and being taunted by the snarky mirrors in there.

I gathered up my courage, sucked in my gut, and headed for the mall, armed with the encouraging words of  child number 2 ("You are not fat"), and a kiss from the sympathetic hubby.  I was determined to find at least three pairs, something flattering and comfortable, perhaps shaping and not requiring me to hem anything. Because as my family can tell you, I tend to procrastinate in the hemming department (just ask the BHE about the pair of pants we found 13 years after we bought them on our honeymoon, still unstitched) and I didn't have that luxury -- I needed something appropriate to cover my uber-pear-shaped-ness by the following Monday.

In the end I found seven pairs I thought might do the trick. Not bad, but honestly I'd picked a few different sizes and colors of the same styles. I found a dressing room with those accessible aluminum bars (because when you find yourself in pants slogging off you like a bad bridal train, you need something to grab before you go down trying to take a step) and a bench (because when you are trying to take off pants that are far too small for your "I still feel 27" disillusioned self, you need a place to rest while you play tug of war trying to remove something made with "comfort fit" lycra). Feeling grateful that the only other occupants of the dressing room were two teen girls so self-absorbed in trying on skinny jeans that they wouldn't hear me groan if I got stuck in something, I confronted my inner fashion demons and went at it.

I won't go into graphic details here. You might be getting ready to eat, or maybe you're just a sensitive soul.  Let's just say that when the Wii Fit last measured me for my fitness program, I watched in horror as it made my avatar what one might call a little dumpy. You know things are bad when your avatar goes plump before your eyes. And then shakes its finger at you from the screen. Great. Victoria's Secret mirrors aren't enough; now I have cartoon characters making me feel guilty and doughy.

I will say this. It is painful to try on clothing that says it will slim you, only to find that its method for doing so is to squish everything that doesn't fit into its confines up, so that you look a bit like someone overfilled the cupcake bin and when the batter rose it splurged out over the top. When I was younger I wanted to be a little bustier, but trust me, nothing the slacks pushed up went that high -- even though the bust has tried to compromise in recent years by traveling down. Frankly I got a little nauseous from having my internal organs compressed into my armpits.  

"Those look good." This came from one of the girls when I stepped outside my stall  to see myself better in the larger aisle mirror. She was perhaps seventeen, thin as a rail and snugly poured into a pair of pants I might safely fit one arm into. I would've appreciated the compliment except I was in a pair of elastic-waisted trousers I used to see my grandmother consider. "Holy shit I'm huge!" she complained to her friend, then disappeared back into her own cubicle. 

I stared at myself in the mirror. I was never going to look like that kid again. I'd had a family, I liked to cook, I'd had life experiences that the girl in the other stall had yet to have, and here's the thing -- the pants I had on did look good. For me. 

I chose two pairs. I went home. I got another kiss. 

I have to admit I made myself a salad.

*** I have two announcements to make: 

1) I've been asked by the Long Island Writers' Guild to be one of four Featured Readers at their LIWG Reads! event on May 11th, at the East Meadow Library, 2-4 p.m. I'll be reading sometime during that first hour. Stop by if you can -- if not to hear me read something of my own, then for the open mic at 3. Refreshments will be served.

2) The Long Island Romance Writers are putting on their annual fabulous Editor/Agent luncheon at the Fox Hollow Inn, Woodbury, New York on June 7, noon to 4. You can get more info and register at www.lirw.org. Twenty-six Agents and Editors have signed on and you'd have hours to meet and pitch, plus there's a nice lunch. Seating is limited, but it's definitely a worthwhile and fun event. 

Ginger Gets the Last Word

I lost my executive assistant this weekend.

She'd been with us for over a decade.  We got used to each other's habits, frustrations, and joys. She left her toys and sweaters lying around and I sometimes tripped over her cushion on my way through the living room, or over her pretty much anywhere in the kitchen. Or on my way out of the bathroom. Or getting out of bed. I left stuff lying around too. Ginger never complained.

For a month or so we thought she might have a virus, or maybe she'd gotten some bad kibble. But once we took her to the doctor, things were made painfully clear.  She had numbers on her liver enzymes that were higher than any all three vets had ever seen.  When I asked if there was anything I shouldn't feed her, thinking of her carrots and her propensity for tasting anything we made, I was told, "You give her anything she wants now." It was the "now" that did it.

We didn't even have three weeks after that, but even up to the last day, she managed a small wag when we came in. She came to have her ears scratched, or her back rubbed, even though those things might have hurt against her failing body. I really believe she did those things for us; that she knew we needed that contact.

On Sunday my husband took her outside. After a few wobbly minutes she just lay down in the yard. She closed her eyes and took in the sunlight. 

We called the vet. We wrapped her in her blanket and put on classical music in the car (because she liked classical music -- trust me), and put her on the big front seat in the Camry.

We have always told people she was the smartest dog we ever had. She grasped almost everything we said, I think.  It was probably just a matter of anatomy that she couldn't talk back. We all figured out ways to communicate.  We said our good-byes to her, hoping she understood what we had chosen to do, and the vet came. Ginger went to sleep with her head in my hands and her heart under my husband's. It took us a little while before we could gather ourselves and go back outside.

"Look at that," my husband said as we came out into the bright Sunday afternoon light. Without our dog.

A few feet away, there was a car.  The license plate read "ILVMIPIT." I love my pit.

She knew. It felt like an answer.  It felt like she'd found her own way to say she got it. She loved us too. 

I'm a Looo-oo--oo--ser... Not!

I know: What an optimistic way to start the year, right? I've had this Beatles song running through my head for a couple of weeks now.

But hear me out.

Waaaaay back in ... I think it was September, I entered a writing contest. I have this story I've been working on for a couple of years, and I took twelve thousand words and tightened them into exactly the seven thousand required, and I sent it out. I like this story, and apparently I'm not the only one: of the possible 300 points I could get in the first round, I scored 299. My husband took the call from the lovely and generous coordinator, who informed him that I was a finalist. The winners (category and then best of the best) would be announced at a conference, to which I was invited, in February. In Houston.  After several weeks' debate and then with the encouragement of the BHE (see November's blog for copyright here), I booked flights.

Since child #2 is getting ready to be an exchange student, and since she's also a budding writer and pretty much fun to be around, I asked her to come along with me. This guaranteed two things: She would get a dress rehearsal of handling airports and airplanes, which she hadn't done in about ten years, and I would have a travel buddy -- I wouldn't have to walk into a room full of people I didn't know, or eat alone or see stuff alone. We'd never been to Texas and we needed a shot glass for our collection, which has one for every place we've ever visited.

Let's cut to the chase. By the title you can tell I didn't emerge with a publishing contract, a giant bouquet of roses and a trophy that would need to be checked into cargo for the return trip. I got back the scores from the final round judges (one agent and one editor) and they were pretty mediocre.

But here's what was great:

1. I got to spend a whole weekend with my 15-year-old daughter. We reveled in a 17th-floor hotel room (we could see for miles!) and we went to the Galleria (which is a mall on mega mall steroids, sort of) and we ate out and we visited the museum of Natural Science and the Zoo. We bought stuff and we laughed and when I didn't win, my daughter said to me, "Don't worry, Mom. Just think of J.K. Rowling." Because, you know, J.K. Rowling never won this contest, and she's doing just fine. My daughter is a wonderful human being. Even when I got lost on the way to the museum area and spent equal amounts of time arguing with the annoyingly unflappable GPS and the equally imperturbable Onstar, and when I hyperventilated on the giant ramps on the giant highways throughout giant Houston, she kept calm.

2. We got to meet writers from Houston, and let me tell you, the West Houston RWA chapter is full of fine, creative, thoughtful and professional people. My coordinator Sarah made us feel so incredibly welcome, and we owe her and her fellow chapter mates a huge thank you. They gave me a beautiful Honorable Mention certificate. They epitomized the way everyone we encountered in Houston behaved. We even got invited back for the rodeo next year.

3. I found out I've grown a tougher skin. I knew I wasn't going to win, but I was a bit bummed by the final judges' remarks. Then I recalled the comments from the  first-round judges, two of whom were published writers and writing teachers. And I recalled that I had faith in my own ability of expression with the written word.

So, final cost of trip? Let's just say monetarily it was not exactly a bus ride. My ego was a little bruised, but only for a little while. The six-hour delay of our transfer at the Philly airport was no picnic.

But the benefits, the winnings? As they say in the commercials, priceless.

Plus we got this cool shot glass with a plastic longhorn on it.

Where's the Pants? or, Just tell me the truth

I saw a television commercial recently where a plump Mary Lincoln asked Honest Abe "Does this dress make my backside look big?" and he was caught, shuffling uncomfortably for several seconds because he didn't want to lie but he also didn't want to hurt his wife's feelings. In the end he admitted softly, "just a little bit" and Mary huffed out of the room.

I started thinking about whether it's better to be kind or honest -- certainly you don't want to hurt someone's feelings when they ask you about how they look, cook, sing, or even write. Especially a family member -- they're generally around all the time and some of them hold grudges, so you could find yourself always served the grizzle-filled piece of beef at the holidays or getting something in plaid at every birthday. Not that I know this from personal experience. Maybe it's just a coincidence that I have a fear of plaid. 

But you shouldn't lie either. It doesn't help when you gush about someone's prowess at whatever they're trying to do or however they're trying to appear if you tell them they're great when they actually could use a little improvement. In the case of singing this is especially important, since telling someone who sounds like a cat on fire that they're the next Pavarotti could get all of the other relatives mad at you. Then suddenly there are only lima beans left for you at family gatherings, where this person insists upon entertaining. I'm just saying. 

There needs to be a balance when someone wants feedback. You don't want to be the person lying to avoid the risk you'll hurt them or create a rift between you -- there's a chance someone else may come along and start screaming "Liar, Liar, Pants on fire!" and the next thing you know you'll be standing there in a poof of smoke. The person who wanted feedback will see your duplicity -- and not just because you're pantless and your leg hair's been singed. And you will have cheated them of knowing they could do better, learn, and develop some more. You should never be mean, but you shouldn't fib, either.

And if you are the person asking if your backside's too big, or your recipe's too spicy, or your story's too boring or weird or grammatically indecipherable (you writers know where I'm going with this, don't you...), don't be oversensitive. You opened yourself to the answer; you've put yourself out there and that takes courage and has a value of its own. Revel in that at least. I had a client tell me recently he cursed me most of the way through my edits, but we agreed his was still a great story and we had another drink. We both knew he needed improvement but it was nothing personal -- the goal was to respectfully work toward making something better. And he had the option to take my opinion -- which was only one opinion -- or leave it. No huffing out of the room. 

And with that I sign off for 2012. Here's looking toward a new year filled with joy, prosperity, kindness, honesty, and .... well, less lima beans for one thing. 


  

Oh my expressive prowess, or, um, something like that....

One of the biggest problems I find I'm facing lately, as a person beyond a certain age and also as a person who seriously doesn't get enough sleep, is finding the right words to speak or write. This may seem like no big deal to some people. It happens. You say 'dishwasher' when you mean 'washing machine' or you call your kid by your dog's name. You find yourself staring into space in the middle of a conversation, completely at a loss as to how to finish a sentence, because you can't remember how you started it. 

Most of the time, for many people, this isn't really an issue. Both the dishwasher and the washing machine use water to clean stuff, and sometimes if you're lucky, the person or persons you live with will switch the words in their heads too, corresponding with your mistake, so you don't find you've put the Lenox wine goblets through a heavy duty spin cycle. And screwing up the kid's name with the dog's isn't so bad -- you can tell the kid you love the dog just like you love them and they (nine times out of, say, thirteen) get over it. The dog, honestly, doesn't care what you call her as long as you're still feeding her and letting her out on a regular basis.

This is an especially big problem for me, however, since words are my job. I have to know their proper use and forms, spelling, definitions, and sometimes even their origins -- and I have to be able to retrieve them from the multitudinous file cabinets in my brain with relative ease and speed, since time is money. (No, really. I generally get paid by the hour so there's no slow-poking when I'm on the clock, and yes, that's why I sound grumpy when you call me to chat during work hours. You know who you are.) The problem I seem to be facing lately is that some of the drawers on some of the file cabinets are getting a bit stuck.

So, hoping to remedy this situation, I have decided to do three things:

1) Ingest more fish oil. I understand fish oil is the WD-40 of the brain, and hope this might loosen some of those rusty spots. I promise to avoid breathing on anyone without carefully brushing and flossing first, however, since I hear fish oil has a few unattractive side effects. Look, do you want me smart or do you just want to kiss me all the time?

2) Sleep better. That may sound grammatically incorrect, but I meant it exactly the way I said it. The truth is I spend a lot of time on the couch -- it is the best horizontal cushioned surface in our house, and napping is freaking awesome. However, napping for two hours at night, working for two, then napping for two, then working for two, then slipping into bed hoping the BHE* won't notice I haven't been there until forty-five minutes before I have to get up to get my daughter ready for school is really not the best way to experience restorative REMs. Also I hear I look a little like the Wild Woman of Borneo and have frightened my neighbors when I come out in the morning for the newspaper after a couple of nights of that. I am going to go to bed at a reasonable hour and stay there and sleep -- um, just not tonight. I have to get this blog out first.

3) Rely more frequently on external reference sources, such as dictionaries, thesauruses (thesaurisi? See? I'm going to have to go look that up now), and various grammatical and structural style guides. In truth I've always done this, but now I'm just going to have to do it more often. I have already gradually increased this practice, and guess what? I'm actually learning new stuff and re-learning stuff I'd forgotten! And I love to learn stuff, so it's okay. I can swallow my editorial pride for the greater good, that being learning and continuing to do what I love -- defending the English language. Semi-colons especially.

I don't know if all of this will fend off the inevitable -- I hear as we age it becomes more and more difficult to retrieve details and vocabulary and short-term memory -- but I'm going to give it my best shot. I would hate to have to re-name the kid and only use paper cups.



*BHE= Best Husband Ever, copyright 2012 Various Milliner, Ltd., an extremely small publishing services firm based in the northeastern United States. All rights reserved.

Don't Judge a Book (or a Dog) by Its Cover

I have one of the best assistants in the world. Her name is Ginger.

Since I run an extremely small publishing services company, there really isn't need for a large staff. I can sharpen my own red pencils, and for the most part there isn't much need for an IT department or even a commercial shipping account. I have a relatively quiet office space and rarely have the need for anyone other than Ginger to step in and help.

Let me tell you about her:

She's dependable. She has never called in sick, and even on days when her arthritis or a stomach ailment might be bothering her, she shows up on time and ready to go.

She doesn't gossip or use the phone for personal purposes. We eat lunch together almost every single day, and I can honestly say I've never, ever heard her utter a bad word about anyone. You'll never catch her chatting it up with her mother-in-law when she should be doing something else, and I've never seen extra charges on the bill for horoscope lines or even to check movie listings.

She lets me know when packages arrive the very minute the FedEx or UPS delivery person is heading up our street. There's never a delay in my mail, no sirree.

I can depend upon her to listen to my troubles patiently. She never walks away in disgust and never tells me to get over myself. She unfailingly greets me with a smile and is rarely more than four feet away.

She works cheap. Breakfast at 6:30, a couple of cookies in the mid-afternoon, dinner at 5:30 sharp -- she is, after all, a senior citizen. Otherwise, I cover her healthcare benefits and she's fine if I throw her an occasional bone. She only takes a few bathroom breaks during the day, but honestly that works for both of us, since I should really get up from my desk more often.

 I just wish she had thumbs and could read.

Ginger is a Pit Bull. We adopted her when she was six months old, at a shelter where we'd gone even though I thought I wanted either a beagle or a chocolate labrador. We knew nothing much about pit bulls except for their reputation, but she was adorable so we took her anyway and educated ourselves.

It wasn't easy to keep Ginger. My daughter lost most of her playmates on the street because one of their mothers pronounced Ginger (who was sickly and under 30 pounds when we got her) a dangerous animal. Suddenly several people around us, some dog owners themselves,  claimed to have a fear of dogs. We had to put up a fence in the middle of our back yard to keep her from hurting herself running through the rose bushes on one side when the next-door neighbor's dog used to tease her. And while Ginger loves humans (there's only ever been one she didn't like -- and I got a real creepy feeling from him myself), she didn't like that neighbor's dog. There was a day when the police were called because both dogs got loose, and the neighbor's dog bit me in fear once I'd disengaged his ear from Ginger's mouth. Ginger came out of that badly too, with people beating her with sticks and shovel handles. And I won't try to absolve her here -- but when it's in the nature of a little dog, even a tenacious terrier, to go after something, the outcome is likely to be far different from when a dog of Ginger's breed, at 70 muscular pounds, does. The neighbors who owned the other dog, by the way, understood. They loved her too.

She is the smartest animal we have ever shared a home with, and that's saying a lot -- because of her breed we were required to take her to obedience classes. Ginger not only learned those commands; she understood "Go Home", "Wait", and "Walkies?", and pretty much anything else we'd say. (So when I say she doesn't gossip, that's a very good thing.) The few times she got out of the yard, I discovered that it was far more effective to yell "Carrot!" rather than her name, since she will pretty much look for them, even if she seems to be in a coma, in the next room, in the middle of the night, if you open the refrigerator door. You could be up at three a.m. and Ginger could be upstairs and (you think) out like a light, and when you open the fridge to put together lunch for the next day there's suddenly a large square head under your armpit trying to nose open the vegetable drawer.

Why am I telling you this?

I don't know, really. I still burn over that ignorant woman convincing other parents to completely exclude my then four-year-old child from playing with theirs because of a puppy. I get incensed over irresponsible and hateful people who abuse these dogs and condition them for their own sick purposes -- and just plain dumb people who let their own pets run free and untrained. My pit bull won't jump on you or the furniture, and she doesn't bark at you from the car window or strain off the leash to run after cars or joggers.

All I'm saying is, don't judge the book by its cover -- or the dog by its breed.

And to that former, ignorant neighbor woman? You're probably still in the same part-time job you've had for years. Ginger's moved up to executive assistant.