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I recently took a test to see if I lived in a bubble. I could have just told you “hell yes,” maybe somewhat proudly, but I was curious to see my score. On this particular test, scores could range from 0-100: The lower your score, the more of a bubble you live in. The questions varied from chain restaurants you’ve patronized in the past year to the size of towns you’ve lived in (not counting college) to the kind of beer you’ve heard of/consumed. There were also U.S Army symbols you had to identify.  I got an 11. Out of 100. Even my fellow city crew  – those who like me grew up here in NYC – scored somewhere in the 30s. These friends had a small (yet joyous) field day with this.  I kept saying things like “it’s not my fault I haven’t lived in a small town!” or the like. They kept saying things like “we got a 38.” (The average and median score was a 42 in case anyone is curious). They were annoying about it (hi, guys!), but they had a point.

And nothing really proves their point more than my experiences on any trip I take in the continental United States (excluding other major cities), particularly the yearly pilgrimage we take to visit my in-laws in Sarasota. I recently returned from said trip where, per usual,  I spent portions of each day feeling a bit out of my element and like I had landed on a different planet.

It all really starts with deciding what to pack to wear to dinner.  The evenings are in the low 60s which is too cold for a dress (learned that the hard way after one (actually, four) year of freezing my balls off at night) and is even too cold for jeans and a sleeveless/short-sleeved top. Contributing to the problem is that in Sarasota, the AC in any given restaurant is cranked down to what feels like a crisp 47 degrees.  So even if I am appropriately dressed for the outdoors, I am ass-cold inside.

You might be wondering why I don’t just eat outside, especially coming from the land of winter. Here’s why:  Mosquitoes. As in, they actually factor into my decision-making process because if there is one mosquito in the vicinity – am talking mile radius here  –  it finds me and goes to town. It’s hard to be me, people.

But here’s what I forget about dining out every time: People in Florida don’t get cold. How this is possible is beyond me, but these folks are immune to the restaurant tundra. Their go-to is shorts and a tee (or maybe a fancier short-sleeved shirt for the ladies) for dinner.   They also wear sweaters tied around their shoulders as a plan B to their otherwise summery attire. As I am not of the gentile persuasion, the shoulder-drape does not compute.  Also, I cannot imagine wearing shorts to dinner. Hell, I barely like wearing shorts at all.  Thus, I arrive in Florida looking like someone who has never experienced warm weather and/or seen the thing we English speakers call “the sun.”

Back to the most recent journey: Upon arrival, we stopped at a liquor store to stock up for the week. In NYC, most alcohol shops are small deals where you can basically see what they have with one quick glance around the store. This is not the case in Sarasota, where our annual pit-stop is Costco-sized and peddles vodkas and gins I’ve never heard of. The store is so large that it would not be unreasonable to stretch before entering (as if going for a run or off to a Jane Fonda aerobics session) and/or use a scooter to get from one end of the store to the other.  Even though I’ve been to this particular liquor store more than once, I am awed every year. You think it would be a good thing, this much liquor. It is terrifying.

The biggest cultural shock however, involves….how do I put this….interacting with people (Helpful hint: You’re supposed to say a cheery hello to strangers in case you also scored 11 on that stupid PBS bubble test).  When traveling, I have to shift gears from not making eye contact with people I don’t know to preparing self to spend a longer time interacting with strangers than I have cumulatively in my life up to that point in time. It essentially requires a personality change (mine, not theirs).   Instead of the “Excuse me, can you please tell me where I can find Tabasco sauce?” you are required, I have learned, to make a bit of chit-chat. And not just, “Hi, how are you” but “Hi, how are you,” pause, wait for response, give own detailed response to their “and you?” and then, perhaps, inquire about their relatives. I’m still talking about perfect strangers here.  It is like I am no longer on planet earth…or, more precisely in in my bubble.

This past trip, I decided “when in Rome!” and went to something called a “Tikki bar” that was adjacent to the beach-front restaurant at which we were later dining (I was outside, everyone! But don’t worry, I had applied copious amounts of bug spray).  The only other tikki bar I have ever been to was an ironic one in San Francisco.  It was indoors and had a waterfall.

Anyway, as I settled into my seat, the bartender handed me a menu and waited vaguely impatiently (familiar!) for me to order.  As the bartender tapped her foot at me, I looked up and tried my new, “Hi, how are you?!” smiley routine. This was not the place for that, apparently, as she took this as a cue that I was not ready to order and moved on. When she swept back over a few minutes later, I was better prepared.  “So what’s the least sweet drink on the menu?” I asked.  She paused for a moment, as if translating from the Polish back into English and said, “They’re all sweet.” She once again moved on as I was apparently her pain-in-the-ass customer who couldn’t make up her damned mind.  Spouse advised me to stick with beer. I got something I’d never heard of on tap because hello, draft beer is always better. Taking my first sip aggressively flashed me back to college keg parties. Like, perhaps this particular beer was in fact from a college party I attended in 1990.  The word “skunked” popped into my head for the first time in two decades. When you are 18, you don’t really care about crap, flat beer. When you are 45 and perched on a stool wearing insect repellent, you do. It was like I was being punished for exiting my comfort zone or something.

At dinner, my spirits lifted a bit as there was a fuller bar menu and I would not be forced to say, not drink. “I’ll have a gin with lots of fresh lime, please. Up, in a martini glass if possible.” The waitress waited a beat, perhaps considering whether I had a mental condition to take into consideration before slowly enunciating, “we don’t have glasses here. Just cups.” I tried not to react and blurted, “No problem!” in my fake, travel persona.

But you know what? That was the best gin with fresh lime I’ve ever had (I know it doesn’t sound hard to get right. It is). And when I got back to New York a couple of days later, the umbrella I emergency purchased at the airport immediately flipped inside out and broke; someone screamed “move your fucking ass” to our driver who, like everyone else, was idling in stand-still traffic on the Van Wyck; and, my Chinese food took an hour and 10 minutes to arrive. Aah, home. In my bubble.

I’ve taken a hiatus from writing this blog because, well, nothing seems all that funny or light these days. With the world/our country imploding, I’m not really finding humor in any of the crazed, manic, idiotic and/or terrifying things Trump does, says or tweets.

That said, due to of a bit of gentle prodding by some of my friends (and by “gentle” I mean, when they ask me things like what the fuck my problem is/”did you just give up on it” or the like. They’re a tender folk ), I thought I’d take a stab at writing again. I’ll call this post “I used to be cool,” inspired by my foray into a weekend body conditioning class at my gym.

Let me start by saying that I like my weekday body conditioning/barre classes at my gym and find them challenging. Admittedly, a small joy is that I am often one of the fittest people in the room.  While this may sound like I’m bragging in a wildly obnoxious way, I assure you I am not:  My mere presence in any given class often lowers the mean/median/average age by a decade if not two.  Turns out that the people who can/do attend 8 or 9 a.m. classes during the week (at least on the Upper West Side) tend to be stay-at-home moms and the old.  Sure there is sometimes the one-off 20-something in the class (looking vaguely horrified by the jazzercise class she fears she has accidentally stumbled into), but mostly I’m dealing with a middle-aged to actually old crew. When I’m with them, I got it going on.

What I realized during my class on Saturday is that the weekday morning crew does not really represent the population who typically attends gym classes.  On Saturday, the class  I went to was full of 20 and 30-somethings. And me. Needless to say, I was not one of the fittest people in the room – or even in the top half slash three-quarters.  Needles to say, this class was less enjoyable.

Anyway, after the ego hit – I mean class –  I started thinking about how different my life is at 45 than it was at 25. I know this is not a mind-blowing concept, but it’s almost like I am a completely different individual, fitness aside. I don’t just mean that now I have kids/am married, or that my body has aged (I housed two children in this gut, people), or that I have aches and pains that I didn’t use to have (check). But these two decades have transformed me in ways I did not foresee. As in, maybe I’ve turned from cool (or at least somewhat fun) to kind of lame?

Some of examples:

Then: Liked to try new restaurants, particularly on the Lower East Side/East Village, in part because the restaurants there tended to be cheaper, but also because they were happening (yes, I’m using that word, work with me here) . Given the 5:30 or 10:30 pm choice of reservation as is often the way here in good old NYC, I would opt for 10:30 (duh).

Now:  Like to try new restaurants, but generally only if they are accessible by taking one and only one subway line. This means I’m eating in Harlem, the West Village or Tribeca. Oh, or Chelsea, but there are no good restaurants in Chelsea.  When 5:30 and 1o:30 are the only options, I wonder who the hell eats at 10:30 and what their problem is. If I’m honest, I also wonder who the hell eats at 9 because, like, don’t they get hungry beforehand?  I do not yet take the 5:30 reservation, but have seriously considered it because, come on, is it that lame (it is, I know it is. But 6? Done.)?

As an aside, on Saturday night, in a fit of some kind of pique or delirium from the aforementioned gymnasium class, I ventured out of my comfort zone and went to a new restaurant that was more than one subway ride away from my abode. I was downtown (ish) and east, people. For this venture I was punished. Aggressively so. Through some tragic misunderstanding on my part, the place DID NOT SERVE ALCOHOL. I repeat, there was no alcohol. Which no one seemed to mind but us, so I took a gander around to observe the rest of the clientele: Were they very religious or something? It was then that I noticed that everyone around us was 60+ save one table of touristy 30ish year-olds. It was 6:45 pm. Soon, the table next to us arrived for their 7:30 reservation. They were in their 70s and had the better dinner slot. It felt like my gym class, only I was moderately less sweaty and now three decades younger than my brethren.

Then: As I may have mentioned in previous posts, when I was 25, my grad school posse had a rule that when out, we “couldn’t” be without a drink, which meant buying beer at the bodega/Korean deli on the corner as we did this thing called “bar hopping.” That also meant that as I rolled into bar number two or three at 1 am, I was willing to stand ass-to-ass with strangers in crowded bars, especially if they had good music or dancing or, let’s be real, cute guys.

Now: Once I arrive at a bar (and by “bar,” I mean the bar area of a restaurant), I’m there for the night. If that bar does not have a seat for me – with ample spacing between the seats I might add  –  I leave. Immediately.

Then: Left home on Upper West Side between 10 p.m. and midnight to head downtown.

Now:  Do not leave home on Upper West Side after 7 p.m. for obvious reasons (just in case I have to translate for those who have not slid into this new (ish) state of lameness: It’s too late to go out). A good friend could push me to leave at 7:30 if she was willing to, say, meet on my block.

Then: Mocked my parents for going to bed at 9:30.

Now: Jealous of my parents when they go to bed at 9:30 (though I might add it seems that these days, they have more of an active social life than I do. That’s a different topic for a different day).

Then: Mocked my parents for not knowing what the Macarena/voguing or the running man (yes, the running man) was.

Now: Was mocked by my own flesh and blood for not knowing what “dabbing” is (I do now, but I still don’t do it “right”) or how to properly use the word “epic.” I was informed not so delicately that no one says “that’s the bomb” anymore (they should) and that “burn” and “dis” are two different things. I also recently debated with a friend whether teens these days still use the term “french kissing” (will keep you posted) or if that’s something of yore.

Then: In the dead of winter, would wear dresses without tights. The deciding factor for purchasing a winter coat was its “style.” Warmth did not factor in (froze my ass off, but I looked good doing it. Or thought I did anyway). Wore uncomfortable heels because they were “sexy” and made my legs look good.

Now: Don’t. I mean, none of it. In fact, own a double-layered winter coat made in Canada because “the Canadians know from cold.”

Then: Never drank at home alone, that was for alcoholics.

Now: I have kids; you see where I’m going with this.

Maybe the lamest, least cool thing of all? I like it like this.

And to my weekday gym class pals (though I’m not actually friends with them – or really, they’re not friends with me; they have their own clique that I’m apparently not part of, just saying): See you tomorrow! I’ll be the young cool one.

The dreams are both the best and the worst. The possibility that all of this is a mistake, that he is not dead, that there has been a misunderstanding. Those are the best because those are moments of subconscious hope. Those are also the worst because as soon as I wake up, I know it’s a dream. That there no mistake, that he is gone. The worst dream of all was the one where I knew even in the dream that he was dead, but I saw him outside my child’s school, clad in his wool coat and leather gloves, just as he would be in life….When I turned back to confirm it was in fact him, he was gone.

There are other bad things. His remains are ready. Have been ready. Are in an urn that he picked. But I can’t bring myself to gather them, to do what he wanted with them, to keep them or to even have them in my possession. So they sit alone in his house, as he did for much of his life, only then it was by choice.  I sometimes pitied his (self-imposed) solitude then too. But not like this.

His house. While it wasn’t large or showy, it was purely him. The silverware handed down from his parents; the antiques; the pictures everywhere of his travels, beaming pride and foreignness and life. The displayed pictures of his grandchildren that came to a halt when he got sick. Both of my children displayed but not both of my sister’s because he was too feeble to put pictures up when her younger daughter was born. The birthday card I gave him with those final words I hadn’t worked up the courage to say to his face, but had the lesser courage to write. The card, given to him two short weeks before he died. It is lying on the table where his hospital bed used to be, now re-formed into a living room so as to show his home to sell it. It is lying where he once was, only the card looked fuller and more meaningful in his hands than it does now, lying solitary on the table.

It is the card that I hope he could read, despite his illness, despite my penmanship, despite his exhaustion. It looks unread, un-creased even though I was there when he opened it and read it. He said, “Nice,” when I gave it to him. Which of course, knowing him and who he was could have meant “I can’t read a word of this but I don’t want to admit it” or “I am glad you felt my love even though I wasn’t great at showing it.”

I have the last words he “spoke” to me, also quintessentially him. For on his deathbed, when he could not really speak as he had lost his voice, when every breath rattled with pain, he took the time to communicate a fleeting thought with my sister and me. As he pointed at my sister’s red-rimmed eyes, as we guessed “red eyes?” “She’s crying?” “Your eyes?” No, no, he made sure to tell us: Yes “eyes.” But eye “S-O-R-E,” he rasped, with a nod to his first-time (and okay, admittedly homely) home health aide.  We laughed uproariously about this, my sister and I, we did. Because as we huddled in for his final words of wisdom, what we got instead was classic Daniel.

But I don’t really want any of these things. What I would like is something tangible. For example, him. A last hug. Or barring that, finding an unread letter he wrote to me. Or even a “sign” that people talk about getting from dead loved ones.  For in my ongoing hope that some sort of faith or belief or gazing upward  will bring him to me (it hasn’t), I look for these so-called signs. A sense that he is here. There are no signs. I have pictures. I have old voice mails where he doesn’t sound quite right because by the time I started saving his messages, he was already sick.

I have a shirt of his which I inhale, hoping to bring him to me even if just for a few seconds. I will take one second of smelling him, flooding him back to me olfactory.  But though that shirt is him – I can picture him wearing it –  he did not wear it at the end when he was home-bound and had no need for long-sleeved shirts. So while it smells like his house, it does not capture his essence no matter how many times I go back hoping for that glimmer. His dad-like smell: That too is gone.

I have what he left me in death: A complicated will that was changed last minute. A recording of his voice. His belongings. But I don’t have him, a fact that becomes more and more obvious as time passes. So while it is less raw, it is more real. And that, I have found, is not really better.

Here is why I believe in people again

• Because when I went down to North Carolina to canvass voters, not only did people whose doors I knocked upon/lives I intruded tell me they would vote blue, but they thanked me for my work.
• Because of #pantsuitnation, where I got to hear the stories and read the observations of women around the country, united solely – or really initially – in our belief that Hillary should be president. I learned about Republicans who defied their families/past voting patterns to do what was right. I learned about people in hospitals trying desperately to find a way to vote (and somehow they always succeeded). I learned about centenarians (or close) who were born before women had the right to vote and were lucky enough to be alive to vote for the first woman president.
• Because even though this was a ceiling bursting open for women, I saw boys and men cheering Clinton on just as voraciously.
• Because my son has only known a black and female President.

At this point, you might be wondering if I am using the crack/cocaine. I am not. This was the blog I started writing on the afternoon of 11/8. That’s how sure I was that we – she – would win. It was a gorgeous day here in Manhattan and I was looking forward to taking both my kids with me to vote, to show them Hillary’s name on the ballot, and to make history. We were having a party that night and I had 5 bottles of champagne at the ready.

Instead:

• Son complained entire time we were in 8-10 person line that voting was “boring” and “when can we go?”  He vaguely refused to care that Hillary’s name was at the very top of ballot (I tried to spin this into “it’s normal to him!”). Maybe I should have seen this as an omen.
• Giddily prepared for party.
• Greeted friends who arrived with more champagne and one with a red, white and blue bouquet of flowers (*this* is America, people! We still enthusiastically thought that not so long ago).
• Kids gathered on the floor in front of the TV as the adults sat on couches, jovial.
• First states to come in were red but that was no biggie because, like, who cares about Indiana?
• Children cheered as New York, New Jersey and some New England states were announced.
• Our smiles started to wane/strain/collapse as more states went to Trump. We reassured ourselves that it wasn’t and could not be over. We drank more.
• Then the darkness. Champagne remained unopened. People left, grim-faced, barely saying goodbye.

I’ve resisted writing about the election because it’s all been said. Because just when I think it can’t get worse, Steve Bannon or Jeff Sessions happens.Because while writing can be healing, this is beyond that.

Mostly, what I find hard to get past is that next day. The day it became real; the day Clinton gave the speech of her life when she conceded the election. The day she told me, my daughter and those in between us that it was not over even though it felt very over.

Here in my bubble – and thank god for my bubble – perfect strangers hugged each other on the street. My sister talked of making eye contact with a woman with tears in her eyes, and of placing her hand over her heart and getting a nod from the woman, her fellow American. That next day, I – many of us  – felt terrified. Unlike that other next day, 9/12/01, these States felt the very most un-United we could be.

There is no comedy in this, no wry slant, no clever observation. I have no words of wisdom or deep thoughts, though I had to have some of those for my kids, the older of whom burst into tears when we told her Trump won (Sidenote: Serious gratitude to their teachers for finding ways to soothe, discuss and reassure when I could not).

I am trying to take my cues from the last person I will be proud to call President for a good long time (that would be Obama) and from Clinton who both say we cannot despair. We cannot let it kill us that white supremacy has been given a platform or that instead of our first female president, we have a misogynist who has admitted to harassing and groping women. We cannot let it dampen our American-ness that there is talk of a Muslim registry, the epitome of history repeating itself. Or that the first Presidential appointments went to Nazis, racists, people who had been fired for erratic behavior.

So as not to despair, I sit here, re-reading how I felt just two short weeks ago. I look at my smiling face in a post-vote selfie: Full of hope and lightness and pride. It’s hard to remember that right now.  But.  As my glass half-full 10 year-old reminds me, there are nearly two million more of us who didn’t vote for Trump than who did. Those woman who were born before the 19th Amendment – and those of us who came after –  still finally got to vote for a woman for President. Those people who were so kind in North Carolina did their part. It wasn’t enough, but the majority of us were not driven by fear or hate or anger but by optimism and faith in the good of people. By the feeling that in America, we can truly be free.

So…now we mobilize. Donate. March. One friend told me her 6 year-old asked her to buy a Trump cookie “So I can eat his face off.” There really is no better way to put it. Let’s eat his face off!

And, as Dr. King once said, “Only in the darkness can you see the stars.” They aren’t glistening yet. But maybe they will be one day soon.

My father was a challenging, funny, well-read, well-traveled man who was also a huge pain in my ass. He was complicated and unique, but he unflinchingly thought – knew – I could do anything.

This is a tribute to him.

He who won’t get to read this blog but who was one of my first followers. Who was a true gentleman who held doors and carried bags but also demanded – expected – his two daughters to do something with their lives. Who surrounded himself with smart, career-driven women who could challenge his razor-sharp intellect.  Who thought nothing was worse than being bored or unchallenged. Who spent the majority of his life in New York, but never lost his posh, New England accent. Who traveled the world and completed crossword puzzles and loved tennis. Whose drink was Tanqueray and tonic. Whose first instant message to me read, “Dear XXX, How did you know I was online? Love, Dad,” but who also – twenty years later- tried (and okay, failed) to find a way to play online chess with his granddaughter when he was sick and unable to play at an actual board. Who smelled good until the end, even the day before he died. Whose nails were always trimmed and clean, who took pride in being clean-shaven, well-coiffed and tidy. Who loved to discuss books, movies, and TV, and who may have been the only person I know to love (and watch) the show “The Equalizer.”

That’s just a small snapshot of the man I called dad. Last week I lost him. And even though I was both lucky and unlucky that his death was somewhat expected – slow and painful as it unfairly was – and even though I have friends who have lost parents, spouses, friends and I watched them all mourn, what I learned is that dying – and grieving –  is as individual as birth. That knowing everyone’s death “story” is as useless as knowing everyone’s labor story.  That you can’t know until you know.

This is what I didn’t know would happen as he was dying:

That I would know he was not ready to die despite the pain which he rated a “7” or “8” out of 10. Because for him, limited, painful, bed-ridden living was better than not living at all. That seeing the sun rise; feeling the breeze come in off his porch; reading the newspaper’s headlines; watching the U.S Open – that was still life.

That he would lose his voice a week or so before he died so even before I never saw him again, I never heard him again.

That when he was dying, truly dying, he would fight to keep his eyes open to avoid the grips of death. That there would be terror in those eyes that neither I nor my sister could assuage. That he didn’t want us to see him like that but we did.

That there is no dignity in dying, especially for a man who takes pride in his appearance. It is messy and unfair and humiliating. That even though he still had his mind, even though he was still lucid, his body had had enough.

That even though I thought he had 9 lives, he didn’t. As I read in the wonderful Book Thief  “Death waits for no man – and if he does, he doesn’t usually wait very long.” But my dad managed to make death wait quite a while.

That was the before. Then there’s the after which is perhaps worse: Raw and often unbearable.

In the after, I will discover odd things about myself I didn’t expect.

I will wish I believed in heaven, an after life, reincarnation, something, anything.

That my grief will come in waves so powerful that I cannot imagine that wave ebbing, retreating, calming as waves always do;  as I’ve watched them do with my father at my side or as he relentlessly tossed me laughing, begging, squealing with joy into their fury.

That I will focus on his once bright green eyes, dimmed by illness, and think “no one will have bright eyes like that again.” And then, when I’m not expecting it, someone will point out that my girl has beautiful green eyes, and “where does she get those from?” Or that my sister will, in her own grief, point out that my son’s mischievous nature is quite like that of our father. And how these small comments will make me feel hopeful, less lost, more grounded in a time of despair.

That I will take both comfort and immense pain looking at old pictures –  mostly of him young, healthy, robust. That I will look at pictures of the two of us laughing, or me looking adoringly at him as a girl and think: At that moment, he had his whole life ahead of him.

I didn’t know that despite my avowed atheism, I will feel like maybe, just maybe, if I play one of his favorite pieces (Brandenburg’s Concerto No. 3 in G) loudly enough into my headphones, loudly and directly into my own ears, my own soul, maybe just maybe (I pray, though I’ve never prayed), he will hear the music.

I didn’t know that I will think, maybe even believe, that while I couldn’t comfort him enough while he was alive, while I couldn’t take away the fear in his eyes or pass on my strength to him with my touch, maybe, please maybe, there’s something I can do now.

Maybe if I pedal hard enough on the elliptical, maybe if I keep my body strong and healthy,  maybe if I close my eyes and picture him next to me hearing that Bach concerto that is moving me, strengthening me, debilitating me, maybe I have that ability to make him hear and feel and know. Because, after all, his genes course through mine and so maybe he can still be here with me least for a short time, hearing the music, feeling my racing heartbeat, my ragged breaths, knowing my sorrow.

I will learn that even though he was imperfect and limited and didn’t show much emotion – except when he was putting a strong hand on my shoulder, embracing me at my wedding, gazing into my newborn’s eyes- that he saved all of my sister’s camp letters, all of our report cards, both of our wedding invitations.

I will learn that he loved me more deeply than I thought. And I him.

Finally, I will learn that those around me – siblings, friends who have also lost a parent, family – they all deal with grief in their own ways. My way is writing.

So dad, through sheer will and determination – qualities I know you loved –  I’m hoping you feel these words, these emotions, my love. I’m playing your Bach for you – not one last time, but many more times. As often as you need.

It’s not news that some people prefer dogs and some people prefer cats. While I happen to own two cats (which my spouse says makes us lesbians – peace), I have always fancied myself more of a dog person. Yes, I’ve had more cats than dogs in my life, but that’s just because cats are lower maintenance. Even cat haters can’t (and don’t) argue with that.

A few months ago, I decided it was time for a dog. Took it on as a project if you will. In layman’s terms, that means that for the past several weeks slash months, I have been torturing myself on petfinder.com.  There are lots of cute dogs who need a home, people. Trust me, I’ve seen all of them in the tri-state area, and even some in, say, Virginia because, like…..Virginia’s not *that* far and we could drive it. I would on occasion (read: once/twice per diem) send one of these dog’s mugs to my spouse. He mostly ignored these pictures (because,obviously, he is heartless); once in a while he would make a mildly snide to downright rude comment about a particular dog’s failings.

Then one day a couple of weeks ago, out of the clear blue sky (as at this point, spouse’s only other reaction to dog snaps was to tell me he was not ready for a dog, not yet, no sir), the mister started sending me pictures of adoptable dogs. As in HE would send to ME. Did he not understand how my system worked? I could obsess; he could ignore. That all changed in the blink of an eye with one stealth cute/paste/reverse psychology maneuver. I let him know I was onto his tactics all the while eagerly opening each link he sent. Let me be clear that he picked some duds (one dog was 15).  But apparently so had I. His one condition was the dog had to be small. My one condition was NO FUCKING PUPPY.

As we looked at dogs, my excitement both grew and morphed into….how do I put this….terror. My burgeoning problem with my spouse’s new-found excitement in a dog was two-fold. First, who said I wanted a dog? Petfinder shcmetfinder, we were now talking about getting an actual mutt and not window shopping  for hypothetical ones. I started flashing back to the blizzard last winter where my prime thought was not how empty the city streets were, but more “I’m glad we don’t have a dog today!” I thought about the times I’ve watched those poor, sad dog owners trying to coax their pets into the deluge otherwise known as heavy rain, shoving an entire fist into their dog’s mouth to get out a rancid chicken bone, wiping things dangling from their beasts’ rears. I  also flashed forward to the upcoming winter where spouse would be traveling and I would be walking said dog three times/day in the brutal cold, all the while doing pick-ups and drop-offs at two different schools (don’t get me started on that one. No really, I could talk about it forever – and have).

My other issue was that I don’t really like small dogs (other than French Bulldogs, because, come on). Here’s what I like: Pit bulls (not allowed in my building), Rottweilers (also not allowed in my building) and anything with a large mug and floppy ears. Here’s what I don’t like:  Dainty looking “dogs” smaller than my felines. Still, spouse insisted. I got his point on the size thing because who, if not my children, would be walking the dog? (Oh wait), but it was a hard sell. I felt like I was dating again and forcing myself to give some guy to whom I was not remotely attracted a chance because maybe he’d be “nice” or “funny,” or because he’d grow on me (fail, fail, eh).

Then this supposed better half of mine sent me a picture of a size-appropriate decent looking dog. She was cute-ish (or “jacked up and looks like she *really* needs to be adopted” said one sister) and not tiny. I filled out the requisite rescue shelter application forms, a process that can only be described as more laborious than applying to graduate school. Soon (references checked) we were told this lass was a match.

The night before we journeyed to Westchester to meet this gal, my emotions ranged from mild nausea to panic to overwhelming dread. Spouse was saying things like “let’s go get our dog!” And I was saying things like “WE ARE NOT NECESSARILY GETTING HAWAIIAN TROPIC (that was her name. Really).” and “JUST BECAUSE WE DRIVE AN HOUR, DOES NOT MEAN WE ARE GETTING A DOG.” I use all caps just in case you missed the fact that I was having some sort of nervous break-down.

Well….it turns out Hawaaiin Tropic was not our dog. For starters, I had a minor altercation with her psychotic foster owner who told me the dog might not be good with kids (she had 3 of her own ranging form 8-12, aka the same ages as my kids) or cats (she had one, all fine) and who seemed incapable of letting go of the dog’s leash. Meanwhile her daughter was saying things like “I think my mom wants to keep this one!” (as if that was difficult to guess). This lady – and her compatriots at the shelter – seemed horrified at the idea of any dog in their community moving to the big bad city. My application was approved! I wanted to yell (did not. figured one altercation was enough).

So we moved on and looked at other dogs. After looking around for any potential fits (there didn’t seem to be any that we qualified for, what with living in Manhattan and all) and after husband/son teamed up and tried to convince me/daughter to give they OK to the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen (and not jolie laide, just ugly), who also showed no interest in us (like everyone else there),  we got back in the car empty-handed.

Instead of feeling relieved, as I thought I might, I felt vaguely disappointed. Maybe I was ready for a real and not imaginary dog after all. Or maybe the 1/2 Klonopin I took to, like, function as human, was doing its job. Whichever. So, we decided to go to one more shelter, this time in Manhattan where perhaps the thought of owning a dog in a city apartment would not seem incongruous with our ability to love and care for a member of the canine species.

As we walked through the dog section of the shelter, every dog snapped to action, barking to get our attention, knowing that we may be its chance of survival. Most of these dogs were big. One more medium-sized one was “human selective” and, channeling the Westchester crew,  took an immediate dislike to every member of my family. A third smaller one was insanely cute but, we were told, had some “serious” medical issues and would probably do better in a home without kids.

Through all of the chaos, one dog sat curled in a ball in her cage. She was small. She was not ugly. She was calm. She looked up at us…

And that is how we broke up our lesbian relationship and became dog owners again. Day 5. No regrets.

Most of the time, I think I’m pretty smart. I read a lot. I’ve traveled. I went to decent schools. I am up on current events. I’ve had good jobs. I generally get “it.”

However. I come from a line of Upper West Side intellectuals who question your smarts if, say, you are not up to date on Plutarch (I’m not) or if you aren’t in some sort of Proust society (ditto). In my family, you only have cred if/when you understand any/all historical/philosophical references and have some level of proficiency in advanced calculus, which you may or may not be required to do on the spot.

Since I check my 5th-grader’s math homework with a calculator and have to look up what “Occam’s razor” is every time I see it referenced (which happens more than you’d think ), I do not always measure up to my kinfolk or their standards. As a kid/teen, I rebelled against this intellectual snobbery by becoming as familiar with any/all minutia about my favorite celebrities as possible – which to my credit was much harder to do in the non-digital age of yore. I also “showed them” by deciding Shakespeare was “eh” and refusing to read or acknowledge The New Yorker.

Still, even if I don’t measure up to these aforementioned (and let’s be real, ridiculous) scholarly standards,  I still think I’m smart — or mostly smart – even if not as highbrow smart as me moms. But…there are occasions (translation: multiple times per day) where I think…am I?

The most egregious examples of my self-questioning were back in the day when I actually had a job/people who paid me money for my smarts. These smarts/skills involved math, statistics and writing. I analyzed the beejoosus out of data for high profile clients and thrived under pressure. I could tell you what a regression analysis was and whether we needed to run one. I understood standard deviations and such.  I was occasionally told to dumb down my vocabulary in my memos.

Yet there I would be, in charge of a project, data in hand, answering some higher-up/client/boss-man question and wonder if I actually knew what the fuck I was talking about. I mostly thought I did, but like…what if I didn’t? I kept waiting for someone to realize they’d made a Very Big Mistake hiring me and felt sure that one day the curtain would be drawn and the real Oz would be revealed. That didn’t happen. But I kept fearing it would.

Over the years, I have learned that the above stress is a very (common) female phenomenon which makes me want to rage against the machine. At the same time, knowing that I am not alone in these feelings makes me more confident that I wasn’t actually pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes, that I did know what I was doing….and that I was instead (semi) fated to self-doubt by virtue of being an XX-chromosome bearer (apropos of all of this; even though I know women are XX and men are XY, I do, I just DOUBLE CHECKED THAT ON GOOGLE.COM BECAUSE WHAT IF I FORGOT ALL BASIC SCIENCE).

The thing is, I’ve come to understand that my intellectual self-doubt is not limited to the professional world.  There are other perhaps more mundane cases in which I wonder…am I the only person sitting here who has close to zero clue what is going on? Examples:

My sister – who is one of the smartest people I know (which, incidentally, I tell her to her face, unlike my spouse – about whom I feel similarly – where my goal is to maybe never tell him to his face) – has published a successful book (historical fiction) about Cleopatra’s sisters. Naturally the book takes place during Cleopatra’s time (which I knew took place sometime in the BC realm which made me feel smart and maybe a little worldly). While I loved the book (seriously, go read it: Cleopatra’s Shadows –  http://amzn.to/29Ea5xw), I spent a significant amount of time wondering how she got the cadence and language of that time down pat. How she managed to write a tome that sounded like it could have been written then. I mean, I can write…but not like that.  I vaguely feared discussing the book with her/my family lest I pronounce “Ptolomy” or other ancient words incorrectly. But the book in and of itself did not make me question my intellect because I understood the plot, liked the characters and remembered (fondly?) what eunuchs are.

But then I went to a reading my sister gave last week.  At the reading, she answered  a question about whether her book had any Antigone influence. On the plus side, I’ve heard of and even read Antigone, and can pronounce her name. On the minus side, I remember nothing about her/the play other than that she was Greek and maybe mythological. Here’s the thing: At the Antigone reference, everyone else in the audience was nodding and “mmm hmm-ing” along like we were talking about the Real Housewives of New York or something. Did this sizable group of people remember all things Greek/Sophocles?

Another example: Brexit. I comprehend that Brexit has racist/xenophobic underpinnings because I’m not a complete idiot and do read this publication called The New York Times on a daily basis. But I had to read an article that may have actually been called “Brexit for dummies” to fully grasp the trade and more global implications of a UK exit. Other people – people I don’t even consider intellectuals – seem to be able to discuss the ins/outs of this (and other international politics) with more ease/intimate familiarity than I do. I keep hoping they’re faking it like I do when forced to discuss things which I do not understand, but I don’t think they are.

Which leads me to the subprime mortgage/housing crisis of 2008-9. I’ve had some time on this one. I know bad things happened. That there were mortgage foreclosures and delinquencies, and that there was some sort of problem with subprime lending. I get the basics (ish). Other people seem to understand more. More about both the bigger picture and the nuances. More about what actually caused the entire financial crisis. More about all of it.

I was excited when Hollywood made a (fictional) movie about the topic because, hello, that I could get my mind around. Let’s just say that while I mostly understood how the crisis happened during the movie, I forgot everything I had “learned” upon exiting the theater.  That movie got some Oscars, man, which means that other  Americans probably felt pretty versed in the subprime mortgage crisis after seeing its Hollywoodization. I did not.

This is a new low, people. I’m not feeling dumb when comparing myself to my egghead family or my group of smart, well-versed friends, but when head-to-head with the the general population of our nation, a chunk of whom have already voted for Donald Trump. A nation of people who spawned a television show called “Are you smarter than a 5th grader?” (The show worked for a reason. A sad, sad reason).

I will now stop embarrassing myself/horrifying my mother (and perhaps the fellow parents at my daughter’s school from where I graduated). To make myself feel better and to end on a positive note, I would like to point out that I can wax poetic about Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Geraldine Ferraro, Gloria Steinem and feminism in general.  I can talk domestic politics with confidence. I scored a perfect score on the logic portion of the LSAT.  And if you want to know what’s up with Bethenny….I’m your woman.

Aah, sleepaway camp. Such a different experience as a kid than as a parent. As I kid I reveled in the independence; no one telling me “get your hair off your face” or “did you brush your teeth” or “do you really want seconds?” Instead, I ate pancakes for breakfast as often as possible, swam in the lake daily, showered once a week (that’s what we were allowed. Keep in mind this was circa 1981. Keep in mind I find this horrifying now), and was told to add salt to my food on the hottest days. At camp, I got to celebrate my birthday on the actual day (in August) rather than some faux celebration in May with school friends. I also slow-danced to Hey Jude (always the last song), became an even bigger Michael Jackson fan after getting his tape called “Thriller” as a birthday present, and broke more rules than I ever had before…or ever have since.

It is not the same as a parent of a camper, people. There’s a pre- and post- kid leaving situation happening, so allow me to take you through.

Pr-departure:

1. Print out camp list with required/suggested items that she will need at least 2 months in advance. Make sure you have all items on list including “you may want…” suggestions (incidentally, this included purchasing a 12-pack of bandanas. 10 of them are in her closet at home)
2. Carefully label all clothes/shampoos and trinkets (as an aside, putting name labels on socks is thankless. Those bad-boys came off many times before I actually shipped her clothes. Yes, today you ship clothes ahead of time for another 300 Gs. Lean in, people, lean in.)
3. Debate the merits of ordering “cheap” black duffles versus “fancier” colored/patterned duffles. Go with option 1 and then notice that someone on the camp bus has the cute version. Fear you have done child actual harm. Also wonder how this person is getting away with not shipping luggage ahead of time
4. Ask fellow parents with sleepaway experience if there’s anything you might be forgetting even though you have gone through aforementioned list 20-30 times. Find  yourself buying something called “Showaflops”
5. Panic after you have sent luggage when a friend mentions the”egg crate” she bought for her kid.  Weigh pros/cons of figuring out WTF this is and whether your child will be the only camper without it
6. Feel proud for remembering to buy stamps to send with child
7. Feel grateful to friends/siblings who understand the merits/necessity of having stationary at camp because your version of this is sending kid with paper from the home printer (and stamps!)
8. Stress you picked wrong camp
9. Stress you should have sent her for full summer/second session instead of 1st
10. Stress kid will get Lyme disease or some other “country” ailment

Post-departure:

1. Weep at the thought of spending the next 4 weeks without her
2. Weep at the thought of her missing you
3. Weep at the thought of her not missing you
4. Schedule allowed phone call and make sure calendar is free for at least an hour before and two hours after scheduled time even though phone call is to last 10 minutes
5. Console younger child who says things like “I’m sad/all alone/I miss her so much/What will I do without her/I have no one to play with or do things with.” (Note: Said child was refusing to play with older sister while maybe screaming “I hate you” at various times over the previous week. Also note: You do not offer up yourself as a playmate for child but do debate throwing your husband under the bus as “play” companion)
6. Check camp photos before bus has actually arrived at camp. Refresh camp photos as if checking email for college/Kindergarten acceptances. Wonder how your parents got through the summer without online photos
7. Notice your kid is never fucking wearing her hair in a pony tail/up/off her face
8. Notice your kid is not wearing a (carefully labeled) sweatshirt when all the other girls are and clearly she must be cold
9. Analyze every facial expression in any picture where you can actually see her face
10. Are pleased to see that at the very least she doesn’t have a sunburn
11. Ask doorman if mail has arrived every time you enter/exit the building
12. Debate whether it’s ethical/fair/okay to open letter to sibling which is first piece of communication you receive. Rip open the letter 8 seconds later
13. Wonder why letters to brother/father say “I love and miss you” while your letter says, “I need x, y, and z.” Apparently your child is the only one who didn’t bring her emoji pillow even though you suggested she bring her emoji pillow. Wonder if her comment that “I got four letters when I came here” is with a grateful or “tone it down” intent.
14. Hit refresh on the camp photos
15. Hit refresh on the camp photos

A couple of months ago – over spring break –  my daughter staggered into the living room (where I was busy ignoring her/her brother while they “played” – aka yelled at each other – in a different room) saying “I just hit my head really hard. I see stars.” Unlike every other member of my household, the girl kid is not much of a drama queen, so I took her statement seriously. She told me she felt dizzy and “weird.” I iced her head and told her to tell me if she got tired while I texted the two people in the medical field I know and questioned the hell out of Siri to find out if I should take her to the doctor. I gazed into her eyes every 7 seconds to see if her pupils were different sizes (they weren’t). I asked her how she was doing every 2-3 minutes. When she told me “I feel like falling asleep,” I got my indecisive ass into gear. The first thing I did was call my mom to see if she could come be with my other kid (she could). The second thing I did was text her music teacher, Charles, who was scheduled to come a couple of hours later for her 4 pm weekly lesson. This was our correspondence:

Me: Charles, I’m so sorry but I think (kid) has a concussion and I’m taking her to the doctor. I apologize for the last minute cancel.

Charles: What happened? So sorry!

I texted him explaining what happened and hit send. A few minutes later my phone rang. It was Charles. By this point, I was on the phone with my husband (he was third in line after all). I found it a little weird that Charles was calling as I thought we’d sort of taken care of business via text, but he is a bit of an odd bird (examples: wears a top hat everywhere. I think he thinks it’s a fedora. It’s not. Also, he calls me “mommy” and tells my 10 yo she makes “boo-boos” when she plays. He often presents us with a napkin-wrapped chocolate chip cookie, fresh out of his pants pocket, as a “gift” of sorts. That said, he’s an excellent teacher).

Anyway, I didn’t really want to talk to Charles but felt it was rude not to answer since I had texted him moments earlier. I distractedly picked up and did not use friendliest tone, thus theoretically conveying how frantic things were in my house; Charles expressed more concern; I told him that I appreciated him understanding the last minute-ness of the cancel. We hung up.

A few minutes later, another text. Charles: “I pray for her that she will be fine!”

After this 4th Charles-correspondence, I joked to my daughter that I had heard more from Charles about her injury than I’d heard from her Pa. I will say that I did find the last text a little strange/out of character because Charles is Jewish as are we when we are not being atheists, and Jews (or the Jews I know) don’t typically say things like “I’ll pray for you.” But I rolled with it. At that point I was hoping not to spend the next chunk of my life in the ER so if Charles’s prayers were going to help, so be it.

At 3:55 – five minutes before our typical lesson started –  I headed downstairs with my daughter, en route to the doctor. When the elevator opened into the lobby, I saw a top hat out of the corner of my eye. My daughter grabbed my hand and whispered, “It’s Charles.” By some stroke of luck, he was busy with his phone and did not see us.

“What the literal EFF” I whispered to my daughter who at the same time whispered “Why is he here?”  I put my finger to my lips, shook my head and SNEAKED OUT OF MY OWN BUILDING Pink Panther style, speed tip-toeing out onto the street. Kid and I burst into laughter as we found Charles’s arrival to a canceled lesson uproariously funny (and borderline psychotic).  On the upside, his shenanigans kept us entertained right up until the doctor was ready for us.

When we got home (girl was fine, incidentally), my mom said, “Charles the music teacher showed up.” At this point, I was beyond confused and at the level of feeling a tiny bit stalked.  I re-read our texts. It was clear that I had used the word “cancel.” It was clear that Charles had received the text. It was clear that Charles had called me. And then texted again. It was also clear that he did not interpret “cancel” as most English speakers would.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice that my kid’s music teacher cares about her well-being, but showing up after being told not to was not “random, nasty cookie-produced-from pocket” weird, but a whole new level of crazy. I was vaguely creeped out, a little bit irritated, but mostly baffled. I told myself that he was being thoughtful and vowed to move on.

Flash forward two months (with no text communication between the two of us). Yesterday – the weekly lesson day – I was worried that girl kid and I were going to get home late.

Me: Charles, apologies, but we may be running a few minutes late. We should still be there close to 4.

Charles: I’m sorry, what is this about?

Huh??  I’ll say it. Charles can be a frustrating dude. Sometimes he seems a little lost. He wears winter-like clothes in the summer. He uses the word “boo-boo.” But like…What did he think it was about? I wrote back “(Kid’s) music lesson,” feeling proud that I managed to resist writing, “duh.”

Charles:  I think you got the wrong person.

WHAZZA. I scrolled back up to make sure that this was the same Charles with whom I’d last text-corresponded about my kid’s concussion. It was. I read those texts several times. Then everything froze. I do know one other Charles. That Charles is the florist from my 2005 wedding. That Charles told me (an unknown number I’m now guessing)  he’d pray for my kid. That Charles called me to find out more. That Charles had follow-through.

And the other Charles? The “fedora”-clad, porcelain-tchotchke- giving, music teacher Charles? Not a complete freak for showing up at my home for a normally-scheduled music lesson two months ago.