My New Boyfriend

I just read an article about acts of vandalism perpetrated in museums often against very well known works of art.

I've wondered about the accessibility of paintings in the museums as a result of my own desire to get as close as possible to the brush strokes of favorite artists and have actually been concerned about others with less benign intentions...

...As in the woman who smeared red lipstick across an all-white painting, certain that the artist would consider it an "act of love", a Canadian artist who ingested and vomited blue food on a Mondrian at the MOMA in New York and a rotten kid who stuck chewing gum on a painting in Detroit.

Most recent is the incident at the Tate in London where a man used black paint to scrawl on a painting by the abstract expressionist, Mark Rothko. This lunatic claimed that his action was not vandalism but related to a movement called "Yellowism."

Well, I just googled "yellowism" ("yellowism can only be presented in yellowistic chambers") and urge you to click the link if you want to experience something truly bizarre. I hope they throw this jackass in jail for not only defacing a work of art but for compromising the reputations of perfectly respectable words by combining them into the most incomprehensible manifesto I have read since the writings of one Mr. J. Bieber in which he tried to justify his musical existence as well as his haircut.

The Rothko before....

In other word, "yellowism" has caused me to see red. But I have yet to describe an act of vandalism that has left me weak with anger: In Italy, in 1991, a man attacked Michelangelo's David-- breaking off one of its toes before being subdued by museum guards.

and after...

                                                                                             

This past summer I had the privilege of visiting the incomparably beautiful city of Florence. Before we left home, I'd procured reservations to see David at the Accademia dell' Arte without having to wait on long lines with art pilgrims who, like myself, included a personal audience with David on their bucket list of "must-sees."

The day of our reservation arrived and despite a record high of 105 degrees in the city, Seth and I set out for our appointment with the world's most famous sculpture--carved from a single block of marble between the years 1501 and 1504.

By the time we reached the gallery, however, my resolve to see David was severely weakened by the intense heat and humidity plus a raving bitch of a bone spur on my heel that had seriously slowed me down throughout this once-in-a-lifetime vacation.

Hobbling and soaked with pespiration, I'd passed sunlit piazzas as well as the cooler winding backstreets for which the city is famous, eventually turning a corner to be shocked by the magnitude of the crowd waiting to enter the museum. Even the line for those with reservations (for which I'd forked over quite a few Euro) was apparently endless so I, of course, had an inevitable meltdown both literally and figuratively.

I wasn't the only one. Heat-flushed and dehydrated tourists all around us were bitching about the lines so I felt right at home and, based on the comraderie of the discontented, made the decision to stick it out.

Sweating like a race horse after the Kentucky Derby, I waited. Holding on to Seth for support as my sugar and fluid levels plummeted and the sun burned through my hair to my scalp, I waited. Shaking off the gypsies gamely trying to sell me pastel panoramas of the city or tearfully begging for spare change, I waited.

"David damn well better be worth it," I muttered to Seth.

It too nearly an hour and a half (I don't want to think about how long it took for non-ticket holders) but we were finally in. Bags were checked, metal detectors traversed and, suddenly, at the end of a wide, cool hall, there he was. My new boyfriend.

I had no choice but to gasp. Standing on a pedestal, bathed in light, David waited...and it was if we were the only two in the room. 

Gazing up at his face, past the provocative extension of his leg, the curve of his hand and his giant marble penis -- crowned by what can only be pubic hair that had been set on 15th century electric rollers, I knew that he and I had a future together. At least for the next hour or so.

Aggressively hovering over a teenage boy who was hogging one of the few available seats until he fled the wrath of my pointed stares and correctly deduced that I was insane, I sat and stared at David. Time stood still. We were finally together -- David and I -- as it had always been meant to be.

Every ten minutes or so, the guard on duty -- a tall, glowering Italian whose eyes, like a lifeguard on a crowded beach, never left his field of supervision would bellow "Silencio!" at the top of his lungs and the crowd would freeze and stand, for a second or so, as still as the statue they were there to admire. 

I, at first, thought that perhaps a child had been lost in the crowd and this was a means to locate them...by calling their name in a now quiet room. But no. This was because the noise, which had risen to a low but never disrespectful roar, would by way of sheer sound waves cause damage to the sculpture.

As the guard propelled himself around David's base, daring us to misbehave with his confrontational demeanor, I silently applauded his vigilance. Here was a man who understood the importance of his job. I pitied the fool who might dare to harm a single marble hair on David's noble head.

I consider myself far the richer for having had the opportunity to spend time with David. It's not just his personal beauty that causes him to be so mesmerizing. I have to imagine that part of the aura is the love the artist had for his sculpture both in process and completion, as well as the combined centuries of pleasure experienced by the multitudes who have circled the six tons of Carrara marble and seen the life beyond the stillness.

As for the toe that was broken off during the attack, it's been reattached and David looks none the worse for wear. And, as long as that guard remains on the job, I know David is safe. 

Dreams, Debates and Dancing with the Stars

Last night I dreamed....

...that they ran out of spray tan on Dancing wit the Stars and chose, instead, to cover all the dancers with orange buttercream...and no one noticed the difference. This required only a quick trip to a local 7-11 since -- as we approach Halloween -- orange buttercream is sold by the vat.

Last night I dreamed...

What is wrong with this woman?

 ...that Susan Boyle had been released from the Scottish prison where she is doing serious time for improper body hair maintenance and stood like a cigar store Indian next to Donny Osmond during a live performance on Dancing with the Stars. That is, until she opened her mouth...then she sang like an alligator had his teeth clamped onto her ass.

It IS a viable dance move, I tell you.

Terribly off key, apparently dazed and/or about to commit a murder, Donny Osmond held her hand for dear life as she scared every small child in America allowed to stay up late enough to watch Kirste Allie hoist up one boob in what she's decided is a viable dance move while Maks twirls around her.

Only a matter of time...

Last night I dreamed...

 ...that Peta Murgatroid finally put her hand down Gilles Marini's pants because that's the only place she hasn't groped him while just standing around waiting for scores.

Her hand, of course, came away covered in buttercream because he may, actually, be the most orange of the bunch. And speaking of mistakes, why does he wear eye liner every week? He is starting to look like this:

What?

Val

Last night I dreamt that my ex-husband Maksim Chmerkovsky, for the third consecutive week, has begun to look more like a muscular woman in drag than the irrepressible hunk and a half he's been for several years now.

I also dreamt that his brother, Val, is suddenly starting to looking almost as good as the strangely effeminate Maks used to look.

Moments before the attack.

I also dreamt that Derek Hough was sucked into his dressing room mirror as a result of spending way too much time staring into it and Mark Ballas was fired and took a job teaching the mambo in a combination nudist colony/homeless shelter somewhere in Hollywood. 

Later in that very dream, Cheryl Burke (who appears to have recently had her nose slightly pared down near the tip) and Katrina Smirnoff beat the crap out of newcomer and last year's winner, Peta, just for, well, existing.

Then my things morphed and shifted and....

Last night I dreamed...

 ...that there were two men in dark suits pirouetting around each other on a small stage. It may have been a continuation of my DWTS dream since they got very close to one another at one point but never seemed to touch. In the dream, it appeared they were being led in some sort of verbal competition by a strange looking man named Candy who had a head full of unfortunate hair extensions and wore an ill-fitting suit jacket that may have stolen from Rush Limbaugh's dressing room.

Crazy hair, bad jacket.

There was a lot of brow-furrowing and a few sneers while several very nervous people stood up and appeared to ask questions.  By this time, I finally went into some deep, dreamless sleep but not before two tall women in very expensive designer dresses came out and kissed the two men in dark suits.

I awoke, refreshed, this morning.

I do not wear eyeliner. I am just naturally beautiful.

Who's Calling?

Today while slicing up the last delicious cantalope of the year, the phone rang. Seth, who recently went out for a haircut is expecting an important call so I reflexively pivoted to face the phone, dropping my knife which fell, blade side down -- of course -- on my bare instep, slicing it open.

Still determined to answer the phone, I got close enough to read the caller ID which had a number I didn't recognize so I picked up the receiver.

But first I tripped on Buzzy who was winding around my legs.

Despite the chaos, I chirp a pleasant "Hello?" only to hear the low rumble of what we all recognize as a room full of desperate (I am not without pity) telemarketers. I mange to be polite as I inform my caller, who has asked for Seth, that while he isn't home, I would be pleased to take a message.

"No, thankyou," says she. This is just a courtesy call." She clicked off before I could shriek, now aware that I am standing in my own blood, "Well, I don't find it courteous at all!!!


On that note, here is a post from the ancient days of this blog, written immediately after Election Day, 2010, that is very appropriate in view of phone calls such as these as well as the barrage of political calls, polls and surveys that many of us have ben receiving in preparation for the approaching election...

Recent Scenario: After tidying my home, starting a load of laundry and vigorously petting the cats, I sit--with the lunch I’ve prepared--by the window to soak up some sunlight and relax for a few minutes. Cat Numero Uno curls up across my knees. Numero Dos settles by my side while I balance my veggie burger on the arm of the sofa, placing my iced tea on the window sill. I note, with fleeting concern, that I’ve forgotten to locate the portable phone. Then the phone rings.

Since it could be one of the boys needing advice (Can I wear this shirt with these pants? How much do I tip at a buffet? What is the meaning of life?), I pull myself to my feet, dispersing the cats—one of whom knocks my veggie burger to the floor.

The sound of shattering crockery alarms the other cat who leaps to the ceiling, up-ending the iced tea which then soaks my newspaper.


I stagger to the phone, my lips already forming the pearls of wisdom I will dispense, but, upon lifting the receiver, hear only, “Hi, this is Linda McMahon….” Or, “This is—insert the name of one of a dozen candidates who’ve been bombarding my home recently with obnoxious recorded messages. Or it’s their wife, child, left ass-cheek, pet or transsexual lover who wants, in additional recorded messages, to tell me why their daddy, mommy, wife, husband, etc. is the perfect choice for the job.

Unfortunately, there’s no one at the other end at whom to howl obscenities. So, I shriek them into the unresponsive receiver, impressing none but the cats (who’ve heard it all before) with my dazzling, yet disappointingly unmarketable, natural ability to string naughty words into extremely complex sentences.

Don’t these politicians see that this harassment isn’t an effective way to commandeer votes or rally a constituency? At least, not in my opinion, it isn’t. I’ve long treasured the privilege of voting but was so disgusted with these calls (plus the relentless negative ads on television combined with a scarcity of decent choices) that, this year, I considered getting a pedicure instead of casting a ballot.

Not to mention, I miss the old voting machines. I don’t trust the new ones. How could it not matter whether we insert our ballots face up or down? I think the new machines might actually be shredders. Right, Bridgeport?

I read that Linda McMahon’s campaign made 400,000 phone calls during the weeks preceding the election. I seriously think she made them all to my house. When I heard the staggering amount she spent (45 million American dollars) on her campaign, I had to lie down with a cool rag across my face and a bag of peanut M&Ms by my side.

The election is over but I’m still receiving calls. Now, mostly, from gutter installers, chimney cleaners and dozens of charities and organizations who think nothing of calling on a Sunday morning at 8:30 or a Friday evening after nine. I struggle to keep my head from exploding as I respond politely. After all, these are people trying to earn a living.

If my hormone levels are in flux or I’ve been rudely awakened, I’ve been known to behave less cordially. Afterward, I worry that, with the click of a mouse, a caller seeking revenge and possessing computer skills could skew my credit rating or place me on the no-fly list, so I try to control my ire. It does seem, however, that since I signed up with the “Do Not Call” registry I’ve been receiving more calls instead of fewer. Perhaps, I accidentally added myself to the “Please—I beg you!!—Call Me” list in a moment of delirium.

So, if any telemarketers, candidates, or pollsters are listening, I don’t want to hear why you’re right for the job, change my cable company or donate money. I want my phone time reserved for chatting with family and friends, ordering pizza or directing the confused driver of the Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol van to my door. Other than that, consider me unlisted.

If he calls, I'll talk to him.

Easy to be Easy

I have always been easy.

Nope, not that kind of easy. In fact, the suit of armor I wore during my dating years was recently installed in the Smithsonian's new "Inhibited, Uptight and,Yet, Cantankerous" wing. 

I, however, am referring to alcohol and medication.

If you've ever been seated near me at a wedding or at dinner, you will note that I become a total dope after little more than a sip of champagne or gulp of wine. I feel it enter my system immediately where it first takes up residence in my upper arms or collarbone region and then hits me smack in the brain where it causes all sorts of mischief (and embarrassment for Seth).

When it comes to over the counter sleep aids, I must halve or quarter them or I will fall into a coma that can last upwards of 15 hours. And, if I should have reason to take a percoset, I am as stoned and warmly hallucinatory as any zoned-out subject in Dr. Timothy Leary's LSD experiments back in the 1960's.

Dr. Leary and his infamous quote.

This degree of susceptibility to drink or drugs is usually associated with people of a delicate size and shape yet the only time the word "delicate" has been applied to me is when referring to my grasp on reality.

It is what it is and I have learned to adapt. But I was very easy yesterday, too...only this time in a different capacity.

I'd been feeling kind of glum...not sure if I was coming down with something, I felt lethargic and tired and spent the day dragging my feet between chores and thinking dark thoughts.

About a half hour before sunset, I shuffled past a window and noticed that the mantle of grey which had hung damply over the day had lifted.

In its place was an aqua sky and a few clouds whose linings had been pierced by long reflective rays of silver,  peach and gold.

It certainly wasn't the most beautiful sunset I've enjoyed through that window. In fact, it was a very modest attempt on the part of Mother Nature to show us what she's got, but it was all I needed.

My spirits rose immediately. My heart lifted, my mood turned and all those dark thoughts were replaced by a feeling of pleasant optimism.

Yes, some might call this being a wee bit bi-polar. Nonsense. I call it another manifestation of being easy....easy to get tipsy, easy to get sleepy, easy to be cheered by some pretty clouds and blue skies.

I'm still feeling good today. I hope you are, too.

A Trip to Crazytown

Seth was away for the past few days with friends for their annual "Let's Prove We are Men Weekend."

This involves activities such as crushing beer cans on their heads but, unfortunately, since they are becoming forgetful as they grow older, they often forget to empty them first. Additional manly hijinks include comparing ear hair, measuring each other's body fat with souvenir calipers purchased from AARP's website and unintentionally undercooking pork.

They then go night-night a little after eight p.m to enjoy a good rest before getting up to do exactly the same things the following day.

I was left behind as usual. Thank goodness.

Over the years, I've made either the best or the worst of these solo weekends. When I'm on the upswing, I have gone on outings with the girls, read a few good books, gotten some writing done or replaced the summer clothes in the closet with their winter counterparts.

Not this time. I was on track to be a bad girl.

Being bad is simple. It means a package of Stella D'oro Marguerites (I defy you to find a better dunking cookie, America. Yeah, Oreos, I said it), a carton of 1% milk and (very) excessive TV watching. And yes, I have always been this wild.

 

The sad little puddle of hormones I have left were also, inexplicably, in quite an uproar. Combine that with a deep sense of paranoia about being alone and you end up with crying jags (perfectly timed to coincide with Seth's thoughtful phone calls home), obsessive checking and rechecking of the doors and windows, making sure the phones were charged so I could call 911 if necessary and watching instructional self-defense videos on youtube.

I believe I can now successfully shove your nose up into your brain if you attack me.

By the time Seth got home, I was well-ensconced in Crazy Town. Here is a true chronicle of the events as they ensued with a quick smidge of background info first....

Some months ago in specific preparation for this weekend, I began researching fake tattoos in order to upset my husband since he DOES NOT want me to get a tattoo. Wasn't that nice of me? Going out of my way to freak out a perfectly nice man who always puts my needs before his own?

But no one ever said life is fair.

I found a nice fake tattoo of a cat (what else?) and had been hiding it in my dresser drawer, sneaking it out regularly to admire it and reread the instructions (wet thoroughly, wait 20 seconds, mess with husband's brain), all the while chuckling happily to myself.

Today was finally Tattoo Day! Even though no one else was home, I crept into my own bedroom and stealthily removed the tattoo from its hiding spot. I not only transferred it successfully to the inside of my wrist but, in a moment of pure genius, artfully applied blush and vaseline in order to make the area look painful and authentic.

I was sure it looked 100% real. I then did lots more chuckling.

Seth called from the airport and I was ready--tattoo and all. Upon his arrival, he spots the tattoo within the first five minutes. "Nice fake tattoo." says he.

"What?? I cleverly respond, genuinely stunned. "This is real. It's a real tattoo. Real. Tattoo. Yes, siree. Look how red and swollen it is. It's real, all right!"

He was not buying it but I kept trying. Touching it and wincing in pain, I shouted the words "tattoo" and "real" several times more but he was not to be moved.

Okay, I was happy he was home so I cut my losses and after giving him a bowl of soup and a nutty smile, sat down to continue what I'd been doing right before he'd walked in the door: googling "hats for cats."

Seriously (sorry, Tom and Charlie).

Lately, I've been wanting a few cunning little hats for Buzzy who is so handsome that it stands to reason a little hat would only enhance his appeal. But I discovered that little hats for cats are very, very expensive (especially the sombrero). Try as I might, I could not justify such an expense.

But what's this? Seth had finished his soup and was now peering at the computer screen over my shoulder. Seeing an array of small hats, available for purchase, for cats, he stepped backward and muttered something about cat tattoos, little hats and how I must "finally have lost my friggin' mind."

At that very moment, Buzzy jumped up on the table, knocking my Diet Coke over onto the keyboard of the laptop. I immediately leaped to my feet and bellowed "CHARLIE!!" LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!!!

Now, obviously, Charlie is my son who is currently miles away and, most likely, had nothing to do with the Diet Coke spilling on my keyboard. The Stella D'oro cookies, however, were still in my system and all that sugar must have confused me. But when I looked up and saw the combination of genuine fear and concern on Seth's face, I began to laugh. And laugh.

And laugh.

And, as is my habit once a certain level of hilarity has been achieved, I burst into tears...only to laugh again and then cry again...then laugh...cry. You get the picture. Once this happens, laughter and tears must naturally burn out on their own. Sometimes this can take a while. I believe the technical term for this is hysteria.

 

Seth was pretty shaken up by the whole thing.

When he sees the nice little hats I will make for Buzzy out of paper cups and glitter, he's sure to feel a lot better.

 

It doesn't look that real after all.

The Corn Maze

I saw my first sign for a corn maze yesterday and my blood turned to ice water in my veins. Here's a "Susan Says..." classic that will explain why....

The Corn Maze

Ah, autumn. 

Warm, golden days and cool,refreshing nights. Flaming maples, their scarlet leaves bright against the periwinkle skies of the season.  Gleaming pyramids of rosy, locally grown apples stacked to the sky at outdoor markets. Hay bales and colorful mums adorning our front steps and the rumble of  yellow school buses carrying eager youngsters back to class.  And corn mazes.

I harbor certain fears in this life—terrorism, airplanes, dental drills, any old movie with Tony Randall….and corn mazes. Signs announcing their existence start popping up about now. Often rustically hand-lettered on cardboard, they line the sides of local roads.  I avert my eyes and step heavily on the gas.



Who came up with this madness, anyway? A sadistic farmer with bodies already buried under the barn but who’d lost his spark for procuring fresh victims, perhaps. “Yes, I will trap hapless souls by ensnaring them in a maze of towering corn!  And—wait for it— I shall charge them a fee, wooohooo!”

About a thousand years ago, when I was a very Brooklyn-ized young lady and the only indications of a change of season were new displays in card-store windows, my idea of a lovely fall excursion meant a subway trip across the Manhattan Bridge to a museum.  One crisp day I was invited, by an equally Brooklyn-ized young man named Anthony (I only dated guys named Anthony—it was a strict rule) with a penchant for high-waisted  pants,  to “go the country” to see what there was to see.  This suggestion was anxiety producing (what was this place known as “the country?”) but wanting to impress Anthony, I slapped on some blue eyeshadow and off we went. 

To this day I have no idea where we were.  I know it involved lots of sneezing , acres of pumpkins, and countless signs announcing the elusive presence of fresh pies.  And a corn maze.  My date, probably a budding serial killer himself, wasn’t sure what a corn maze was but it appealed to him.  Having had problems with mazes in Highlights Magazine as a child (I also preferred Goofus to Gallant-- a harbinger of personal conflict on other levels), the word “maze” conjured feelings of confusion and inadequacy.  Wanting to appear fun-loving and agreeable, I smiled as Anthony forked over money he’d earned  shoveling popcorn at the Loew’s Oriental on 86^th Street and, in we plunged.

It was very crowded.  There were armies of small “country children” gurgling gaily, their hands sticky from country goo as they pushed past my city legs.  I became separated from Anthony almost immediately.  Unable to find him, my cries for help were apparently absorbed by the dry stalks around me  and I stumbled about for what I believe to have been several days.  



At one point I heard someone shouting my name but panic already had me in its grip and, as I turned corner after corner, choking on some sort of toxic dust piped in by the farmer to numb his victims, I was unable to answer.  It soon became a full blown horror movie filmed in slo-motion and I have no recollection of how I eventually escaped.  If my date hadn’t been nearly as strung out as I was, I would have been very angry but it seems that he was having a similar experience somewhere else in the maze.




On the way home, we agreed never again to venture out of the four boros (we said four because  Staten Island is considered the country)or speak of this to others.  We ended up at a favorite diner, comforting ourselves with slabs of cherry cheesecake—the official post- date snack of all Brooklynites— and glasses of cold milk which caused, shall we say,” digestive” issues with poor Anthony whose Saturday Night Fever pompadour was already seriously compromised by earlier trauma. Sadly, it was one of the better dates of that period of my life.

So, we never went out together again.  


If we ran into one another, he with another blue-lidded young lady and me, with another of the remaining  Anthonys, we’d nod silently, the unfortunate combo of corn and cheesecake forever in the rear view mirror of our youth.

Leaving on a Jet Plane....

I had reason to fly this summer.

In an airplane.

Many of you know from previous blog posts that this is not my preferred method of transportation. But, after much praying, relentless whining, therapeutic over-eating as well as getting my affairs in order, I accepted that in order to make it to a family wedding in Italy and, later, visit my sons -- both of whom are temporarily situated in the midwestern United States -- I had little choice.

Prodded by vague moments of lucidity and lots of deep thinking about the need to step from the deep recesses of my comfort zone and into the light, I decided to face my fears.

You will not be surprised to learn that for the true neurotic  --  as in everything --  there is a process. Booking the flight is the first hurdle.

As a preliminary requirement, one must procrastinate for days...sometimes weeks, often forfeiting cheaper airfare or good (nearest the exits) seats.

Once I finally get down to the business of making flight reservations, I try to intimidate myself as well as prevent actually chickening out of a flight by not buying the inexpensive insurance which enables one to cancel a trip yet receive a refund. Once, to Seth's abject horror, this did not stop me from refusing to board a plane and I am still paying him off in the currency of our marriage -- foot rubs and neck massages -- for that one.

When booking, I sit at the keyboard in what I hope is an altered state that directly connects me to the powers-that-be as I navigate the details of my transportion---as in begging God to steer me towards flights free from mechanical failure, terrorists and no meal service.

This involves attaining a transcendental state as I scan flight numbers, do actual research on the current financial status of available airlines (can they afford to properly bolt their seats to the floor??) and consult my inner psychic/numerologist as I choose from the remaining seats. After this is all over, I am drained....but I have hit "submit" and the wheels for either my fiery destruction or a nice vacation are in motion.

The next phase is called "perceiving life through the eyes of the imminently doomed."

As the date of departure nears, I look at my world with increasing affection.

Things that typically bother me (with the noted exception of the New York Mets, Justin Bieber and any and all Kardashians) become endearing and by the day before I leave, I am tragically in love with everything around me. Colors are brighter, food tastes more delicious, I don't mind changing the litter box and the moron who just cut me off on the highway and gave me the finger is not a son of a bitch, just charmingly madcap.

I then alert family and friends as to what is to be done with Buzzy the Cat should I not return, leave my will under the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table, make sure the laundry is done and the toilets are flushed...and then I leave.

On the way to the airport, the air -- despite inversions, pollution or noxious exhaust -- smells sweet and clean as I savor what could be my final breaths.

The lines at the tolls don't bother me and crazy drivers are most welcome because I have requested -- from the same powers that helped me choose my flight -- that if I am not meant to board the plane, I will be deterred by a traffic jam or a fender bender. This includes minor injuries that may involve having a broken limb set in the ER of a New York hospital---and we all know how long that would take.

But, I make it to the airport (LaGuradia or JFK) where, by now, I have begun to feel my heart hurling itself against my sternum.

I have a few Xanax in my bag that must be properly timed so I am, as yet, unsedated. This means everyone looks like a terrorist, the pilot is swilling martinis in the airport bar and the mechanic, who should be tightening the landing gear of my plane, is enjoying one of many porn apps on his smart  phone, instead. I, therefore, seek the non-prescription comforts of a bag of peanut M&Ms as we procure boarding passes and approach security.

Xanax is taken after the inevitable pat-down.

Inexplicably (to me), in the past two trips I've taken, I have been patted down for all legs of my journey. Could it be that my wild eyes and sheen of nervous sweat alerts the grim TSA agents in the New York airports? Okay, but what was it in Rome? By that time, I was charmingly festive with xanax and vino, wasn't I?

And in Des Moines last week, I was working really hard to appear to be a normal person yet with their no-nonsense middle-American perceptions, the local TSA obviously felt differently as they cheerfully felt me up in the name of passenger safety.

So, I flew....and lived to tell.

I am always amazed and incomprehensibly grateful that I have survived a flight as I stumble towards the smiling flight atendants who wave goodbye as I depart. And I always vow I won't fly again....until next time.

More about summer travel soon.....