Mr. Magoo and the Manhole

Watch out, for the love of God,
watch out, Mr. Magoo!!

Lately, I’ve been worried that I’m losing my sense of humor.

Having once been able to find the funny in just about anything, the constant stream of disasters has left me numb.

Full disclosure before we go any further: I was the kid who fretted horribly that Mr. Magoo would fall down a manhole, agonized over Herman Munster’s obliviousness to his social impediments and worried the castaways on Gilligan’s Island would never be rescued. However, I could also laugh at the hapless Nazis of Hogan’s Heroes and chuckled happily when Curly and Moe engaged in their sado-masochistic hijinks.

As a result of this schizophrenic approach to both TV and life, I developed into a hybrid--filling my emotional tank with the high octane of both joy and sorrow.

Recent events have altered me. Anxious about terrorism, travel, politics and social unrest (to name but a few), I am less inclined to mine the depths of life’s pathos in search of mirth.

You can say that again, Sebastian.

I found myself in a low place the other day. The news was very bad---again. But the television gods were with me as, clicking away from CNN, I stumbled upon a movie so reliably sweet that only the most lost among us could not be coaxed into the light by its good nature.

“You’ve Got Mail,” starring Tom Hanks, the Jimmy Stewart of my generation and Meg Ryan in pre-cosmetic surgical radiance, was put there just for me…and a million others who needed a boost.

This perfect example of the “rom-com” formula: conflict that, over the course of  snappy dialogue and bewitching scenes of New York City at its best, blooms into true love, was just what the doctor ordered.

Settling back, I pushed the darkness aside with the intention of losing myself in this classic scenario but, almost immediately, started to worry that -- these days -- a bomb might go off while Tom Hanks enjoyed a busy street fair. Later, during scenes in a bustling store, I remembered how uncomfortable I now feel in crowds. Would Meg and Tom drop to the floor if disaster struck or hide behind that display of high-end cookware? Did they even know where the closest exit was?

I then realized just how deeply mired I’ve become in anxiety.

I know many of you feel it, too so I began to stew over the encroaching national, if not global, sense of angst and its destructive effects until, abruptly, I’d had enough of all the darn gloom.  

So, with a broad stroke, I pushed the goblins from my shoulder straight to the ground. Focusing on the movie with new eyes, I noticed that,in high def, Meg’s skin was not as flawless as originally observed. Immediately, I felt better. Next, a line of dialogue mentioning the need to move to Brooklyn because the rents were cheaper made me laugh out loud---albeit bitterly, but it was a start.

Huzzah--no where to be found!!!

Soon, I enjoyed the catharsis of a good cry thanks to a poignant moment and we all know how closely related tears are to laughter, yes?

Ultimately, I relied on my go-to standard for feeling happy: Is Adrian Brody anywhere in this movie? If the answer is no, you have reason to celebrate. He is not, I repeat not, to be found anywhere in “You’ve Got Mail.”

Do you really think Hanks is
the new me? I'm skeptical.

Soon, I was feeling better. I suddenly noticed how well my most recent pedicure has held up. The flowers on the deck were looking great. We’d recently had a lovely time with friends. I’d soon be visiting the kids…it had just rained and the air smelled fresh…the sun was shining  and -- come on, you know where this is heading – I am still here to see it all.

Don’t worry, I promise not to ask you to start a gratitude journal but I would like to leave you, dear readers, with a sense of hope that we all can share. Good things happen, too. More people are good than bad and, most of the time, Mr. Magoo manages to steer clear of the manhole.

Though we will all continue to be tested in a variety of ways, the sun will come out…if not tomorrow, the day after. Rent “You’ve Got Mail” from Netflix…I hate spoilers but, not for nothing, it has a happy ending.

Why, Meg? WHY????

Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

Did you know that baseball has a smell?

It doesn’t smell of one particular thing. It’s not just sweat, pine tar or unwashed uniforms. If Glade created a room freshener called “Opening Day,” you’d need essence of a well-worn mitt, old cleats encrusted with infield clay and the leathery aroma of the ball, itself. 

I’d buy cans of it and spray it all over the house.

The smell of baseball makes me remember a brownstone in Brooklyn, packed to the gills with baseball-nutty immigrants who grew to love (and become slightly obsessed with) the most American of pastimes.

It will be no surprise to learn that my family loved the Dodgers, named -- legend has it -- due to the fancy footwork necessary to “dodge” getting flattened by a trolley car in the busy borough we called home. But that was a bit before my time.

I was raised on the New York Mets.

My grandpa and uncle, often joined by my mother, grandma and a constant stream of aunts and  cousins, spent hours watching them and cursing them but, really, loving them in front of one of the first color TVs in the neighborhood. Housed in its own huge veneer cabinet -- complete with doily and candy dish filled with colorful, cellophane wrapped sour balls -- the lure of that green field and the blue sky above it, showcased on that convex screen, soon sang its  siren song. 

How I loved these guys--each so different but
so good!

It was from my very own spot on the carpet in front of the men in their easy chairs that I learned the rules, came to recognize the varied styles of the commentators, and, most significantly, connected baseball to an unequaled sensation of safety. 

Yes, Ump. I was safe.

Cocooned in a space where nothing could harm me more than the tickle of the popcorn my uncle might toss and then pretend he hadn’t, I spent many happy hours and, soon, I, too, genuinely loved the game.

And, specifically, I loved the aspect of baseball that many people criticize--the length and pace of those nine long innings. A baseball game has no time limit---it takes however long it damn well takes.

 Accept it, people.

But baseball isn’t slow, it’s measured. It doesn’t drag, it’s nuanced.

You said it, George.

Bursting with the constant possibility of excitement, we delighted in the suspense of an apparently lazy inning only to be catapulted from our languor by the sudden drama of a great play or thrilling hit.

Even Chewie plays.

Those moments, however rewarding, are second to the epic arguments about the faults, foibles and strengths of the players…the bonding over hatred of the umps (based on their most recent call)…and plotting Draconian revenge for heinous trades (Tom Seaver in 1977 is the perfect example. I still haven’t recovered). We fretted over injuries, memorized stats and, simply put, united over true affection for a home team

Play-offs and pennants were icing on the cake (or should I say “field”) but when the Mets won their first world series in 1969, it changed our lives in an almost biblical sense. David defeated Goliath that year and the following season I began to nag my mother to take me (I was eleven) on the two hour subway ride to Shea Stadium.

My first time there was so memorable that I remember exactly what I was wearing, that I stood on the final leg of the trip so to fully experience the elevated Number 7 swing into the curve of the holy ground of Flushing, New York and that we sat* next to a cheerful man who, when he bought his family ice cream, bought some for us, too.

I defy any artist to mix a more beautiful shade of green than the sunlit emerald of the outfield. Revealed after winding through Shea’s concrete tunnels, perfumed by the pungency of  absorbing years of spilled beer and wafting smoke from grilled Italian sausage, I remember gasping as I stepped forth on that first visit and, blinking in the sunshine, saw it in person for the first time.

Shea. I shall miss you forever.

I agree, Yogi.

Aware that my passion for the game is flagging (it's not so much fun watching alone), Tom and Charlie have encouraged me to rediscover my interest so, I’ve begun watching again. The ghosts of my grandpa and uncle stop by occasionally but, mostly, I’m by myself--eager to email the kids afterward about that great play, hit, save or infuriating error.

Can I recreate the magic of my youth? It’s doubtful but, surely, there is more magic to be made.

I still love it. And it must love me back because baseball still makes me feel good. Despite all its changes and new faces, a home run is still exciting, the umps are still blind and the grass is still that crazy green.

I can still smell it. Let’s see what the season holds…..

*For you Shea fanatics, we sat in the green seats on that first visit but in the sunshine, not under the dreaded over-hang.

Put him him the Hall of Fame!!!!!

Nothing Says "I Love Mom" Like a Pink Baseball Bat

This is just.....

Last week, after a perfectly lovely Mother’s Day, Seth wondered aloud as to where the boys will “take him” for his Father’s Day weekend. “Las Vegas?” he mused. “Although I hear Nashville and Miami are very nice, too!”

....stupid.

It appears that Seth was under the delusion, after having been exposed to the hoopla and huzzahs that Mother’s Day has become, that he is entitled to an extravaganza, as well---specifically, a "bachelor" type party complete with strippers, drunken tattooing and other shenanagins. 

Once I was able to convince him that this is not the case for Father’s Day (including that his days of strippers and shenanagins are now strictly visible only in his rear view mirror) and deal with the pouting and comfort eating that followed, I had to agree that Seth’s perceptions about Mother’s Day are correct.

A sweet little holiday has blown up into something unrecognizable from not only my youth where mom got a homemade card and a hug but even my years as a young mama where the card and hug rule still applied.

Our immersion in social media is greatly to blame, wouldn’t you agree?

Can you spare a few
wire hangers? I'm running low.

Several days before the second Sunday in May, many of us start searching the archives for adorable photos of ourselves with our mothers and we slap them up on Facebook, plastering our “walls” with cute sayings and art that has been created for this purpose alone.

I noticed that almost all of my friends’ kids were also changing their profile pictures to include their mothers and I spent the week in a cold sweat---would my sons do this?

My boys, who, for the most part, seem to like me just fine, are notoriously removed from most seasonal dictates and the corresponding social media mayhem. No, I reasoned….they would not.

I would be humiliated.

Come see, Woody! He looks just
like Frank Sinatra!

So I started my campaign: dropping hints, emailing them irresistible photos of us smiling into the camera—hoping they would choose to pin our private affection to the public busom of Facebook like those giant bubble gum corsages from many decades ago--penny Bazookas sewn together with a ribbon and worn for a special day. Well, hell, didn’t I always want one of those when I was little?

People will think those ingrates don’t love me, I privately lamented as more and more Facebook tributes popped up until finally, they did it (boys, I’ll put the checks in the mail later today). Whew!

See, world---they love me, they really do!

There are brunches and lunches with photo ops and exhausted florists making deliveries for 48 hours straight as they bunch posies, wrap raffia and exchange quizzical looks when faced with transcribing cards where one brother, who shall remain unnamed, horribly insults the other brother in the card of his own mother’s bouquet…just before signing it “Love, Charlie.”

The stores promote countless sales. Restaurants offer Mom free sundaes. News anchors smugly remind us again and again not to dare and forget the momentous day. Even professional baseball players are forced to wear pink cleats and helmets and hit with pink bats in honor of Mom. There was enough bright pink on the field last week when the Mets played, to confuse any self-respecting flamingo enjoying a Mother’s Day Mimosa in the stands.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved it. I ate it up like the attention whore I’ve always been (thanks, Mom).

Posting photos, opening cards, smiling at my reflection in the mylar of my balloons and fielding phone calls, I was Eve in the Garden of Eden on the very first Mother’s Day. 

She, too, wondered if her boys would remember and it actually did get a little dicey since this was before Al Gore invented the internet. But Eve’s kids managed to mail their cards on time and everything was just fine until all that unpleasantness began with the apples and the snakes.

I'm very worried the kids will forget it's Mother's Day! After all,
it's the first one!!

"Oh, Joffrey...come give mama a big hug."

My son, Tom, was home for Mother’s Day and we followed a drinking game’s rules while binge-watching Game of Thrones. Instead of tossing back a shot, Tom had to hug me whenever someone was disemboweled, mutilated or suffered a hideous amputation in a sword fight. This made for lots of hugging so mama was happy. 

Father’s Day simply hasn’t achieved the status of Mother’s Day. Oops, too bad. I take good care of Seth every day so if he wants an extra slice of cheese in his sandwich on June 19, I’ll see what I can do. Where he got this idea about a weekend of craziness in a penthouse suite in Vegas, I don’t know but if he calls you to organize it, please just hang up. 

As for “Susan Says,” she enjoyed her day greatly. I hope all you lovely mothers reading this did, too.

A philosophy I have tried to live by.

Shock and Awe: A Review of The 2016 Grammy Awards

Every year around this time, I get a little freaked out.

The world seems more worrisome, my anxieties become magnified and thoughts of digging a bunker in the backyard start to make a lot of sense.

I used to think it was a brush with the seasonal mood disorders linked to extended northeastern winters but I've been wondering lately if it might be more about the aggravating banality of “award season” than lack of sunshine. 

And, last night, the Grammys did nothing to change my mind…or my mood

For me, they started out on a very weird note. 

C'mon, show us those choppers....

Many of you are aware of my desire to punch Taylor Swift right in the face. Yet, when she pranced out like a glittering praying mantis, I felt unexpected waves of benevolence and appreciation. 

After considerable soul-searching as well as reading through the entire mental disorders section of Merck’s Manual, I deduced that the cause of this anomaly was a result of the world’s current confluence of woes and terrors. Taylor Swift – even in a cat suit and blindingly white new dental veneers, -- is preferable to ISIS.

Looks great but, in fact,
needs a sandwich.

That’s quite a compliment coming from me.

Mr. Weekend

In fact, the night was full of oddities---a new, skinnier Adele, a downright emaciated Sam Smith, Ice Cube’s son who narrowed his eyes and held up a hand covered with giant rings as if people might care what he spends his allowance on, a successful Jewish rapper (Drake), a song I thought I didn’t like (“Girl Crush”) but, literally, cannot stop singing this morning, Johnny Depp playing the guitar, a man named “Weekend” whose hair is obviously a result of  prolonged exposure to radiation and my new friend, Taylor Swift’s demented behavior when someone beat her out for a Grammy. To appear that unhinged by joy when you lose an award is clearly an attempt to channel homicidal energy away from an actual shooting or stabbing. She hugs and emotes instead of killing.

I feel you, Tay-Tay, I really do.

Hey, those are MY
eyebrows!

I was bored and fidgety early in the night. I was also worried that I might be aging out of the ability to enjoy what was unfolding before me…or that I no longer even cared. Therefore, I was relieved to feel reassuring stirrings of wrath and/or disgust at the appearance of Ariana Grande, that pastry licking twerp named for a Starbucks menu item, Demi Lovato, wearing Emily Blunt’s eyebrows and showing lots of under-boob, Robin Thicke and his pompadour both of whom don’t seem to grasp that they are yesterday’s donuts as well as affection and concern for poor Stevie Wonder who proved yet again that whoever dresses him, hates his guts.

Come and get'em, bitch.

The performance by the Eagles made me sad. Grieving and somber, their substitution of Jackson Brown for Glen Frey made sense but Frey was the irreplaceable heart of this band. Their signature harmonies are gone forever and they looked very aware of this last night with the terminally cranky Don Henley appearing even more annoyed than ever. I hope they all invested their money wisely because it’s over, boys. Thank God for royalties.

"What is happening to me????

Adele seemed to be having her issues, too. Wearing a mother-of the groom dress right off the rack from Nordstrom's, was it awful lighting, a bad sound system or was she actually completely off-key? 

I’d been looking forward to her performance all evening. Who wasn’t? But, apparently aware that something was amiss, she seemed increasingly desperate as the song – a luscious number co-written by my beloved Bruno Mars – went on, raising her volume in hope of finding her groove. It was not to be found but if anyone can rest on her laurels, it is she.

I remained hopeful that there would be a memorable “Grammy moment” but my hope waned as “the tributes” began. 

No. Just no.

A messy and joyless tribute to the career of Lionel Ritchie was first, followed by Lady Gaga’s extended seizure in homage to David Bowie. Gaga clearly did not understand Bowie because her antics were more of a Pee Wee Herman skit gone horribly wrong than a tribute. But, lest we forget, Gaga is in her twenties --too young to have truly experienced Bowie and his various musical incarnations. No cram session of Bowie videos can give even the talented Lady G a feel for what and who he was.

Tribute Number Three almost saved the show for me. Bonnie Raitt, still a total bad ass at the age of 66 with that streak in her hair and that guitar slung across her skinny hips, the awesome Gary Clark Jr. and the rasp of Chris Stapleton did the late, great BB King proud with their rendition of “The Thrill is Gone.” Now that was a tribute---three talented people, singing and playing as if the music might actually matter more than wardrobe and pyrotechnics.

As for Justin Bieber, his performance was a last ditch effort, suggested by his pediatrician, to get his testicles to totally descend. He strutted and and leaped about but it is reported today that, alas, they are still in hiding.

"Not tonight, Mommy. Not tonight."

 A highlight of the evening was the live-from-stage performance of the opening number of the new Broadway musical "Hamilton." A hip hop version of the life of Alexander Hamilton, it's a fresh and entertaining take on the life of one of our founding fathers as well as a potential way to interest today's students in a fascinating chapter of history. I hope to see it one day but tickets are both sold out for decades and unaffordable. 

Sofia and Pit Bull.

The show wound down with the resurrection of Alice Cooper, the appearance of an aloof Beyonce who, I fear, is starting to believe all her press and a cheerful performance by Pit Bull, joined onstage by the magnificent Sofia Vergara. 

Sofia is, once again, getting criticized for flaunting her sexuality. These critics are people who do not have an ass like hers yet wish they did. If I had that tushie, I’d wear the gold spangled number she had on and shake it at the supermarket every day in every aisle. Twice.

I will conclude as I began…with Taylor Swift.

After winning the Grammy for album of the year, she delivered an articulate acceptance speech that I have to assume was aimed right at the empty spot in Kanye West’s chest where his heart should be. 

Acceptus Interruptus.

That lunatic has claimed, in song lyrics on a recent album, that “he made that bitch famous”, referring to his interruption of her acceptance of a Grammy in 2009. Taylor took defiant ownership of her fame last night with a withering statement meant for Kanye to which I add the suggestion that he shut up and go home to his den of fame whores…..and remember, Kanye, no one calls Taylor a bitch but me.

Stevie, if you could see this, you would not be laughing.

Kate Winslet Wants to Kill Me

911 Operator:  “911, what’s your emergency?”

Susan Says:  “Kate Winslet wants to kill me. Please hurry.”

911 Operator: “Kate Winslet? Isn’t she the one who got naked in Titanic?”

Susan Says: “That’s the one.”

911 Operator: “Is she there now?”

Susan Says:  “She sure is.”

911 Operator: “Does she have a weapon?”

Susan Says: “No but she’s really frowning….and her eyes are dead. It’s like something out of 

Zombie Apocalypse.”

911 Operator: “Oh my God. So she’s in your home?”

Susan Says: “Well, actually, she’s in a fashion spread in Saturday’s Wall Street Journal Magazine.”

911 Operator: “So, she’s not actually there?!”

Susan Says: “No, but I’m very scared. Remember, she let Leonardo DiCaprio slide off into the ocean after promising she’d never let go.”

911 Operator: “Lady, that was a movie. It was very upsetting, though.”

Susan Says: “Well, now she’s looking really mean and wearing awful clothes and I’m scared.”

911 Operator: “Ma’am, this number is for emergencies. I am going to end this call.”

Susan Says: “Please don’t. I’m also scared of the rest of the models in this issue. They’re all emaciated and look like zombies, too.  Why do they think this kind of thing will sell clothes??”

911 Operator: “To be honest, ma’am, I don’t understand that myself. You’d think a smile and a little flesh on their bones would be more enticing.”

Susan Says: “I know! Now do you understand why I’m scared?”

911 Operator: “Yes, but I am not sending the police. Why don’t you have a nice snack. You’ll feel better.”

Susan Says: “I’ll tell you why! In another section of the same paper, they’re carrying on about this amazing new chef but he’s only making herring roe on kelp with charred dandelions!”

911 Operator: “God, no! That must have scared you more than Kate Winslet’s dead eyes.”

Susan Says: “It sure did. I just want some onion rings.”

911 Operator: “Me, too, ma’am.  Me, too.”

Susan Says: “Well, thanks for talking. I guess I can just recycle the paper and put Kate Winslet face down.”

911 Operator: “You do that, ma’am. And please, next time only call 911 in case of an emergency.”

Susan Says: “Okay. Sorry.”

911 Operator: “That’s alright, ma’am. Enjoy your onion rings.”

What the Leaves Want You to Know

Whatever you may be doing right now, stop it immediately. 

Grab the sweater on the back of your chair or the hoodie from the weird pile of stuff near the door and head outside and turn slowly until you have covered a full 360. Now, remind yourself that life is still beautiful. The autumn leaves are here this year to remind you of that.

I’ve had the pleasure of living in my little town here in Connecticut for 21 years and have never seen a display of gorgeous color like this---the reds are flaming, the coppers virtually aglow and the yellows, oranges and golds are varied and burnished. Peer through them to that special shade of sky I call “October Periwinkle” or even a brooding grey wash of clouds and you have something to remind you of the indefinable majesty of life. 

It’s something bigger and wider and kinder than the media’s crass agenda, the stupidity promoted on TV or the fact that Hannah Montana has become Miley Cyrus in all her ridiculous and sad vulgarity.

It is said that in a dry year, the trees perform some natural magic that helps preserve the moisture in their roots and that a fortunate by-product of this process is brighter than normal foliage. We’ve had a significant rain deficit so this all makes sense.

I prefer to interpret what’s out there—a display that’s caused people to, literally, pop from their cars and clamber up on rocks to snap photos they will email to friends who live in parts of the world where leaves simply do not do this – as a reminder that, no matter what, good things happen, too. 

I’m not suggesting we ignore reality. How can we? We are plugged in all the time. In restaurants, nail salons and at gas pumps the unsettling ubiquity of cable news fills our hearts with utter dread. Personally, it wears me down, creating a perpetual sense of personal unease.  

TV screens used to be in bars so sports fans didn’t have to miss a play but now they’re everywhere. Just the other day, while getting my hair cut, every head in the salon was turned to the TV as an awful scene right here in Connecticut was unfolding before our eyes. Thankfully, it was a false alarm but it scared every single one of us in there. Yet, despite the fears these ever-present screens create, we are also becoming somewhat anesthetized to the horror. None of that is good.

We, the comparatively fortunate few of Fairfield County here in southern New England -- though we occupy a world of madness and are certainly not untouched by the daily pain of the world -- can monitor it on our high def televisions and fancy phones behind artfully placed hay bales, mums and pumpkins that adorn our front steps every fall.  We are certainly blessed to live where we do yet we all know too well what life is about.

But forget it for a moment and run and look into each other’s eyes and swoon together over the graceful tufted grasses, crimson sugar maples, golden sycamores and rusty sedums that are right outside our doors.

Stop for just a second as you emerge from your office, garage door or before you board your little tractor for a final mow and let this natural antidote lift your hearts and make you feel that life is wondrous. In a world where colors like this can appear on trees, briefly forget the fresh daily hell that the default page on your browser is serving you and breathe. You may need a Zyrtec afterward but it will have been worth it.

No, Susan Says has not become an optimist. Don’t worry, I am still the paranoid, hypersensitive and often gloomy wreck who won’t get on an airplane without having eaten a Xanax sandwich washed down with a slug of tequila. But, this year, the autumn leaves reminded me of the day when I wasn’t quite this crazy, worried or nutso. 

Go take a look before they’re gone. And smile, because life can be beautiful, too.

All photos in this post were taken here in town by either me or Seth "Ansel Adams" Szold.

The Time Tunnel

I first joined Facebook for one reason and one reason alone: to stalk my children.

In fact, I was so determined to participate in intrusive subterfuge that I signed up under a fake name but my son Tom sniffed it out and warned Charlie that I was up to no good.  It took years to regain their trust but now I wrestle with myself constantly to obey proper mother/son social media protocol.

Facebook is a wonderful tool for people of my generation.

Buzzy channeling Donald Trump

We do not bully, use it for shaming or the exchange of gossip but, instead, are able remain in touch with distant friends and relatives. I get to meet someone’s new grandchild, enjoy photos from a wedding, check in with wonderful people from my youth and, obviously, spread pictures of Buzzy in a Zappos’s box throughout the universe.

Recently, Facebook facilitated a reunion between me and some old friends. Driving back to the old neighborhood, I enjoyed spending time with former public school classmates

Friends since kindergarten: Louise, Susan, Terri and Stephanie

We were there to see
the world famous Ramin Karimloo.
What? You haven't heard of him?

A few weeks later, I reconnected with another friend and playmate from the past for dinner at a club in Manhattan where someone we both enjoy was performing. How grow-up is that??

Seeing Lisa again was, to say the least, wonderful.  Admittedly, many decades of no contact and the process of developing into fully-formed humans with new habits and routines can make reconnection a bit of a challenge but chemistry is chemistry and after accepting the fact that while the bags under my eyes were carrying suitcases of their own and Lisa looked young enough to be my daughter, I had a great time. 

We did plenty of reminiscing but also learned about who we’ve each become over the years.

P.S. 103...where it all began.

The strange part for me -- besides the dozen or so disheveled Elmos and seedy Disney princesses I had to body check in Times Square -- was that when I was with Lisa, I was a girl again. On some subconscious level, the clock had been reset and the Elmos were gone but Tony Manero still walked the streets of Brooklyn and my mother was waiting for me at home, eager to hear about my evening.

At the BB King Blues Club on Forty Second Street, you are herded in like cattle and seated with strangers so our table consisted of several young women in halters, heels and very short skirts. 

Flouncy and jouncy, they tossed their earrings and flipped their hair and leaned forward to whisper as their eyes took in their surroundings with the cool scrutiny of secret service agents looking for a potential assassin. And they scared me….just as they would have 40 years ago.

Today, if necessary, I could have easily withered them with the caustic bitterness achieved by decades of cynical thinking or, if I chose, I could mother them in case of an emergency. But, sitting with Lisa, I worried, “Oh, no. Mean girls!! I hope they’re not mean to me.

James Darren.....swoon. "The Time Tunnel"
was a TV show from the late 60's.

Ironically, a few minutes later, they spoke to us. I don’t remember the conversation but after I responded, one of them answered “Oh, you remind me so much of my mother!” and it was as if a portal opened. Like some low-budget science fiction movie with cheesy special effects, I was sucked backward through a spinning time tunnel.  Heels over head, arms flailing with a terrible roaring in my ears, I was deposited back into the body currently wearing sturdy walking shoes and eyeglasses around my neck on a chain.

And, guess what! I was happy to be back. 

I realized that I am actually quite comfortable being me…. with where and who I am. Note I did not say how I look….and, as I glanced over at Lisa, I noted that my return to the present had not aged her a bit. She still looked 35 years old and pretty as a picture.

The mean girls were not mean at all and suddenly I was reminding them to make sure they knew where the fire exits were located and assuring them there was nothing to fear since I never go anywhere without a flashlight in my bag. 

They smiled at me indulgently and I settled back in my seat, surprised at my sense of contentment even though my ass was already getting stiff from sitting too long. It was a wonderful evening.

It's not so bad being grown up after all, is it, Lisa?