privacy

In a month we’re off to Chicago. And the thought of that makes my butt clench. Tight.

It’s not the flying so much because think about it. Getting from California to Chicago just over one hundred years ago took weeks if not months of treacherous stage-coach travel through scorching deserts and over snowy mountain passes, never mind bouts of cholera and the possibility of Indian attacks.

Luckily, there is a different kind of coach travel these days and I concede that on some flights, especially if a baby is crying, it can feel almost as long and harrowing.

I appreciate the miracle of flight. I really do. I actually love sitting perched in a seat, in an aluminum tube that’s hurtling through the air, watching movies while I snack on things I never eat below 35,000 feet, like bag after bag of potato chips and soda, and then arriving at some far-away destination in the same clothes I put on that very morning.

Here’s the thing that sends me into a tizzy. The before part of flying.  The check-in part. The part that makes you regret your trip before you’ve even left the ground. You know what I’m talking about. All of the degrading malarkey (God, I love that word), that every airport in the world has put us through since 911. You can almost hear the sound of your personal freedoms being sucked right out of you over the garbled gate announcements during the two hours of lining up, waiting, wheeling, shuffling, packing and unpacking, waiting, X-raying, virtually stripping; taking off your shoes, belt, jacket, watch, sunglasses, and in one particularly mortifying case—my underwire bra, only to wait in line some more.

It would be comical if it weren’t so sad.

My husband and I fly frequently enough that sometimes the gods deem us worthy and bestow upon us the words  TSA precheck at the top of our tickets which I’m happy to report allows us to sidestep some of the madness—but I see you there, hopping up and down on one naked foot, trying to get the other damn boot off  while your purse shoots through to the other side unattended, the line backs up, and your other boot falls off the conveyor belt and into another man’s bag.

I feel your pain. I am you. I will be you in a month.

Listen, we have all agreed, as a collective, to hand over our rights to privacy. Into the dumpster that went along with any expectation of expedient air travel as a trade-off to make us feel safe.

I have no choice other than to give up my personal freedoms when I fly, but I will never stop talking about how it used to be.

Here’s the thing, flying used to be glamorous. And fun. You got dressed up. The flight crew engaged in polite small talk, as kids they even used to show us the cockpit. Now it’s locked up tighter than the room where Donald Trump keeps his wigs.

Airports had a buzz of excitement back in the day, not like now, where the low hum of stress meets you at the curb—that is literally where my butt clenching starts. There are airports in foreign countries, (I just saw it recently in Mexico), that have full-on military walking around with assault rifles at the ready. That does not bode well for me. It forces me to drink before I board my flight which not only exacerbates the anxiety it makes me stupid and clumsy.

I have given up my freedoms, I have. But I suppose some part of me thought this would be temporary. You know, maybe for a year or two. Now there is an entire generation that only knows air travel to be this way. This ridiculous, freedom-sucking, unorganized, cluster-fuck of a way.

But I for one will never forget that it was not always like this. That we used to check our bags and walk on planes like civilized human beings. Because if we forget that, IF we accept the way things are now as normal, then, in my opinion, fear and terror have won.

Carry on,
xox

“Writers are cannibals. They really are. They are predators, and if you are friends with them, and if you say anything funny at dinner, or if anything good happens to you, you are in big trouble.”
― Nora Ephron

Morning Peeps,
This is from last year but it’s something that happens on a regular basis and it makes me howl with laugher…on the inside…while I dictate notes into my phone.
Carry on,
xox

“I never said most of the things I said.”
-Yogi Berra

Having written this blog pretty much every day for almost three four years now, an interesting phenomenon has started to show up in casual conversation with family and friends.

I’m being quoted back to myself.
“You know that thing you wrote Tuesday about the forgiveness?”  Then they recite it back to me—verbatim.

I just nod, because sadly, my memory has taken a menopause vacation. These days I can barely remember to wear pants.

Other times it isn’t even remotely something I wrote. It has the innate wisdom of a Rumi quote or something Oprah said—same thing.

Anyhow, it still boggles my mind that anyone reads this blog, let alone remembers what I wrote—and I feel immense unending gratitude for all of you.

So there’s that.

Here’s the other thing that takes me aback every time it happens—which is actually growing in frequency.

“This is off the record—I don’t want to see this in the blog”, my friends will whisper to me with pleading eyes.
Even in the car.
Like I’m wearing a wire!

Like I’m a fucking investigative reporter doing important journalistic work for The Huffington Post, The Washington Post or something. Like I’m going to publish an essay about their shitty boss, how much they hate their boobs or describe what their husband’s sex face looks like. And funnier still, that their boss, boobs, or husband would ever get wind of it.

It’s all I can do not to snort laugh when that happens.

The funny part is that when I do mention a “friend” in the blog—everyone thinks it’s them.

“That was cool, that thing you wrote about me yesterday” they’ll chirp with pride, and I don’t have the heart to tell them that most of the friends I mention are compilations, you know, to keep me from getting my ass kicked in line at Joan’s.

So here’s the official disclaimer: If I say “a girlfriend”— it’s not you. Even if I mention your name—it’s probably not you.

Truth be told, the person I out the most—is myself. I gave myself permission to do that—to tell the uncensored truth in the very beginning because what’s the use of writing a blog about your life when you don’t disclose anything intimate about yourself? Besides, the real rewards for doing that have been enormous personal insights on my part—and this response from readers: ‘I’m so glad you wrote about that—I thought it was just me.’

Well, it’s not just you Sheila, I fart in Yoga class too.

Like I said, uncensored.

The second person who has endured being fodder for the blog is my hubby who seems to take it all in stride. It’s like he’s reading about a fictional character called “husband”. He’ll even refer to himself in the third person “I felt bad for her husband today”, he’ll remark after reading the blog.

Other days he’ll walk into the room with tears in his eyes.
That guts me every time.
Here he is, living my life with me—day in and day out—yet, even after all these years of late night pillow talks, patio talks and kitchen talks (If you haven’t guessed, I’m a talker), he’s surprised to read how I felt about something he did or said.

Or the backstage antics of the three ring circus that is disguised as my life.

“I had no idea all that was happening,” he’ll say, marveling at the fact that I can recount all the actual dialogue. “How in the hell do you DO that?”

I just smile.

Then he envelopes me in one of those big bear hugs that I love so much.
And I worry…Shit, I hope he can’t feel the wire.

Be cool you guys, have a great weekend and carry on,
xox

The other night, as we were getting ready for bed, my husband informed me that he was going to start his own blog.

“I’m going to call it The Mute Observer” he said, barely able to keep a straight face.
This made me laugh so hard I may have pee’d a little—and I just had to share it with you guys! (I even found a graphic online.)

He is an extremely private person. A man of few words. He holds things close to the chest, but that in no way means he isn’t noticing or feeling his way through his environment.

I can safely say that he feels things in a much deeper way than I do.

I’m guessing that he’s very much like a lot of you.

The fact that I tell our stories or mention him at all on these pages is a constant source of feigned exasperation characterized by a lot of head shaking and arm waving.

He has a hard time wrapping his brain around the fact that I share my/our life in such public way. You know what they say: Opposites Attract.

Sometimes, early in the morning I can hear him in his office laughing and I smile, knowing in that moment he’s getting a kick out of one of my many mis-adventures.

Other times he just stands silently in the doorway of the den, staring at me until I notice him there.
“Today’s made me cry” he’ll say with tears in his eyes. That’s it. Then he just walks away.
I love him for that.

He may not understand my need to use my voice—it’s not his thing—although at times I think he admires it. Thankfully,(for his own safety and the longevity of our marriage) he has NEVER tried to silence it.

He is my Mute Observer.

I don’t think for one minute he’s oblivious. That would be a huge mistake.

How many of you are Mute Observers, silently taking it all in? (oh wait—how funny! I’m asking anyway even thought I know you won’t write in the comments. Jeez, what part of mute do I NOT understand?)

Quietly Carry on,
xox