ear to the wall

My neighbors were fighting again this weekend. They do that occasionally. Big rows that carry with remarkable clarity through the thin wall that separates their half of the duplex and mine. I don't really mind as it provides a distraction from the banality of television or gives me a legitimate reason not to be doing things I should be doing like cleaning the bathroom or paying the bills. Because, really, who can pay proper attention to grout, who can do math while a grand, domestic drama is being played out within earshot? Even under the best circumstances, neither of those chores are exactly my forte. So on a selfish level, if I don't exactly look forward to their tiffs, I don't necessarily find myself in a fit of pique either.

Fred, on the other hand, hates when they fight. Loses his little puppy mind over it. Runs up and down the hallway, barking at the voices. Stands on the edge of my bed and HOW-WOLS, a miniature and rather more benign version of his wolf-cousin, eighty-seven times removed, baying at the moon. This upsets me. And not for the reasons you may think. If you know me and if you know Fred, you might assume my upset results from his upset. DON'T MAKE MY DOG UPSET! But no, I actually think his reaction is pretty funny. The big, bad eight pound Chihuahua taking on those mean and nasty voices. Gett'em Freddie! He does the same thing to fireworks. And thunder. And the vacuum cleaner. My little Don Quixote of the canine kingdom.

No, it upsets me for two very different reasons. A) Because I feel as if his noisy reaction is an intrusion upon them. Seriously, if you're deep into a great fight, making your point, slamming furniture, throwing crockery and CD cases, not to mention pointed, witty barbs -- those barbs are sticking and meanwhile you're ducking and weaving with professional skill and savvy -- don't you want to do so in peace, without the distraction of your neighbor's annoying dog? I think so. And B) With all his incessant barking, I can't hear what they're fighting about! And that's half the fun. Look, I have no pride. I'll stick my ear right up against that wall if I have to. I wanna know what's going on!

Also, it's a bit nostalgic. When I was little, my grandmother and I would sit in her kitchen by the open window and listen to her neighbors fight. Crazy fighting neighbor people provided a certain degree of delectable entertainment, pre-cable era.

Isn't it funny how nothing ever really changes?

In my family we don't fight or yell. That's not to say that we don't get mad. But we prefer fuming and pouting and pretending we accidentally slammed that cabinet four times in a row before accidentally smashing that flowerpot to smithereens right before we -- oops! -- break the handle off the front door. "No, I'm not mad. What would ever give you that idea," we might say, sarcasm and derision dripping from every orifice to pool foully at our feet.

I'm sort of envious of the yellers and the screamers, the cursers and the hurlers. There's something honest to it. There's something real about it. There's something to letting the world know your angst and pain at the top of your voice. Something cathartic in it. Anyway, regardless, I'm sure it's better for your skin to let all that emotional toxin just . . . go. You think I'm kidding? I can't think of one yelling, screaming, cursing, hurling fighter I know with bad skin. Just a theory, but I like it. I'm going with it. Reject it if you will, but mark my words: a good scream is good for the complexion.

Take Fred, for example. Under all that fur, I'm sure his skin is milky and unblemished as the whitest rose.

my mother, the practical romantic

My mother isn't someone I would characterize as romantic. In fact, I might even venture to say she is spectacularly unromantic. If you call and ask how her day was, she'll answer that it was either "productive" or "uneventful." A bad day might be "challenging," but you'll get no more than that. She believes in the inherent and unquestionable rightness of the Christian Bible, the 40-hour work week and the Republican party. She watches FOX news for fun and drinks jug wine because she likes it. "It's not that I don't enjoy expensive wine, but why bother?," she'll say. She loves buying shoes, but only on sale and thinks that generic brands are as good, if not better than products with fancy names attached.

Practicality is the bar by which everything is measured and if it's not practical, it's better left to liberals and heathens. You know, people with tattoos. "I just don't understand why someone would do that to themselves," I've heard her moan, with real dismay and confusion etched across her features. "It's just so painful." As you might expect, the beauty of pain escapes her.

So it's not so surprising that she divorced my father when I was five. It's not that she didn't love the big lug of raging alcoholism, but the pain and unpredictability, not to mention the sheer impracticality of staying in that dysfunctional relationship was anathema to her. And she was right, of course. It takes either a great fool, a great romantic or someone with more than a few screws loose themselves to stay in a relationship with a person who hides vodka bottles under couch cushions and expects people to neither notice nor comment when they sit down only to get poked uncomfortably in the nether regions. Whatever you say about my mother, her screws are threaded tight, firmly set and since he refused to get help, she refused to play along.

It took me a lot longer to learn that lesson. But then again, I was five. I thought that couches were where bottles were supposed to be stored.

So when we met a complete stranger on a plane and she married him a year later, it came as a surprise to us all. At seven-years-of-age, I was shocked, dismayed and simultaneously intrigued by this mustached hottie from Texas who swept my mother off her feet and sweet-talked her into moving us from Forrest Hills, New York to Lubbock in less time than it took for my front teeth to come in.

What was she thinking?

If you ask, she'll hedge a little. She'll tell you that there was something about how his tie was loosened, just so. How there was something in his smile and in the way he patiently and with only a minor grunt of pain let me step on his feet and practically crawl into his lap to watch the baggage handlers toss our luggage into the belly of the plane. Something about the way he invited her out and then when he came to pick her up didn't even blink as my mother's twin sister, my Aunt Ann (whom we were visiting), issued the third-degree before scurrying outside to jot down his license plate number, just in case he turned out to be some sort of sister-snatching sociopath.

There was also a practical element, of course. Because, there's always a practical element. She needed to get us out of New York as neither of us was moving forward with my father still in the picture, popping by in alcoholic hazes, leaving behind his bags full of confusion and uncertainty and sadness with each and every visit. So in some senses, Richard, (or Dad as I prefer to call him), was a perfect marriage of romantic adventure and practicality, all rolled up into one handsome, boot-wearing Texan. (Actually, he grew up in Florida, but he's always had a knack for assimilating. It's part of his charm.)

Still, as I approach the age that she was when she met my Dad, it's this one romantic gesture that belies the picture I've held of her all these years. And in that light, the more I think about it, the more I see her life as less a series of practical decisions as I see a woman of deep passion with deep-rooted beliefs working each day to make things happen. It's just that hard work, quietly and consistently done, doesn't get the kind of screen time that irresponsible whimsy does.

When she was young, she knew she wanted to be a nurse. Now, she's been a nurse for more than thirty years, working with the sickest of the sick, in surgical intensive care units, in burn wards and in emergency rooms. She's overseen dialysis departments and run free clinics. When my mother says a day is productive, it means a patient improved, even if just a little. When it's uneventful, you can breath a quiet, "Thank God," as you know the families do of the people for whom she cares. When it's challenging, the truth is you don't really want to know the gory and sometimes heartbreaking details. And she doesn't share the details, because they aren't romantic; they're often grueling and sometimes sad and she guards peoples' dignity by holding her tongue. It's with good reason that the beauty of pain escapes her, because she's seen real pain and in truth, it holds no beauty.

Recently, I was on the phone with my mother discussing my cousin Allyson's pregnancy and all the names she and her husband were contemplating. "You know," my mother said, "when you were born, I thought about naming you Esperanza."

"What? Are you kidding me?"

"No. I really liked the name. I had a patient when I was pregnant with you, a little girl named Esperanza."

I can hear the tears in her voice, tears still readily available for a little girl she knew more than thirty years ago.

"But we're Irish," I say, shocked by the revelation, part of me wishing I'd had the chance to be an Irish Esperanza.

"Thank you for reminding me," she says, pulling herself together. "I know that. That's why I would have called you 'Hope.'"

"Oh," I said, just a little disappointed.

And then she adds dreamily, "If you were a boy, I wanted to call you Julian."

"Seriously?"

"I also thought about Chevonne."

"Oh NO. Really?"

"Yes. Really. It's Gaelic and I liked that."

"Huh. But instead you ended up with Jill?" I asked, still in a bit of shock. Those names!

"Well, yes," she sighed, "It just seemed so practical."

And you know maybe she's right. Jill is a definitively practical name. Easy to spell, easy to say, and with an economy of letters, for sure. But there's something I've failed to mention, something she swears she didn't think of until after the certificate was signed. Both her father and mine are named Jack.

pants of torture

When I was little I had a pair of black corduroy pants that were so stiff they created an unbearable chafe at the upper part of my thighs. I hated, HATED those pants, but my mother thought they looked nice, especially with a white Oxford peeking neatly from under a red pullover. It was my first lesson in fashion over comfortable function. It didn't take. As soon as I was able, I rebelled and spent most of my teen years in clothing that, should I have ever been stranded on a desert island, would have provided a suitable sail for my escape raft.

Once she made me wear the pants of torture for a plane trip on which they lost our luggage, so I had to wear the pants of torture for the next three days until they delivered our bags. I was BLEEDING from the pants of torture. I was scabby for weeks. I sometimes still wake up in the middle of the night, soaked with sweat, a reminiscent painful phantom sting between my legs. As you might imagine, I foreswore corduroy pants for years.

Occasionally though, I'll wear an idea, like I once wore the pants of torture. And sometimes, what's even worse, I'll try to stuff someone else into those pants of torture, too. I don't mean to. It's just that I think they look so nice in them. I think I think that when they realize how really, really, truly spectacular they look in them, they'll just miraculously get over the chafe. So there I am taking pictures and they're all sorts of sore and bleeding.

Stupid pants of torture. Stupid enforcer of the pants of torture.

*sigh*

I also had a velour sweater when I was the same age. I wore it so often that the velour wore thin at the elbows. It was so soft. Soft like they don't make soft for adults. I know people like that velour sweater. I wish I were a velour sweater. Or at the very least, not ever the pants of torture.

a key adventure

I heard about a statistic once that said Honda Accords are the most stolen car. I don't have an Accord. I have a Civic. So I feel safe. Safe in my little Civic with its little key and the little electronic key fob thingy that pops my locks or locks my doors. Even at twenty paces. Even over the shoulder. Or perhaps, I should say, I used to feel safe.

I was leaving Taqueria del Sol with a friend today and as we said our goodbyes and it's-been-too-longs and we-should-do-this-more-oftens, I was unlocking my door with the key, not really paying all that much attention, as I've done it zillions of times. I've really got a handle on rote tasks such as these. You know, unlocking doors and flushing toilets and zipping zippers and such. I opened the door, got in, waving to my friend as I did so. I threw my bag in the passenger seat and reached to put the key in the ignition.

Wait.

I reached to put the key in the ignition? I don't have to reach to put the key in the ignition! And my feet, my feet were just sort of lying there on the mat, like two feet on the dole, with nothing better to do than I lounge on the metaphorical stoop and watch the world go buy. Why weren't they in the ready position -- left foot on the clutch, right foot on the break? AND WHY WAS I REACHING TO PUT THE KEY IN THE IGNITION?!

I looked down and saw two small demitasse coffee cups in the console cup holders. I don't have demitasse cups. I DON'T HAVE DEMITASSE CUPS! Oh my God, someone broke into my car, high on caffeine and left their demitasse coffee cups!

And then it struck me. THIS ISN'T MY CAR!

But I had to disagree with myself. It looked like my car. The steering wheel looked exactly like my steering wheel. I unlocked this car. It must be my car. But I'm reaching for the ignition and my feet are on holiday and I don't have demitasse coffee cups! Oh, sweet Jesus, through the haze of confusion, it sunk in that I was in the WRONG CAR!

So I got out. Fast. And stepped away, eyes darting wildly to see if anyone had seen me. But I was in the clear, the real owners blissfully enjoying their fish tacos and salsa trio with cheese dip, oblivious to my inadvertent violation of their property. Meanwhile, over the hood of not-my-car, I could see my own car, sitting in quiet anticipation. One. Space. Over.

I scurried a wide birth around the front of not-my-car, shooting a last worried glance at it and then froze. Because it was looking back at me as only a car WITH ITS HEADLIGHTS ON can. Here's the thing. I read once, that in Australia, they always drive with their lights on, even in the daytime and so I picked up the habit. It makes me feel vaguely international and I like feeling international, so I drive with my headlights on, too. But now my international bent had caused me to turn on the lights of not-my-car and in about twenty minutes a couple of very nice people who at this moment were probably bantering over who should eat the last dollop of guacamole, would come out to a not-my-car with a not-good-battery.

I was tempted to run. I mean, maybe they left their own headlights on. Who's to know? But my mother raised me right and I fix my mistakes. And sometimes, on good-mood days, I fix other peoples, too. (Once I even jumped through the open window of an unoccupied Volkswagen Beetle as it was rolling backwards into traffic so that I could pull the emergency break and thereby allay what would surely have been some sort of catastrophe. But now I'm just bragging.) And as I was capable of remedying this problem, whether it was my fault or not, I had to at least try. I was going to have to go back. But this time I know it's not my car. So this time I'm actually breaking and entering. And even with pure intent, it's still illegal. Even if I am the Mother Theresa of car theft, I'm still a car thief.

As I stealthily approached the driver's side, I comforted myself with the idea that perhaps it was all in my imagination. I decided that I'd just had a small mental break that made me think I'd opened the car that wasn't mine. That I had just stepped for a moment out of reality and now that I was safely in my right mind I wouldn't be able to open the door. Because going wackadoo-crazy in broad daylight is somehow less disturbing to contemplate than the simple expediency and cost-efficiency of duplicate locks and keys.

To my chagrin, I wasn't crazy. I could unlock it. So I quickly opened the door, clicked off the lights, slammed the door, (ever so quietly), locked it back up tight and ran to my own car, panting in an adrenaline-fueled rush.

Safe.

As I drove sheepishly out of the parking lot, I had only one thought in my head: what could possibly be more ridiculous, not to mention more dangerous, than someone attempting to drive a car while drinking hot coffee out of demitasse cups? And no less, in a car without impervious locks! What kind of people do that sort of thing? And who knew that Civic-owners were just that sort of avant-garde risk-taker? It's mind-bending. Really. But you know, I thought, giving my own little Civic a bit more gas, maybe I fit right in.

wedding it over

Wedding season is over. O. VER. Overoverover. Done. Complete. Caput. Fini. Over. Thank you, Jesus, all the saints and Mary, too. Over. If I were Kimmy I'd be doing an interpretive dance to OVER in G minor. I now know why William Tell had an OVERture. It was my own personal year ala Four Weddings and a Funeral, except that there were five weddings (I think), two funerals (three if you count the one for my friend Jess' dog, Georgie), and the extra added bonus of a few baby showers -- just so the devil couldn't catch me lounging away a lazy weekend and tempt me to do ungood. I'd say I was relieved, but it's all ended just in time for the holidays.

And though I'm tired beyond all exhausted sleepiness (in large part due to the grand finale of the wedding season road trip return from Jekyll Island last night/this morning that got me to my bed and Fred at 4:30 in the a.m., just in time for not quite enough sleep to quite fake normalcy), I'm also a lucky girl to have so many gorgeous, generous, lovely, marrying, breeding friends who love me enough to allow me to share in their most special life-altering events. I am blessed to have such a fantastic family that I really, truly like. Really.

And despite all the eating and oh-god-the-drinking and dress-wearing and dance-making and toasting and WHERE-exactly-is-the-wedding-this-time-traveling and what-am-I-doing-with-my-life contemplation that weddings engender, I'm glad I went to every one of them and can't say I even regret one red cent spent. (Though, of course, it helps when one doesn't regularly balance one's checkbook.)

Thank you Jesus, all the saints and Mary, too for lots of love, the married kind and otherwise. Thank you for the season that's over. On to the holidays.

Oh, and speaking of love. Thanks oodles, bunches, barrels, bushels and pecks to Betsy, Jason and August-the-dog for sitting Fred and letting him burrow under your covers for a few nights while I was off wedding-it. He had such a great time with you that I'm considering making you his official God-people.

And that, as they say, is that.

Night, y'all.

white in time

I have a confession to make. I think I lie about my dog's age. When his former owner gave him to me, she couldn't quite remember whether he was four-going-on-five or five-going-on-six. When she did the math though, she thought he was probably the latter. But I tell people he's younger. Because I want him to live longer. And you know, my will controls time.

Recently, however, I've discovered a proliferation of white hair on Fred's person. His muzzle, his little toes and the back of his tail and tiny tush: all white. And it's SPREADING. Every day there seems to be more. For some reason I find this really, really disturbing. Now, if he were about to turn seven, this would be understandable. But, let me be clear -- he's only going to be six. And consequently, to each hoary hair I've attached a minute I've not spent with him and therefore a moment in which he's been needlessly stressed. It's not age that's turning him pale, it's my helpless neglect. I'm to blame. It's ALL MY FAULT.

Right. I know this is ridiculous. I tell myself, "Jill, you're being ridiculous. You're a good dog owner. Fred is very happy." But I don't believe myself. After all, if I might be lying about his age, I might be lying about anything. So then I ask my friends and they assure me that yes, Fred is very happy. But really, they could be saying this because it's a really stupid and boring conversational topic: Is Jill's Dog Happy? Discuss. "Erm. No thanks." So then I call my mother, because she has to talk to me about inane topics because she's my mother. She's kind enough to remind me that her own grandmother went completely white at 16 and that she lived well into her late 80's. And even with her white hair, Nana was very happy. And so is Fred. But she's my mother, so she has to say that.

I'm considering whether I should seek the consultation of one of those pet psychic people.

Seriously, it's really quite upsetting to see his lovely fawn coat fade so quickly. I've actually wondered if they make hair dye for dogs. (Less to cover his white; more to hide my shame.) It's so alarming, that I often fantasize about the idea of quitting my job, just so I can spend more time with him, (as apparently, every other waking and sleeping hour of my week doesn't seem quite enough). The upside of that scenario is that we'd get to spend more time in the park, which he LOVES. The down side is that we'd probably be living there. Under a tree. Next to some toothless guy named Joe who smells of urine and is willing to share his favorite Bible verse with me if I happen to have a cigarette. So that's not a rational solution.

I've contemplated getting another dog, but I think Fred likes being an only puppy. Besides, one Chihuahua is welcome in most homes and even in most stores when unobtrusively tucked into a backpack. Two could feasibly be seen as an infestation of sorts and then I'd become the hermit lady, forced to stay in my home to keep my dogs company because I couldn't leave just one behind when taking the other on jaunts about town. And I can't have three dogs (one to take, two to leave), because three dogs is a pack and no matter how small the dogs are, NO ONE wants to dog-sit a pack of dogs and boarding a pack of dogs would be expensive and cruel, especially since they'd all be used to down-covered beds, belly-scratching-on-demand and hand-fed dinners.

I have absolutely no idea how people with children do it.

I tell my mother about the traumas to my social life that my imaginary pack of Chihuahuas will cause. "You don't need more dogs," she tells me, "You're an only child and you're just fine." She's right, of course, I am. But this from a woman who may have had only one child, but always had at least two dogs -- lest they be lonely. So she's no help.

Before Fred, I had no schedule but my own. I went out too much and all hours, traveled on whim, spent too much money, barely ever saw the inside of my house during daylight hours and I had not a single care in the world. But I must admit, I was a little miserable. Now, I've got a schedule. I've got responsibilities. I actually go to the grocery store on occasion. I walk daily as a form of EXERCISE. Not because I want to do any of those things, but because the 8 lb. Lord and Master of Happiness in my universe demands it just by wagging his cute little tail and burrowing his adorable little head under my chin and doing that ridiculously endearing thing where he twitches his tiny feet and softly half-woofs while chasing dream-squirrels in his sleep. I love this dog SO MUCH he makes me sane.

Last night, while brushing my teeth, I caught a glint of something standing straight up out of the top of my head. I turned my head and it went away. I turned my head again and it came back. I tilted my chin. I squinted. I closed one eye. It couldn't be. I pulled. It was a VERY BLONDE hair. So blonde as to be almost bleached. So bleached, by the extremely potent, Atlanta summer sun, as to be almost, maybe, Oh God, not. . . white?

It's okay. I'm not panicking. I've wrapped it safely in a plastic baggie and I'm saving it to withhold judgement until a later date.

So.

Here's the thing.

I know Fred is happy with me. I know I'm happy with Fred. I know that I'm as good for him as he is for me and that we're better for having each other. I KNOW that. I also know that I am in fact 30 and that maybe Fred isn't only just five-years-old. I'd simply prefer, however, if neither of us had the white hair to prove that in reality I can't, by sheer force of will, control time.

pooped

In celebration of the return of my computer, I feel the need to write something of great wit and stunning profoundity, but I'm pooped. Glassy-eyes-and-slumpish-posture-pooped. Oh-God-I-still-gotta-get-up-to-brush-my-teeth-pooped. Pooped. Good word. I think I'm going to try to bring it back. That and "fresh." Fresh as in, "Don't be fresh," when someone says something rude or inappropriate. But frankly, I kind of like when people are inappropriate so I wouldn't want to chastise them. And if instead, I give a wink of encouragement and say: "Oh, that's so fresh, you naughty thing you," it's just weird. Even typing it makes me uncomfortable. Forget fresh. I now officially hate the word fresh because it makes me feel weird and forces me to imagine myself saying things that make me and everyone around me uncomfortable. Anyway, it was co-opted and permanently adulterated by the Masengil people and Will Smith long, long ago. Some mountains are just too high to climb and I feel no compunction to blaze old-new linguistic trails. Especially tonight. You see, I'm too pooped.

explication of the egg

Corinne called. "I don't get it."
"What don't you get?"
"Your title, Egg in Spoon."
"Egg in spoon," I said, "like the race."
"Oh," she paused, "I still don't get it."
"What don't you get? Egg in Spoon. Trusting the hand."
"You can keep saying it over and over again, but that doesn't mean I'm going to get it any faster. Repeating something doesn't make it clearer. Just explain it."
"Um. I guess I'm the egg in the spoon. And, you know, God is like the hand, getting me to the other side. Without dropping me or whatever. Without letting me crack up."
"Kendall says she gets it."
"You're daughter is very smart."
"It's not that complicated."
"You didn't get it."
"I GET it already!"
"And you know, I just really like the word egg. And spoon."
"Oh, I hate the word egg."
"Really? I'm not changing it."
"No, no, I'm not saying you have to change it. I'm just saying, I don't like the word 'egg.'"
"I'm glad you got that off your chest. It must have been quite the burden."
"You have no idea. I also don't like the word 'hair.' Brad Pitt could have been named Brad Hair and I wouldn't have wanted to marry him."
"Sort of moot, isn't it?"
"I'm just making a point."
"How about 'hirsute'?"
"Now, that's okay. Sort of a snobby way of saying it though."

hard driven

This is a good day. I have my computer back. And while happy, I still feel the injury of the extended absence and am somewhat fragile from the loss. But still, I'm dance-in-my-underwear relieved, and I know I'll heal. I'm not only happy for me, however. No, selflessly, SO selflessly, graciously even, I'm also quite relieved for the technician who was working on it, because now I don't have to call the heavens to come crashing down on his head. Now I don't have to buy a voodoo doll and draw his face on it and poke it with pins all weekend long. No, now I'm lighting candles for his family, chanting prayers for his continued health and starting a Christmas card list, just do I can add him to it.

I'm almost too tired to relive the drama of it, but here's the general gist of the week-long conversation boiled down into a few short lines:

ME: The screen went blue. It says "Hard Error." I think it's the hard drive.
HIM: I checked the hard drive. It's not the hard drive. I gave you a new DVD drive and that should fix it.
ME: The screen went blue again. It says "Hard Error." I think it's the hard drive.
HIM: I checked the hard drive. It's not the hard drive. I'm upgrading your system to Windows XP. That should fix it.
ME: The screen went blue again. It says "Hard Error." I think it's the hard drive.
HIM: It shouldn't be doing that.
ME: I know. That's why I keep calling you.
HIM: I think it's the hard drive.

And indeed it was.

broken

I'm not slack. I'm hobbled. My computer is jacked and so I can't write, let alone post from home. So, I'm stealing a clandestine moment away from work at work (we'll call it my lunch hour) to put up this little missive. I'll be back soon. I hope. And so does everyone around me, because I'm cranky and Cranky Jill is not pleasant. She's tedious, venomous and self-centered. She can be a little mean and manipulative. Think any character Heather Locklear's ever played minus the great hair, charm and perky strut. I'm thisclose to sullen. I feel like the color of dirt. My brain seems cob-webby in the least romantic sense. I think I'm uglier. And it's all because my fucking computer is fucking broken.

Is it normal and healthy for one's sense of well-being to be tied up in a machine? Better, I suppose, a computer than a television, right? Or a toaster.

I miss you, Egg in Spoon. I miss writing you, very, VERY much.

the bathroom knocks

I am so proud of myself. I finally did it. I started cleaning the bathroom.

This morning I spent a at least two hours on my hands and knees, scrubbing, Scrubbing, SCRUBBING the tub and grouty-groutness with anything I could find that was even remotely abrasive, including an old toothbrush. Okay, not so old. It was one I'd used until this very morning. But now it's old and I feel super cool and domestically divine having now cleaned a bathroom with a toothbrush.

ME, off-handedly: You know, I use a toothbrush when I clean the bathroom. You can really get into those hard to reach corners. (Flicking an invisible speck of lint from my invisible lapel.) That's been my experience, anyway.

I'm a little disappointed, though because my original plan was to go all out -- really do some good -- and reporcelain the tub. (Are you not so extremely impressed with my ambition?) Except that when I got the reporcelaining kit home, the instructions INSIDE the box explained in very strict language that it takes 5-7 days (during which time you may not under any circumstances use the tub), a degree in chemical engineering, the patience of Job and a Hazmat suit to accomplish the task safely and correctly.

Or you could die.

Or I could die? I don't want to die in a freak reporcelaining accident. And I'm a corner-cutter, so the likelihood of my dying is much higher than the average person's in this sort of situation. I could end up "winning" a Darwin Award -- "Woman Paints Herself to Death in Bathtub" -- and that, my friends, is one of my greatest fears. I am SO AFRAID that I will die doing something ridiculously stupid and anything decent I've ever done will be washed away by that one moment of idiocy.

YOU: We thought she was smarter than that. And such a good writer, too. Guess we were wrong, huh?

ME as a ghost: No, no! I am. . .I mean. . .I was, smart! I swear! It's just that the instructions got wet. I couldn't read the whole thing. I didn't know about ventilation! I was too a good writer!! My mother even said so! Mom?!"

MOM: I don't know where I went wrong. They say that music makes kids smarter. Maybe if I'd only put her in those steel guitar classes she always wanted to take. She so loved the steel guitar . . .

ME as a ghost: I did NOT!

MOM: . . . and that TV show, you remember? The one with Barbara Mandrel? She absolutely adored the Mandrel sisters. Maybe that should have been my clue. . .

No. Absolutely not. Not over a rental tub. It's just too humiliating to contemplate. The tub is clean enough. I'll just have to rip a page from the Buddhist handbook and practice non-attachment while taking stand up showers.

Anyway, the whole time I was scrubbing and rinsing and spraying and scrubbing and spraying and rinsing I was -- of course -- singing the only two lines I remember of "It's a Hard Knock Life" and as I watched the grout grudgingly begin to not quite shine (like the top of the Chrysler Building!), I had three thoughts. Number one. No bathroom acoustics on the planet could improve the quality of my singing. Two. Someday I would really enjoy having enough money to pay someone else to do this and I hope that someday is like, next week. And three. While I have anything but the hard knock life, I have yet to meet my Daddy Warbucks. And I don't mean that in the sugar daddy, I want a daddy, spank me daddy sort of way. I mean it in the fate's-come-a-knockin'-sister, better-put-on-my-Sunday-best sort of way. Not that I'm worried. Just contemplative. Annie cleaned her fair share of bathrooms before Daddy W. entered the picture and she had no idea he was coming to take her to the land of silver platters and chandeliers. Maybe once my bathroom's completely clean and after I clear out, organize and set up that back bedroom as the office/art studio it's always wanted to be, he'll pop on by my place for some apple cart conversation and a tap dance or two. Reason enough to scrub-a-dub-dub, no?

In the meantime, we sing!

It's a hard knock life for us
It's a hard knock life for us
'stead of kisses, we get kicks
'stead of hmm-hmm, we get tricks(?)
It's a hard knock life!!!

*Dance break*

will write for food

In my refrigerator is about eight dollars worth of Chinese food (the remains of a forty dollar take-out order), a small Styrofoam container of what by now must be very moldy fruit (except that I'm afraid to look), a pot that contains something that looks as if it might once have been instant risotto, three jars of kosher dill pickles, two jars of mayonnaise, some assorted condiments, one sad little tortilla that could easily qualify as regulation equipment in an Ultimate Frisbee tournament and an open box of Arm & Hammer baking soda. Because an open box of Arm & Hammer baking soda keeps your refrigerator and the contents therein fresh.

Right. I realize that only applies if you've actually been restocking said refrigerator with fresh food from the grocery store. Where do you think the extra jars of pickles came from? But now I can't remember which are the old pickles and which are the new(er) pickles. So I should throw them all away and start from pickle scratch, but I don't. I don't know why, and frankly, I'd rather not discuss it thankyouverymuch.

Truth is I like to cook and I love the grocery store, but cooking for one is an expensive drag and Fred doesn't count as company, because while appreciative, he's not at all discerning. He eats filet mignon and his own vomit with the same degree of relish. (Dogs are SO DISGUSTING. I can't believe I've shared my fork with him.)

So I don't cook. Which doesn't bother me at all. I'm very happy with my typical dinners: be it a small can of whole pitted black olives and a few slices of salami; or a hard-boiled egg with a snack-pack of cottage cheese to tide me over while it cooks; you know, a matzo with butter is never not good; and occasionally, I'll have a can of corn. Creamed or whole kernel sweet, I'm not picky.

My girlfriends, and specifically my married girlfriends, are picky, however. They've begun to show a distinct distain for my diet and have seemingly made it their collective mission in life to see me well-fed. I feel a little like the runt on the prize heifer farm. I really should have gone to law school, as my debating savvy isn't sufficient to let me escape their homes without their definition of a well-balanced meal in my belly and a doggie bag to go. (Instructions enclosed: Not for Fred.) It's almost humiliating, except for the fortunate fact that they're generally great cooks. And the equally fortunate fact that I generally have no pride.

Look, I'm no fool. I'll eat their meals and thank them with profuse and genuine gratitude. I'll even swallow the multi-vitamin with folic acid they so discreetly place beside my plate. Having said this, however, I only have one request of you, my culinarily superior friends -- that you simply, please, coordinate schedules. I'll tell you what. I'll go ahead and post a little sign-up sheet that you can pass amongst yourselves. Just tell me where to be, when to be there and what we're having (so I can bring the appropriate wine). I'm sure that if we all put our heads together, we can make sure that I eat well at least five times a week.