Susan Senator

I had a dream about Nat last night. He was wearing his navy blue blazer and tie, and he was giving a talk about some royal succession, some very dry, complicated thing, complete with drawing on the blackboard. I remember gasping with surprise that he could do this and feeling so nervous that he would not be able to really do it. Here he was, speaking in complete sentences, finishing thoughts, connecting dots, and all so believable, because he still sounded the way he does, with his “th” sounding like an “f,” etc. Saying “feem.” But he even said something like, “Oh, this next part is kind of retarded,” and again, I gasped, to think he would use that word, and sound like every other kid, but also, what did this mean? That he couldn’t possible be retarded, if he could do this!

I woke up so sad, so very sad. How badly I want him to be able to talk like that, to really shine like that! A mother’s selfishness, or dreams and desires, never really die. We wrestle them to the ground and we reshape them according to reality and life’s limitations, but every now and then they just spring right back to their original form, as if we hadn’t touched them, like our beach pop-up tent.

Purple clover, Queen Anne’s lace,
(golden) hair across your face
You can make me cry but you don’t know
Can’t remember what I was thinking of
You might be spoiling me too much, love
You’re gonna make me lonesome when you go.
Flowers on the hillside blooming crazy
Crickets talking back and forth in rhyme
Blue (ocean) running slow and lazy
I could stay with you forever, and never realize the time
…Yer gonna make me wonder what I’m doin’,
Stayin’ far behind without you.
Yer gonna make me wonder what I’m sayin’,
Yer gonna make me give myself a good talkin’ to.
I looked for you in old Honolula, San Francisco, Ashtabula
You’re gonna have to leave me now, I know
But I’ll see you in the sky above,
In the tall grass, in the ones I love
You’re gonna make me lonesome when you go
—Bob Dylan, 1974, with a few minor changes a propos to my guy

Oh, Neddy Sweets!!!! You have to go back to work!!!!! I wish you were staying here with me. What will it be like? I know everyone thinks I’m silly but I miss you already. And that’s that.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the spin we put on things to feel better about them. I don’t do this often enough; I frequently torment myself with just how bad something was over and over again. Why do I want to make myself miserable? But I can’t help it. My mind gets stuck in certain tracks. Therapy and other tools have helped over the years — I won’t pretend I don’t have OCD — but still, obsessing and getting bogged down rather than spinning is part of my personality. Love me, love my bog.
Ned and Dad are better at spinning. In my last post, I mentioned how Ned spins the whole waiting-in-line irritant, where people do not move up to just the right distance behind the next person. What is the correct distance? Dane Cook has a funny bit about this, where he talks about a guy who was hedging, neither in one line or the other at Wal-Mart. I think the correct distance is something cultural; I actually studied this at Penn as part of my Communication degree. This study is called Proxemics, I kid you not. The right distance is totally ethnocentric. Yet I would expect that cars from Massachusetts and Connecticut would know that one whole car length is too long a distance! Ned spins his annoyance by saying, “What does it matter? It doesn’t get us in any sooner!” Ad nauseum.

Dad spins many, many things. Dad is totally Qui Gon Gin about everything. As I have no doubt mentioned, 69-year-old Dad is a total jock who must get a lot of hard exercise daily or he will be miserable. He loves to ride his bike, and here on the Cape the bike paths are wonderful. Dad mentioned the other day a phenomenon called, “Bike Path Farn,” which is only something you will understand if you are well-versed in the book, Watership Down by Richard Adams. Our family life and lore is suffused with stories, language, and characters from Watership Down. This book is not a child’s animal story; it is a fantastic read with fleshed-out characters, most of whom happen to be rabbits, a basic rabbit language and glossary, and a riveting adventure of how the rabbits go to find a safer place to live.

The rabbits’ lives are rife with danger. They are called the creatures with a thousand enemies. Much of what they think about and do is about identifying or escaping danger. Many of us can relate, I’m sure. “Farn” is the daze a rabbit gets in when staring at something, usually something dangerous, but also mesmerizing. The headlights of a hurududu (moving vehicle) can give a rabbit farn, and cause him to be killed.

Bike-path farn is what Dad came up with to spin his irritation with the families who gather in the middle of the bike-path, oblivious to all others, because they are so caught up in their vacation moment and enjoyment of each other, that they create a danger to themselves or other unsuspecting, fast-moving bikers. Dad’s ability to pin something annoying into a pleasurable, funny context (anything from Watership Down) helps him get on with his ride and his life. And it makes us all laugh next time we happen upon some annoying clusters of other vacationers.

How do you spin your life’s torments?

I am on vacation, as I’ve said, and I am marvelously content, which is not my usual state. I am much more frenetic and edgy at home. But here, on Cape Cod, there are few choices. Here is what my usual day is like:
Wake up at 7
Make the coffee (8-9 cups of Peet’s French Roast, half-caf)
Stretch and do therapy stuff for knee while coffee brews
Drink the coffee (1 1/2 packets of Splenda, a little cream) on the deck and look at the salt marsh
Get on my bike and go somewhere: the bay; the ocean; the harbor in Orleans
End up at Mom and Dad’s place around 8:30
Drink a cup of coffee with them until around 9. Shmooze, check email.
Ride home. Bike total: ~13 miles
Make lunches and pack up for the beach (15-30 mins.)
Choose bikini (takes 1-10 mins)
Drive to Nauset Light, wait in line for around 40 mins. for a parking space. This sounds insane to some of you, right? But Nauset is our favorite beach and there is limited parking, even at 10:15 a.m. If you go to Coast Guard, you have to take the shuttle there (no parking at all). I would ride there, but none of them do! Or we go to Wellfleet, and pay $15 and walk down (and then up) an enormous dune. So, wait in the car and gossip about all the other people in line. (Sue:”Why don’t they move up?”
Ned: “What do you care? There’s no place to go anyway!”
Sue: “Yeah, but why leave such a big space between him and the other car? Why not move up?”
Ned: “It doesn’t matter.”
Sue: “You’re never on my side!”
Ned: “I’m just trying to enjoy myself.”
Sue: “So am I!”
And so on)
Survey beach; find emptiest part near best waves; set up, apply goop, and lie down.
Immediately fend off Benji’s requests for lunch. Give him fruit, then of course Nat and Max want some, too. One hour until lunch.
Look for interesting men to look at (sorry, it’s true!) who are older than 20.
Feel the water.
Lie back down, listen to iPod.
Give Benj lunch early.
Eat an Atkins bar because Benji’s lunch makes my mouth water.
Give everyone lunch.
Everyone tries the water! Get wet, maybe stay in if it’s really hot out.
Go back to blanket for boogie boards.
Catch a bunch of waves, sometimes right onto the sand. Let the waves pull you back in without getting your legs all scratched up. Hang on board with Benj or Nat.
Ride waves until your body aches and it starts to get scary whenever a big one approaches you because your too old and tired to ride it properly.
Straggle out and adjust suit.
Throw yourself down on blanket and sleep as long as Benji will let you.
Stay until around 3.
Pack up, shake out, pull on clothes, walk up the endless stairs to parking lot.
Outdoor showers at home. This is one of the biggest joys of the vacation: being naked outdoors in the privacy of the outdoor shower.
Get dressed, maybe take a nap.
5 p.m. Drink some wine, think about dinner.
See what Mom and Dad want to do.
Get some fish, grill it with corn.
Give the kids ice cream, try not to smell it or look at it.
Try not to eat too much sugar-free fudge from Provincetown after you smell and look at and taste the kids’ ice cream (the Maltitol gives one diarrhea. Remember, no such thing as a free lunch. you don’t gain weight from sugar-free fudge, but you can get really sick!).
Clean up from dinner and do something for the night (kids play games with Mom and Dad, writing for me, work for Ned)
Get everyone to bed by 9:30
Try to stay up unitl 11 to see Jon Stewart.
Hang out, laugh, cuddle, etc., with Ned
Sleep deeply, one leg thrown out of covers to feel the breeze coming in from open windows.

When I was a kid, I spent a few weeks some summers with my sister Laura, my grandma (Esther), and her sisters (Pearl, Henrietta, and Ethel). We stayed at a bungalow colony in the Catskills, in New York State. There was a game hall with pinball, a snack bar with frozen Milky Ways and ice cream, and a cold pool that was so mossy it was almost more of a pond. There were other kids but mostly they were snotty Long Islanders. Laura and I kept to ourselves, and had plenty to do. Dad left us with a handful of change on Grandma’s dresser and everyday I took fifteen cents for a frozen Milky Way and we always had at least one ice cream. Sometimes we picked blueberries (“huckleberries” with Uncle Herman, Aunt Pearl’s husband) and later ate them with sour cream. Laura remembers not showering for a whole week! I remember a deep tub and a pink shower curtain, however.

We also went on the swings and jumped off, even though Grandma said not to, and once my shorts fringe caught on the swing and I was just hanging from it! I tore a piece off in time to avoid the yelling. It was always a bit odd visiting Grandma. Nothing seemed quite right. The food was weird (“minute steaks?”) and the adults were all from the Old Country (Poland/Russia, depending on the era) and back then they all seemed out of it culturally, like they didn’t know anything about our music or t.v. or Barbies. But I do remember Aunt Pearl polishing her toenails with bright orangy-pink, a color I now like to use. I remember how much fun it was playing “Fishies” with Uncle Herman in the pool. And Grandma was a force of nature, with a huge temper, a passionate heart, and a great love of anything pink.

One icky, questionable thing: when Mom and Dad left, they gave me instructions to play “at least one” game of Monopoly a day with Laura. They gave her no such instructions about playing pretend games with me. I seethed about the Monopoly ukaze, but obeyed nevertheless.

To this day, I still hate playing board games. (Right now Ben, Ned, Max, and Dad are playing Chinese Checkers and nobody expects me to play. YAY!) But the thing is, I do wonder about what my parents were thinking when they did this. I asked them about it today. It seems to have to do with what they perceived our needs to be. It is hard to talk about it, because there is the whole conflict I feel about not having had my gaming needs met — although I’m pretty much over it by now! What I believe is that — right or wrong — they viewed me as being the stronger one in this case, and that I therefore needed to help Laura.

I think it is good to view each child individually and address his needs accordingly. But this particular games thing did not feel good to me. I find I am wondering about this philosophy of parenting, however, because lately it is really upsetting to me to see Nat left out so much around his puppy brothers. Max and Ben enjoy each other’s company so much, and Nat is so difficult to engage, that they mostly just play with each other and not with him. But I have been feeling lately like this is wrong, and I would like to change it. But, this runs counter to my usual parenting instinct, which is not to force things socially (because I was forced to play Monopoly with Laura).

But what about the other things Mom and Dad insisted on? I feel differently, for instance, about forcing chores and helping. Everyone has to help. They all have to learn how to perform tasks in this world, and in their family. Mom and Dad made Laura and me do many jobs: mowing, raking, weeding, trash, dusting, vacuuming, laundry, cooking. I learned how to run a household this way. And now, I really know how to take care of a lawn and garden, and I love to. I am proud of what a balabusta I am, too. And that’s because Mom had me cook and clean.

Then, there’s the fitness thing. Dad and Mom also forced us to exercise. Freshman year of high school, I had to run track, and to learn how to become a runner (not one and the same thing). I did not like it at first, but I learned. I then learned to play field hockey, too. With reference to it, I began to see myself as a fit person. And now — I would never question the need for exercise. It is always with me, like the need to eat or sleep. That’s because of my parents. But I hated running back then.

So, knowing how, with most things I was forced to do as a kid, I learned later to like them, I am thinking that it is okay to force Max and Ben to do a little with Nat socially, in the hope that one day it will not feel like a chore, but more like a natural part of life.

I told them the other day that I was going to be asking them to include Nat a little each day. I was met with dead silence. I told them that I know it was hard and not really fun, but that I felt that Nat really needed their help and was possibly lonely. I think they need to know this and to learn a little about helping him, just as they need to learn how to do math or how to read. Even more important than that, Nat is a part of their lives and they can find a connecting piece to him if they interact a little more with him. But at first, it may just feel resentful and like a chore, the way yardwork used to feel to me. The way visiting my Grandma sometimes felt: weird and out of the norm. But now, when I think of the sunny days in that slightly ramshackle cottage in the meadows, and Grandma making me the darkest chocolate milk ever, I am really thankful that my parents threw us all together. Although I could have done without the Monopoly so much.

We are at the beginning of our two week stint on Cape Cod, but this time, in a house that has “Internyet.” So I have to use my parents’ DSL connection in order to get my fix. Luckily, the whole world seems to be on vacation now, too, because I have been getting almost no email, just from friends, the best kind.

We stayed in this house last August. It is one year old now, still pristine, all white inside, black granite counters in kitchen, windows everywhere, and a view of the saltmarsh and sunset. The decor is similar to my taste: a lot of seagreen and periwinkle, so all my sheets and towels match and it is just a tasty melange of pastels. Makes me want to cook (just a little, and seafood, of course); the bed is so soft it makes me want to nap! But then again, just about every surface has that effect on me. Unfortunately the bed has a noisy headboard, which can be annoying to say the least.

This morning I rode my bike to my parents’ house with Max, on the new bike they bought him for eighth grade graduation. We used the Internet, and then I rode with my parents a little to Coast Guard Beach, and then I rode back to the rental with Nat. I was so proud of my boys on bikes! Nat is so aware of traffic and other bike etiquette. He actually maintains better space than Max, who rides too close behind me. Once I had a sudden stop and he crashed into me, but he still hasn’t learned! Nat on the other hand did a fantastic job looking for cars, listening to directions, pumping up hills. At one point I was just about bursting open with pride, just leaking it, and when we crossed the highway safely, I yelled out, “Yeah, and he’s autistic!” with a big thumbs up. I could not help myself. I was grinning at everyone sitting there in their cars, wanting them all to know: don’t you dare assume anything about my kid! (Except good things.)

Today we went to Benji’s beach choice. He has been nudging us about it for weeks: the beach with the big dune, that you’re allowed to run down. He means White Crest Beach in Wellfleet, which is not part of the National Seashore, and is unprotected and oh-so-laid back, a la Wellfleet itself. Accessible dunes, only one (very mellow) lifeguard, even a couple smoking pot nearby. Very different from Nauset Light’s straight up crowd. I enjoy both, frankly. I am really thankful for the National Seashore and in fact the entire National Park system, created by Teddy Roosevelt, but the National Seashore was founded by the Kennedys. Its loveliness will be protected forever. Another reason I love them!

But today, as I said, we were Fed-free. This beach will not live forever; Wellfleet is having terrible erosion problems. But they are not doing anything about it. So, okay, let’s all live for the moment. We were there during high tide, so the waves just rolled right in, very deep and high, a delight to float in. Sixty-three degrees, practically like Florida! Benj and Max had a blast on the dune, and I enjoyed watching them cavort. Nat did not enjoy the beach much because with his thin frame, the water was still too cold. We tried sharing a boogie board and floating together, but the poor guy was shuddering, so I sent him out. He sat in the chair with the i-Pod.

I found a charred log nearby and posed behind it, trying to look like a well-done roasted Mermaid!

I got a feeling, and it won’t go away. oh, no.
Just one thing, then I’ll be okay
I need a miracle, every day.
–Bob Weir, Shakedown Street, 1978

I need a miracle. Writing this with very little battery and very little time. I am on my two-week vacation and it turns out that the house we have rented does not have Internet!!!! D’oh. Quel D’ohage. I have ridden my bike over to my parents’ house to use their Internet (and see them, and do a little exercise with them) so now’s my chance.

We rented this house last year; but last year the neighbors’ internet was not secure. This year, as I said, D’oh!!!!!!!! Poor Max. Two weeks Sans Uru. But. We will see Mom and Dad everyday, laptops in hand. (Max’s new laptop is named Eve, and we have decided that Eve is the cool teenage daughter of Precious, my laptop, who is cool but in an older generation way, and most of the letters on her keyboard are rubbed off but she is still cute!)

Also: my physical therapist feels that my knee problem is a slightly torn medial meniscus. The knee joint bones catch on the little flap of whatever between the joints and tear it so bought some specific shoes recommended by orthopedists. Gross, gross! And ouch, ouch. Running makes it WORSE!! Belly Dance — perhaps. I danced last night anyway. I kneed a miracle in this way, too.

I’m dating myself (but I think I’m a pretty fun date!)… but I was thinking about Inspector Clouseau of Pink Panther fame because of Benji. No, Benji is not a bumbling detective. Quite the opposite. It is more that I am Clouseau, and he is — Cato. Cato was the servant that Clouseau hired to keep his instincts “sharp.” Cato’s job was to jump out at Clouseau and force him to defend himself at a moment’s notice.

Today, while I was wandering around picking up, I headed upstairs, figuring I would straighten beds and start my shower (our 120 year old house has strange plumbing, needless to say, so you have to turn on the shower a bit in advance of taking one if you want the water to be hot; and that is in the one modern bathroom!). I realized I hadn’t seen or heard Ben in a while. I looked in his room, and saw a familiar lump under the covers. Was he back in bed? Too odd, even for Ben. I went up to the lump and gingerly poked at it. It did not respond. I yanked back the covers — aha! BlueBeary and a pile of sweatshirts! Oh no! That meant Benji was on the loose and about to jump out at me from somewhere.
“Ben?” I called, halfheartedly, knowing I was doomed.
But nothing happened. Oh well. It was time for my shower; the water was probably reasonably warm by now. Took my shower, emerged fresh and dewy.
As soon as I opened the bathroom door, there he was. YOW! AAAGH!
“Mom, I was hiding in the couch waiting for you!”
Be still, my heart. I adore that little guy.

Could my book rank get any lower? Even though the paperback edition is due in December of this year, (that means it did well!) my Amazon rank has not gotten into the good numbers in a while. But my dinner at the White House may help that; I just got this lovely thank you note from Laura Bush. Now there’s a lady who was raised with good manners. Maybe she’ll read it; maybe she’ll like it; maybe she’ll talk about it to someone somewhere! Stranger things have happened, after all (like my being invited to the White House by the Bushes, for starters!). Anyway, this is one thank you note I am saving! I think I’ll start a “Fame File.”

Did you ever wonder…

Why “Botox” and “Buttocks” sound so similar?
Why “Smother” is just one letter removed from “Mother?”
Why do they call them “Tucks?” Are you supposed to think “tux,” as in galas and balls?
Why can’t we just rename Uranus? Enough embarrassment, already!
How they first discovered the Diet Coke and Mentos thing?
Or how they figured out that they should save the moldy bread and use it to fight infection?
Why “Prius?” It is such a little car, yet the name makes me think the wrong thing! No one will be fooled.
How is it Keith Richard is still alive?
How much we need 1-800-DEAD-YET because it’s hard to keep track! Like Jimmy Stewart?
If you’re not supposed to mix chlorine bleach and ammonia, why is it okay to pee into a toilet that is full of bleach-laden toilet cleaner?
Why is a AA bra size smaller than an A cup but a DD cup is bigger than a D cup?
That sweetmeats are actually stomach entrails? And sweetbreads are from brains, not breads?
…and Grape Nuts have no grapes and no nuts.
If the correct way to use dinner silverware is to “eat your way in,” then why is the teaspoon (ostensibly for dessert and/or coffee) laid outside of the knife?
Why does one woman need both a curling iron and a hair straightener?
Why is it only either boxers or briefs?
How did Pirates vs. Ninjas come about?
Why is it just Ginger or Maryanne and not Gilligan vs. The Professor?
Why are men so into monkeys?
How do you throw out a garbage pail?
Why not equip airplane passenger seats with parachutes? Then I’d listen to those instructions prior to take-off.

Yesterday was a satisfying day. Well, almost. Flawless sunshine, meetings with friends, a lot of writing, out with the puppies to McDonald’s.

I had coffee with a guy I used to be on School Committee with. I first met him eight years ago, when I was attending one of my first special needs parents meetings in my town, so I was a complete political rube. He was at the meeting to represent the School Committee and answer parents’ questions. He had a nice smile and blue eyes that drooped down in the corner and looked a little like Bob Dylan to me, so I liked him right away. I also liked the way he listened carefully to everyone there, never got rattled, and always had an answer that was packed with empathy, information, plus political innuendo. Few people can win an argument with him, and even fewer realize they are even arguing.

We have been friends ever since that night. When I ran for School Committee, three years later, he helped me with some very good advice. Over the years, we have been on different sides of issues often, and I have to admit, he has changed my mind once or twice but I don’t know if I’ve ever managed to change his. I still remember the one time that I convinced the other seven members of the Board to do something in opposition to what he wanted. Wow.

So yesterday morning I dipped back into local political intrigue over a Starbucks iced coffee, and got reacquainted with those happy blue eyes. And plotted the next big political battle in my town: the CPA (Community Preservation Act). I won’t bore you with the details, suffice it to say that the Libra in me is making it difficult to decide which side I’m on.

Then, home with the puppies, and I took them to an early lunch at McDonald’s. Benj was afraid he would get the Polly Pocket toy (rather than the *&*@! Hummer) until both Max and I reassured him that if you ask for a “boy” Happy Meal, you will get the Hummer. I really wanted the Polly Pocket, but it was not my meal. Nevertheless, the Hummer was kind of cool, military green, with a mechanical hook on the front that could tow the entire Hummer upwards.

Then, lunch with Emily, my favorite writer friend and one of my favorite people. She is due to deliver her third baby in about 8 weeks, and her body looked lovely, like a colorful scoop of ice cream. She wore a big pink floppy hat, a stretchy floral peasant top and a white skirt. I wanted to be pregnant, too, just for the look! But she tells me she longs for a waist. “Oh, the belts are so great this fall,” she lamented wistfully. I remember that feeling.

We both ordered the Greek salad with grilled chicken and she ate voraciously. I picked at it, not because I’m delicate, but because the roof of my mouth is still raw from having burned it on a verboten brownie Nat baked on Friday.

Back home with the puppies, who were playing with Max’s Mac, “Garage Band.” They were recording their voices in creative ways and setting this to dance music. Ben’s bubbly laugh and Max’s more hoarse one can be heard through the pulsating sounds. I wrote a lot in the same room with them. Later Ben asked me to help him with the “Bug-A-Tron,” a Lego insect/monster/robot. Quite grotesque and ingeniously engineered. My contribution: a big drill-like stinger on the back. Ben resisted my idea for a while until I produced the piece and then he could visualize it.

I took Nat to speech therapy, and I wrote some more in the zoo-like waiting room. I could not believe the kids. Two were from one family, and two more from other families. Totally “absent” parents, in the sense of being there but not in charge. The kids were playing D&D; right at the feet of the other adults. The mom asked weakly if “it was alright” with me. I nodded, smiled, and tried to block it out. But it was tough. Then they started playing ball. Ball! Right there between the adults. Did anyone else care, other than me? Why am I the crab? I tried to block it out and willed it to go away. I was struck, as I so often am, by the way other kids are allowed to act — so out of control — and here I am with Nat, who is deeply affected by autism, working so hard to cue him into how to behave among others, and 99% of the time, he does a fantastic job. He and I work so hard at this, while the rest of the “typical” world is allowed to do as it pleases. Yet I can’t seem to be any other way. And I am very proud of Nat’s excellent behavior. He is so pleasant to be with because of his hard work. And because he is so cute.

Then, after I.M.ing with Ned, we agreed to all meet for dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, so that I could meet a colleague of his. She is a graphic designer and works from home in L.A., so I had not met her before. She is young and pretty; clearly connected to Ned and they have a good work relationship. She was very taken with the boys, especially Ben, and they drew things together while we waited for our food. (I ordered a trough of chicken nachos, avoiding the chips. )

Several times during dinner I noticed Nat looking across Ned at her. He looked like he wanted to say something. He kept smiling at her. I wanted to help him, give him the words, but I didn’t know what they were. I felt an aching pain for him. I felt longing: was it his, or mine? Is he lonely? Did he want to talk to her? Or was he okay? What could I do? “Sweet Guy!” I called to him. “You’re happy.”
“Yes,” he said.
Okay, yes.

Back at home, I belly danced with no ill effects, other than fighting with Ned because I felt that once again he was not paying any attention. (Even though he came into the room to be with me while I did it; still, laptop open, typing away. Only looked up when I dangled my veil over him.) And I am getting really good at it, too. I’m thrilled to have no pain; physical therapy is really working.

We did not go to sleep angry (we never do), so we talked until midnight. That is the work of a good marriage. As Ringo said, “It Don’t Come Easy.” But that Ned is worth every fight.

Slept well, got up early, and here I am. More flawless sunshine and lots of writing ideas and several good plans.

(You have to read it out loud to get it.)
Okay, what am I talking about? Try to follow my twisted comic brain: I think of Regis and Kathy Lee/Kelly as the lowest of the low in talk-show phenomena, so I am using them as a jumping off point to talk about another lowest of the low : privacy violation. AOL is the latest winner (or should I say weiner, all apologies to a delicious thing to eat) in Egregious conduct. So now there is a published list of anything anyone has ever searched for in AOL’s search engine??!!

Anyone who has ever typed “booby” or “sex toy:” or even “Susan Senator,” watch out! Yer days are numbered! Soon the Thought Police will swoop down and neutralize yer subversive self so that all you search for are yer missing sox! And I don’t mean the Red ones… (God I am on a roll! Like a weiner!)

Forget AOL, which is really an abbreviation for A—OL- (try a game of hangman with that) and go for Google. Last I checked, their motto was: “Don’t be evil.” Weren’t they the ones who refused to give such similar information to Chinese Government? Although Max tells me that Google.com gives that info anyway! Jeez!

My question is: If the Internet is truly a “series of tubes,” then how did we get to this point? I say we need to get AOL’s tubes tied!

Tagged.
When you are tagged by another blogger, you have to list five weird things/habits about yourself with an explanation (like I don’t already do that most of the time?) and then tag four more bloggers. Kind of like blog Truth or Dare.
Okay, Kristin, here goes. Five weird things/habits about me.

1) Alienation: I am often uncomfortable in groups, like book groups, playgroups, or email listserves. I do not understand the light level of conversation shared in these. I feel like I speak a different language among such groups, or I feel like I’m the only person with a negative thought in them. I look for an ally, usually, that one person across the room whom I can wink to. I usually crave being invited into them and then pretty much drop out as fast as I possibly can.

2) Gross: I am not that into superscrubbed/superclean people. I love people’s smells more after a whole day or when they first wake up than right after a shower. I don’t mean bathroom smells or really dirty people. Just the natural oily stuff we acquire as the day goes on. I guess I really am kind of an animal — hey, aren’t we all?

3) Literary: I never read nonfiction books, even though I mostly write only nonfiction. I get bored to tears by accounts of this, that, or the other true event. I hate books set in another decade other than now. I especially hate the 1950’s, in general.

4) Looks: I detest seeing female toes that have not been pedicured. I hate crusty toenails; they disgust me. I hate female feet in sandals if they are not polished and preferably with the toes painted a lovely color. For cryin’ out loud, just slap some red paint on there, will ya?

5) Sexuality: I am completely, vibrantly, and enthusiastically heterosexual, and yet I love looking at women’s bodies (in real life and photos) as much as men’s. It is an absolute turn-on. I feel that most porn, however, is disappointing and very unimaginative and geared towards the lowest common denominator of male interest.

Now: I tag Ned, Manic Mom, Damien Katz, and The Diva

My novel is just about ready to shop around. The main character’s name is now Emmy, the estranged husband is Eric, the love interest is Will, and the son’s speech therapist is Tom. I am calling the book, “Dirt: A Story of Gardening, Mothering, and a Midlife Crisis.” In this scene, which I wrote today, Eric goes to meet with Nick’s speech therapist for the first time and is surprised by what he finds.

“I’m really glad to meet you,” Tom said, holding out his beefy hand.
“Yeah, same,” said Eric, grasping Tom’s hand firmly. They were standing in the therapy room, with floor-to-ceiling games, puzzles, books, art supplies, stacked messily on all the shelves. Instead of the customary fluorescent lighting trays that flickered with strobe-like consistency in most offices, there were tiny recessed lights positioned at regular intervals in the sky-blue ceiling. New jade green carpeting underfoot; Eric could tell it was that expensive non-allergenic stuff. Gave a nice soft and solid feeling wherever he stepped. There were sheets of paper masking-taped up on the wall behind Tom’s head, obviously done by kids, with the predominant theme of orange houses. Eric smiled graciously, trying to show Tom that he could appreciate the things kids did. God knew what Emmy had told him about him.
Tom narrowed his eyes just the slightest bit and said, “Nick’s work.” His voice dipped low, full of pride.
Eric’s eyebrows shot up. “Really!” He walked over to have a closer look. Bold brushstrokes, slanted, thick lines. So much orange. “Orange,” he murmured.
“Yes, he loves orange.”
“Never knew that. But I suppose Emmy’s told you all about me.” He did not look at Tom, but continued to take in Nick’s work: sheet after sheet of painstaking attempts to capture the most basic shapes: houses, stick-figure people, a cat. All in orange. He felt both disturbed and happy at the same time.
“Not really, no,” Tom said. “We just talk about the boys.”
“All of them?” Eric turned to look at Tom, to get a read on him. Warm brown eyes met his with self-assurance, curiosity, but also kindness.
“Well, yes. Treat one kid, you kind of end up treating the whole family, you know?”
“I guess.” Eric shrugged. He hadn’t thought of this before but he liked it. He couldn’t imagine hapless Jackie, the last speech therapist they had endured, “treating the whole family,” however, and this image made him smile.
“You’ve got great kids. All so different. Want to sit down?”
They sat at the worktable. The chairs were surprisingly comfortable, yet supportive. Tom waited for Eric to begin; it was his hour, after all.
“So what do you do with Nick for that hour? Or fifty minutes,” Eric added under his breath, with a smirk. He knew all about the abbreviated therapy-hour from when Emmy had gone to therapy, back when Nick was first diagnosed. Eric hadn’t gone, of course, but Em had told him all about it, to try to bring him into it, he supposed. But he just wasn’t the therapy type. All that sitting around and crying to a stranger. It wasn’t for him.
“Actually I do go the whole hour. I just schedule my clients with good-size breaks in between. Works out better for everyone.” Tom sat back and folded his arms behind his head, showing two yellow sweat circles in his armpits.
Eric raised an eyebrow. This guy was alright; clearly did his own laundry. It made him like him more. “So what do you guys do? Besides paint?”
“These days,” Tom said, “Not much else!” They both laughed. “I think Nick has finally found a hobby others can relate to.”
“You mean other than twiddling string?” Eric was immediately ashamed after he said it and he felt his face reddening.
But Tom waved a hand dismissively. “Of course, twiddling string is highly underrated in these parts. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
Eric grinned appreciatively. He suddenly felt his body soften and settle into the chair and a sigh escaped him before he knew it. “I guess – “ he ventured, a little at a loss, “I came here to find out more about what I can do. You know, for Nick. Living apart from him, and all.”
Tom thought for a while. The pause went on for so long that Eric began to think he wasn’t even going to answer him. Finally, Tom said, throwing his hands down to his lap, “That’s tough. For all of you. I guess the main thing is, don’t try to do too much, but try to make it good, whatever you do. You know, you don’t have to take them to the circus and museums for it to be a good thing. Sometimes just sitting, guy time.”
“Are we still talking about Nick?”
“I think this applies to all your boys. They just need to enjoy you, don’t you think? They probably miss that, in your situation.”
Eric nodded. This made sense. It also made him feel better, and yet, also wistful. “My situation, yes.”
Tom shook his head. “Not a judgment. Just an observation. The truth. It is a situation, and it can’t be easy. So you’ve got to try to connect with them. And that’s really it. Nick is probably the easiest of the three of them right now, in terms of connecting.”
Eric’s eyes widened in surprise. “Nick!”
Tom went on, “Because you can do the painting with him and make him so happy, so easily. You’ll see. But the other two – well, especially Henry. He’s at a tough age.”
Eric thought, Nick is at nearly the same age, but no one ever remembered that. He leaned forward and said, “I think I see what you mean.”
They didn’t talk about Henry or Dan after that, because Eric felt he needed to use the time to learn more about Nick, which is what he had come there for. Tom gave Eric a few ideas of how to set things up in his apartment for arts and crafts, and talked about Nick’s sensory issues, tactile sensitivities, noise problems. So many things Eric had known but had never really attended to before. But now – he had a concrete task to go with his new knowledge, and that felt good. When he walked out of Tom’s building he was whistling Queen again, and drove right over to Pearl Paint Store in Cambridge, tapping away happily on the steering wheel as he drove.

Yesterday was a satisfying day. Aside from hanging out with good friends for most of it (and writing an essay about it intended for the Washington Post, to be posted later), I cleaned the house really well, with the help of the boys, and cleared out all toys from the big room on the third floor. This room was probably once the servants’ living room. It is right above our bedroom, and has a lot of character: many slanted walls and the windows are different from all the others in the house; they are diamond-paned and shorter (though by today’s standards are still rather large), and they are natural (dark) woodwork. In fact, the whole room is full of dark woodwork.
We spread Grandma B’s big oriental rug across the floor, and put our large floor pillows up there, that we had bought before we were married, as a cool way to sit in our dorm room. The whole room is dark woods, cream walls, red, rust, gold, and brown. There is a desk with Max’s server and a few computers in one corner, some filing cabintes, a television, and a small white couch. Otherwise, the entire space is clear, and I am going to use it for (private) dance practice! Maybe I’ll create a tented sultan’s space with scarlet tulle and little lights for Ned to sit while I dance. When I suggested it, however, he said, “And the lesser harem girls will go to my right and my left.” No thanks.

And now, a bike ride with Max. The dancing will take place later.

So much I still want to accomplish, such as…

Publish my novel, which I’m calling, “Dirt: A Story of Gardening, Mothering, and a Midlife Crisis.”
Write a book about the Special Olympics
Get reviewed in the New Yorker, even a pan/write something for the New Yorker
Secure Nat’s future
Be able to pay for Max’s and Ben’s college choices
Secure our retirement
Get on Oprah’s show with my message about autism, not hers
Go to another White House dinner
Learn how to avoid future toxic relationships
Get my school system to be accountable for Nat’s home-based therapy needs
Have grandchildren
Befriend my future daughters-in-law
Be good enough to belly dance for an audience (other than Ned)
Live in a European country for a short time, studying writing
Go back to Israel for a visit
Get my town to raise taxes for the schools
Meet Clapton and learn at least one guitar trick from him
Meet Dylan and ask why he switches from first person to third and back in Tangled Up in Blue
Publish a New York Times oped or Sunday Times “Lives” column
Learn how to age gracefully (without surgery, injections, or despair)
Become a regular columnist at the Washington Post
Get a dog (black or yellow lab only)
Stop spending money I don’t really have/make more money
Be happy with my boys’ solitary ways
Join a temple for Ben’s education
Run for U.S. Senator when Ted is finished

I spent a long day on the Cape yesterday with just my sister Laura and my parents. Laura was up there for a pediatrics conference.

I got there in no time, marveling at how different traffic flows during the week than on the weekend. I had very little hip/knee pain from the drive, a sign that the PT and all the stretches are working. I certainly have not been doing less. The other night I belly danced for a half hour and also had no ill effects. (Laura had sent me a costume for an anniversary present for Ned and me — perfect idea — so I tried it out. Plus, I now have the music from my class on CD, so I am ready to rock — or shimmy.)

Ned has become just a little blase about the dancing. That makes me feel a little sad. I work so hard isolating this muscle group or that, straining to get it exactly like Lolisha taught us, and I see it is really looking right, but to him, it’s “always the same.” When he said that I pouted and took my stuff into the dining room to practice. Soon, he followed me — with the laptop, of course. Mistress Laptop. Better, apparently, than a lap dance, or at least, the veil dance. But he was appropriately appreciative.

So, no ill effects for my bod or my marriage.

Got to the Cape in record time, as I said, and spilled onto the beach by around 11, with Laura. We went right in, even though the temp was supposedly 57 degrees. It was so hot, like a fever, especially after the bike ride there. I was wearing a bright red bikini, and Laura was wearing a blue striped one with a bandeau top. It felt like old times, when we’d go to the beach together as teenagers, (looking for guys, which we did not do this time, at least, not obviously) and Mom and Dad would join us later. Laura looks incredibly young and fit, exactly as she did way back when, except for the silver threaded through her hair. The two of us do exactly the same kind of workouts (although she has never belly danced and I don’t do spinning) and we eat the same diet. I converted her to Atkins a few years ago, so now we share that religion. We always talk about what other people eat and how boring Atkins is, but how any weight loss regimen hurts in some way. With Atkins, you’re never hungry, at least. But soooo bored. We gossip about what people eat and what we are stuck eating like some picked-upon minority group, the anti-Carbivores.

We floated on the (fairly flat) ocean for a while, talking about food, our parents, our kids, our husbands, our sex lives, our jobs, and musing on how we were the farthest ones out, therefore the ones most likely to get picked off by Mr. Jaws. Even with wimpy waves, I lost an earring, and she said, “You know, Sue, shiny things attract them.” But how could I be on the beach without earrings? It’s part of the look. Plus, I reasoned, you need to take some risks in this life. Besides, I was not the one in a wetsuit, looking very seal-like, the way she was.

But there I was, with only one silver hoop now. I had to take it out and go around plain Jane. At least I still had traces of makeup.

We had heard that just last week, in Chatham, a large head was seen rising from the water, and bit a seal right in half. “It could only be a Great White,” I said reverently. A moment of silence. Chatham is really close to where we swim. A frisson of delicious fear went through us. I turned around and went right back in. My seal sister joined me, of course.

The glads, the glads
have gone to sads
I always stake too late
Too much at stake
Too much to stake
So hot
Unmowed knotted green lot
The phlox, big topped
White and withering, flops
New crops of coreops is too bright
But what a rose last night can still delight
I weed and weed
I gather with greed
Anything with color
Doesn’t have to match at all
It is almost time —
mums the word
But the hour does fall.

Mel Gibson can kiss my ass. I don’t accept his apology. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. The first time, that movie of his, I could allow in the name of freedom of expression. I knew it was biased against the Jews and really inflammatory, but that’s his right. I knew that it would work to undermine Vatican II, but most people I know who are Christians still hold with the whole “the Romans did it” mentality. I think. I mean no disrespect here. I am just angry about the slant of that movie, what I think was maliciously intended, consciously anti-Semitic especially now with this. But at least it can be said that no pogroms occurred because of it, anyway; no Kristallnacht, thank God. Many Jews harbor fears of such a thing in the backs of their minds, especially when something like Gibson’s The Passion comes along. But perhaps some good came out of it: most people really began to believe that Mr. Gibson’s wig was flipping.

So now, with this whole thing. I don’t know about you, but when I get pulled over by a cop, the first thing that comes into my head is usually, “Oh, God, please get me out of this with just a warning,” and not some diatribe against some religious group or other. But that’s just me.

Look, Mel, get some help. Look at your genetics. The sins of the fathers…