Queen for a Day

I decided to take advantage of my free time today and cashed in a gift card to a local day spa. The treatment I scheduled turned into a surreal journey to the Egyptian afterlife.

This was not my intent.

The Chocolate Body Wrap description on the spa's website was tantalizing - "organic chocolate truffle masque has more anti-oxidants than green tea, is super hydrating, and well…smells amazing! An application of sugar plum massage soufflé makes this an unbelievable experience!" As a lover of all things chocolate, I was hooked.

Sadly - as is often the case - sales forgot to talk to marketing and reality fell way short of the promise.

I signed in at the reception desk, changed into the giant spa robe, and was escorted into a darkened, windowless room. There I was told to recline on what looked like an embalming table - and which was about as welcoming.

And so the body wrap began. Instead of a coating of luxuriously warm chocolaty goodness thick enough to apply with spatula as I had imagined, the "chocolate truffle masque" was instead a light application of oil scented with what may have been a drop or two of cocoa butter. Or not.

Under dim lighting, I rested flat out on the table while the esthetitian applied the non-truffly goo. Suddenly, as if floating from above and looking down at my greasy self, I conjured up an image of high priests attending to an Egyptian queen on her way from this life to the next and no matter how hard I tried I could not shake that image. Past-life regression, anyone? I started to giggle.

Eventually, I felt layer after layer of warm towels piling on top of my entire body. Strips of smooth linen and a coating of resin would have been more appropriate for Egyptian royalty, but nubby terrycloth was all I got.

Next - and this is the best part - I was encased in sheets of plastic from my neck down to my toes. Not exactly an earth-friendly product choice but at the time I wasn't in any position to protest because I couldn't move. No longer Nefertiti, I was now a tightly wrapped human burrito. Thankful that my brain had not been removed through my nasal cavity, I was left to poach for a good fifteen minutes within my plastic tortilla. I'm sure some people find this restful. I found it claustrophobic.

Finally, plastic and terrycloth were removed in reverse order, and after some tidying up I was ready to face the world again. As I left the spa, I realized two things. First: Human beings should never be wrapped in plastic. Second: Chocolate should be eaten, not worn. On the way home, I stopped off at See's Candies and treated myself to a couple of dark chocolate butterchews.

Caveat emptor.

Kindergarten

My little neighbor, Kevin, started kindergarten last week. I know this because he told me. This telling is in and of itself quite an accomplishment because for the first six months after he and his family moved in next door, Kevin would run the other way whenever he saw me.

After two months of this disturbing behavior, I told my husband I was developing quite a complex. I found it incredibly disconcerting to know that I instilled fear in that child and tried everything in my arsenal to win him over. Truthfully, my arsenal was limited - a genuine smile, a wave, a friendly tone, a presentable appearance. I even briefly considered bribery, but that seemed somehow wrong. Despite my honest attempts, Kevin would take one look at me, turn tail and run.

I'm not sure what broke the ice about six weeks ago, but now Kevin and I chat companionably through the wire fence that separates our front yards. Mostly we chat about the trash collectors who come on Tuesday and how many trash cans they knock down, and which trash can we roll out to the curb first, and which has the most trash. He always asks me about Greg, who he never calls by name but instead refers to as "the other neighbor." And when Kevin chats with Greg, he never fails to ask about me who he also always refers to as "the other neighbor." It's easier that way, I suppose...we're sort of interchangeable neighborly replicants.

Anyway, I find my new friend to be incredibly bright, and fun and charming. Kevin is small for his age and with his dark-rimmed glasses and pronounced lisp he seems very fragile and sensitive so it's no surprise that when he told me he would soon be off to kindergarten I suddenly felt very protective of him. Although I was outwardly happy and excited at Kevin's news, the internal mom in me went into overdrive. How would he react to all the new people, and routines, and separation from his mom with whom he is very close? I worried about bullies, and playground rejection, and keeping up with the stronger, bigger kids. I had trouble sleeping the night before his first day of school, for crying out loud.

Kevin, meanwhile, chattered happily on about how even though his mom would drive him to school on the first day, he couldn't wait to walk to the bus stop on the corner so he could ride the yellow school bus with all the other kids.

Back in time fifty-five years. I remember my first day of kindergarten at Decima Allen School - a dismal, creaky old stone building complete with tales of real bats in a real belfry. An only child at the time, I remember walking into the classroom holding tightly to my mother's hand and encountering an eye-level forest of grown-up knees and more kids than I had ever seen in one place before. Although somewhat confused by all the activity I also remember feeling fairly confident until I saw Kenny Wright holding onto his mom's legs and screaming bloody murder, begging her not to leave him. "Uh-oh," I thought, scanning the room for an escape route. "He has insider information about this whole kindergarten thing." Eventually Kenny calmed down and the rest of that first day must have been uneventful because I have no memory of it beyond wailing Kenny.

Back in time twenty-five years. My daughter wanted to take the bus on her first day of school so I waited at the corner with the other moms. I remember watching my little girl as she hoisted herself up that first giant step into the bus, one hand on the rail, the other gripping her lunch box, watched as she took a seat next to her friend, watched as she rode away toward her future. Not all school days were as smooth as that first one, but on that day she was fiercely independent and I was - and continue to be - so incredibly proud of her I could burst.

I saw Kevin the other day and asked him about his first day of school. His face lit up, dimples framing his smile, as he told me how much fun it was, and how much he liked taking the bus, and that playing outside was the best part. We talked a bit more about school, then about trash cans. He asked about the other neighbor, and finally we said our goodbyes.

I am happy to report that I slept quite soundly that night.

Miles to Go - or Not

Last week, I received an amazing gift - an email invitation to stay at our Italian friends' farmhouse in Tuscany. All we needed to do was somehow manage to get ourselves there in October. The invitation was so heartfelt and such a surprise that it left me both speechless and in tears.

Since I'm currently between employment gigs, I first thought it would be best to pass up on the opportunity in favor of sitting at home in the dark where I could amuse myself by worrying about finances. But then I remembered that over the years Greg and I have amassed enough airline miles to purchase at least one free round-trip ticket to Europe ... and besides, our Italian friends were incredibly kind to make the offer to begin with, and we miss them so much that the price of one coach fare seemed a small price to pay indeed.

Greg checked his calendar and decided he could carve out one week from his teaching schedule and so, armed with dates and WorldPerks numbers, I called the airline.

Why do I always forget that just because we have miles doesn't mean we can use miles? Having is in the realm of possibility, using is a myth. Whenever I've tried to redeem miles in the past, I've found myself embarking on a convoluted journey trapped somewhere between hope and despair. Redeeming miles is like playing the old Mario Brothers video game, struggling to conquer every obstacle thrown at you in order to get to the next level but never reaching the end of the game - in this case, the goal at the end of the game is a cramped seat in the coach section of a giant cylinder flying through the air.

Having versus using: Although Greg has enough miles for one free round trip ticket to Florence, there are no WorldPerks seats available on the day we need to return home. This information caught me off guard although I should have expected it based on previous experience. Greg and I could, however, split his miles between the two of us and use the airline's "Cash and Miles" program, paying for the tickets with a combination of miles and cash.

This option, although do-able, would end up costing us over $1,100 and we'd have to take a train from Florence to Milan, and stay overnight in a hotel in order to catch the return flight thus adding a few hundred dollars to the cost of the trip. That solution didn't sit well with me; it was cumbersome, involved hours of extra travel and, after all was said and done, would cost only slightly less than two coach fares.

Not willing to abandon the idea of miles redemption altogether, I then asked the agent if we could use all the miles we have between us to at least upgrade from two $750 coach fares to two seats in Business Class. (Before I die, just once I'd like to unfold myself from a coach seat and move up to Business Class. Just once.) The agent reassured me that, yes, we could certainly use our miles to upgrade, but in fact the $750 coach fare is a non-upgradable fare. To upgrade, we'd have to first purchase upgradable coach tickets which run in the neighborhood of $2,600 apiece. Even if we wanted to take advantage of this opportunity, there are no upgradable seats available on the days we want to travel anyway.

Yes, I realize that all life's problems should be so difficult. Last week when our friends offered their home in Tuscany to us, I was overjoyed at the possibility of travel and adventure. After my phone conversation with WorldPerks left me discouraged and out of patience, I remembered that when frequent flyer miles are involved, there are no possibilities.

In the end, we compared cost to travel time to length of stay and decided to simply forgo the trip this year. The good news: we still have all those miles!

"If Airlines Sold Paint"
www.cartalk.com/content/read-on/2002/06.22.html

Leapin' Lizards, Part II

I spend a part of every day wandering around our yard, testing the tomatoes for degree of ripeness, watching the birds, looking for gopher holes. On any given day we have an equal number of each - good news when you're talking about tomatoes and birds, not so much for gopher holes. I expect that within a month or so our little lawn will collapse and disappear as the gophers finally manage to excavate and carry away the last remaining bit of dirt from underneath, accompanied by a tiny subterranean cheer and rodent high-fiving (or high-however-many-digits-they-have), culminating in an exuberant tossing of miniature hard hats into the air.

As I wander I also take note of our blue bellies who continue to amaze me.

This is the season for baby lizards which we seem to have in abundance. Yesterday I was examining a gopher hole when a movement on the ground caught my eye...it was a baby lizard no bigger than a minute. The thing about these babies is they hatch with the instinct to flee firmly ingrained in their reptilian DNA but they're not quite sure yet where to or who from. I carefully put my hand down next to this baby, and without hesitation the little guy ran right up onto my outstretched palm. From there he rested on my index finger, his body no longer than the distance from my finger tip to the first joint, his tail adding another inch. He was a weightless, perfect specimen - alert, still, and very comfortable on his perch. We walked around the garden for a bit, until I gently put him back on the ground where I found him.

Just as seasons change, so do these amazing lizards as we move from Summer into Fall. No more fighting males, or mating rituals. Now I see adult lizards shedding their skin as they grow, their tattered too-tight suits hanging off their bodies while bright, brand new skin appears underneath. It's a rather untidy transition; unlike snakes who neatly slip out of their skins (lizards, after all, have four sleeves to contend with), lizards sort of burst out of theirs looking all the world like scaly Incredible Hulks with shreds of their old skin falling away in bits and pieces.

In a way, it's a living metaphor for what it's like for us humans to go through change. Rarely do we shed our old selves neatly and all of a piece, but once we get through the messy process we are renewed, larger in spirit and better than we were before.

Tutti a Tavola?

I saw "Julie & Julia" the other night and while I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, it left quite a bitter taste in my mouth.

Why? Because it wasn't my idea. It was the real Julie - not me - who wondered what it would be like to work her way through "The Art of French Cooking" one recipe at a time, who then actually followed through on her idea, wrote a dynamite blog, published a book, and eventually saw her idea realized on the big screen. Of course, when she embarked on her year-long adventure, Julie had no idea the blog would lead to all sorts of grander things - but still.

The point is, so many people have great ideas they pursue just for the heck of it and then, voila! the idea takes off and there you are. The promise of fame and fortune isn't the impetus, it's all about the passion. Well, I mean even Julia Child's career started that way, if you want to get technical about it. One minute she decides she loves to eat and before you know it, she's changed the way Americans cook. It probably didn't seem that quick a transformation to Julia (in fact it took decades) but you catch my drift. In the case of Julie and Julia, each woman focused on her specific passion (for Julia it was food, for Julie it was writing) and went for the gusto.

I've been chewing on this idea for the past week or so, that if you find your passion in life and pursue it in a way that makes you happy doors will open eventually. In the meantime, you'll have some fun and learn a whole lot about yourself in the process.

The other realization that hit me was that there are many other success stories out there about people who focused on one thing, pursued it for awhile, then sat back while book and movie deals were made. The guy who ate fast food for a month comes to mind. "Under the Tuscan Sun," "My Year in Provence," heck even Studs Terkel's oral histories - the list is endless. Which means that there are still many unclaimed great ideas out there that people might find interesting and perhaps there's even one I can write about.

I'm on the waiting list for a writing program, which is probably a great first step. The big idea is still elusive, however. Four of my greatest passions in life are entertaining friends, cooking and eating good food, and Italy, but I don't want to write a day-by-day account while I work my way through a cookbook (been done), and I can't purchase a villa in Tuscany and remodel it (been done, don't have the bucks). But what if I select a great classic Italian cookbook, prepare a different extravagant and seasonal meal each month using the recipes from the book, and invite friends to sit around the table and talk about food and life while eating the meal I've prepared?

Okay, it needs some work, but its a start.

There's another Italian saying of which I'm quite fond: "A tavola non si invecchia mai." Roughly translated: No one grows old around the table. What do you think? Would you come join us?

Skill Building

Those of us who are not currently employed are competing for jobs in a field lousy with other people just like us - desperate people with incredible skills, years of experience, and indefatigable hope tempered by moments of bleak despair.

As I start month #7 of unemployment, I decided it would be advantageous to conduct an inventory of new skills I've acquired over the course of the past 6 months. Certainly in a job market that's still pretty much on life-support (prognosis: unknown) it's critical to keep adding to my skill set in order to make myself more marketable. So I'm adding the following to my resume:

1. Taiko drumming
2. Tomato growing
3. Marinara sauce making
4. Cement pouring
5. Gopher basket making
6. Blog writing
7. Lizard observing
8. Fence painting

Hm. I think in the next few months I would be well advised to pick up a few less esoteric skills and focus instead on learning Excel and taking a beginning Spanish class. On the other hand there just may be an employer out there who is looking to hire a Taiko drumming, cement pouring, blue belly loving former hospital director who is trying - with minimal success - to live a life of il dolce far niente.

When Life Hands You Tomatoes...

I met a longtime friend for lunch last week. As we were saying our goodbyes after our marathon meal and catch-up session she asked me to follow her to her car because (as she put it), "I have a job for you." No kidding. She opened her trunk and presented me with a large - very large - bag of the most beautiful, ripe red Roma tomatoes. My job? Make marinara sauce.

Confession: Although I'm Italian by blood and pretty much love all things Italian I have never, ever made tomato sauce from scratch. I can, however, doctor any jar of Classico like no one's business. (My Nonna Angelina is somewhere in heaven disavowing me right now.)

Another confession: Fresh produce makes me feel guilty - as in, "If you don't deal with me now I will rot and turn to mush and that's incredibly wasteful and there are people starving and it's all your fault." I come by the guilt naturally as the other 50% of me is Jewish. My husband claims that my Italian Catholic and Russian Jew mix explains my tendency toward hysterical guilt. Makes sense to me.

Anyway I returned home with a bag full of guilt - a bag that kept calling to me from the dark recesses of my refrigerator until this morning when I decided to peel the little darlings and make my first ever batch of marinara sauce. After a brief internet search, I created my own recipe and headed out to the store to purchase the rest of the ingredients.

This is where the story gets interesting, at least to me.

A couple of days ago I ambled down to our mailbox to pick up the mail. We share a rural curbside mailbox with our neighbor - two receptacles mounted on a 4x4 post embedded into a concrete base. On this particular day I opened our mailbox as usual, except this time the entire mailbox fell over and I was left holding onto the little door, just as another neighbor drove by. Slightly embarrassed I waved to the neighbor as if it was perfectly natural to be holding onto a mailbox door while the rest of it was crashing at my feet. The neighbor waved back and kept on going so I guess my casual and jaunty attitude fooled her. (By the way, dual mailboxes embedded in concrete are heavy - if one starts to topple on you best to step aside.)

Yesterday my husband, Greg, and I purchased a new prefab cement base with the intention of repairing the thing today so the mail carrier can resume delivery. Apparently the USPS does not leave mail a) in a tipsy receptacle b) on the dirt next to a tipsy receptacle or c) at your front door.

Anyway, this afternoon as I was getting in Ernest (my Prius) to get ingredients for the marinara sauce I remembered that the new, very heavy cement base was still in my trunk so I hoisted it out and set it off to the side of the garage, well out of the way of human and auto traffic.

I made the roundtrip to the store in record time and turned into our driveway happily engrossed in "This American Life." As I pulled into the garage I suddenly heard a deafening, tearing, crunching sound that was not coming from Ira Glass on our local NPR station. Simultaneously, Greg came running out of the house screaming, "Nooooooo!"

Apparently in the 10 minutes I was away from the house, my loving partner moved the cement block from the safety of the sidelines into my usual parking spot. When I came home, I figured the thing was right where I left it - in my defense, our driveway is steep so it's hard to see over the hood of the car when pulling in. Consequently I blithely headed for my designated space thereby encountering the cement block which eventually came to rest tightly wedged under the passenger side of the car.

I think we both handled it quite well. Greg stood outside the car and stared at the ground for about an hour without saying a word and I sat in the car with my head in my hands for about the same length of time. Then I collected my groceries, went inside and made marinara sauce. Greg jacked up the car, removed the cement block, and fixed the mailbox.

When life hands you tomatoes, make marinara sauce.