Sixties Chick

My dog Rio and I go out to the field behind my house and from time to time we get into a game of retrieve the stick. My throw’s never been all that good, but Rio doesn’t care; he bolts after it with a sense of purpose that’s enviable. He grabs it with that wondrous mouth of his, sometimes in mid-air, and then dashes back to where I’m standing. He won’t drop the stick, however. Refuses; that is until I throw another one.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to teach him. “Look Rio,” I’d say enunciating slowly, trying to explain to him how it works, “You drop the stick; I throw it again.” But it was no use; if he understood, he simply wasn’t interested in playing my way. I’d give in. It was easier.

From time to time, I try again when there’s no other stick in sight. But Rio won’t budge. He’s nine and clearly not changing. Like my friend the dog trainer told me in no uncertain terms, “Forget it. He’s too old.”

Lately, I’ve been wondering the same about myself.

I ask, because recently my daughter took it upon herself to sign me up for an on-line dating service, convinced that it was time for me to get myself out there anew, into the ever-challenging world of relationship trawling. When I balked, she came up with a whole litany of rather wise-sounding reasons why I should at least try. Adventure, fun; what’s there to lose? After all, why not? And I, ever vigilant to root out anything inside me that smacks of resistance, agreed.

Almost immediately, a number of prospects pop up in my in-box, willing candidates with monikers such as notyetsixfeetunder, ultimateman, imallyours007, mikewiththebike, manbatt and loverofgreatlegs. Almost immediately, I doubt my ability to see this “adventure” through.

“Are you a boater? Do you golf? An Eagles fan?” The questions come embedded in messages of every sort.

“No,” I respond, feeling a distinct unwillingness wash over me. I’m clearly not in the mood for this. Will I ever be?  I want to counter with my own questions, ones that seem more pertinent and to the point, something like, “So tell me, what are the parts of yourself you keep hidden from view? The ones you’re not so proud of? Your shadow, as they say.”

Twenty-nine-year-old, EnerGizerboy, shows up to ask, “Hey, are you into younger men?” And, I (purely out of curiosity, of course) find myself compelled to write back, to ask why a man of his age would be interested in a woman of mine. “For great sex,” he responds candidly, sharing that his last lover – at sixty—was the best he’d ever known. And here I thought it was my fortune he was after!

Lazydad wants to know if I play poker. Wineguy — what else — the kind of wine I prefer. 2findu sends me a virtual teddy bear with points he’s actually paid good money for.

Are you kidding me? Who’s got the patience for this? What do you say we go with my line of questioning instead: “What still pushes your buttons and why? Who do you become when times get tough? What demons still lurk down deep inside? If you’re willing to come clean, I can save us both a lot of time and trouble.

Yeah, sure, I know all about the “dance” and how it calls for a degree of subtlety, a modicum of finesse. But at this age, don’t you think the moves have to be crisp and clear, nothing if not intentional?  That’s how I want to tango.

A friend of mine says I’m too intense.  He’s probably right. It’s why, most likely, I won’t be finding a mate any time soon.  I’m reminded of Rio who always plays the game his way. Like Rio, I’m too old for it any other way.

Some things are just silly. Labeling a piece of fruit with a sticker is silly. A graduation ceremony for preschoolers is silly. A jacked-up jeep on oversize tires is silly, and dressing a dog, with apologies to my sister, is just silly. And although I have nothing against intended silliness, I would add to that list, our country’s solution to the infiltration of homosexuals into the military, the height of uninspired deception,  Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Even the name is silly. But Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell would stop at silly if it didn’t require a whole bunch of resolute recruits to disown who they are. Keeping sexual orientation top secret (and this should not be news to anyone) is not good for the health –mental or otherwise. Think what it does for morale. Performance too.

If it were my call, I’d put our gay brothers and sisters front and center. I’d let them run the show. I’d pin four stars on their buff bodies and let them lead the charge. Think of the possibilities. Cable knit throws for the bunks? Who knows, but you can bet there’d be more art, more dance,  and more fun, not to mention better food – at Camp Lejeune, Fort Hood and even Khandihar.

Mostly, I’m thinking how liberating it would be if they all fessed up – the corporals, the sergeants, the privates, the generals too, if they all came clean.  Same for us civilian folk as well.  To be able to stand up without camouflage and say, “This is who I really am. What you see is what you get.” It sure would make it easier to deal with one another.

But being real is not for wimps. It takes vigilance, stamina, courage to boot.  You’ve got to be on watch.  Do I say what I mean? Mean what I say? Do I walk my talk?  Am I legit? Though I sometimes miss the mark, I troop on.  I try. It seems like a critical mission, especially these days.

As for our men and women in uniform and the foolishness of “not telling,” I have this to say to you, Uncle Sam, “Go ahead, big guy, give it a shot. You try to Be All You Can Be, under wraps and undercover.

Happy Fourth, all you freedom fighters.

Yo, Wat up, Mayzee gurl?
Nuthin’ much.
Wat up wit da blog? Ben a long time.
True dat. Stopped writin’  fro a while.
Well where u ben at?
Jus chillin’…I be chillin’.

And damn if there wasn’t a lot I could’ve weighed in on too. For starters, there was the historic Gold family cruise in honor of my Uncle’s 90^th birthday. Underwritten by the birthday boy himself, 23 of us, bound by blood or marriage, floated from L.A. down to what they’re now calling the Mexican Riviera.  No question but that I could have mined a few nuggets of familial intrigue from the decks of that shining Sapphire Princess. Entertaining, yes, but family is family.

There was the week’s visit from my Brazilian ex-husband which could have made for a riveting piece had I felt like going into the ins and outs of our 19-year post-marital relationship. Or the saga of the twenty-four-year-old boarder I took in to help pay the bills, who turned out not to fit that bill or any other. I live and learn. Perhaps a story for another time.

I could have written about taking care of my grand nephews (7 and 9) which would have meant disclosing the “gum in hair” incident, but really, how could I rat on a couple of cute kids? Suffice it to say that males, no matter how young, are very strange creatures indeed.

There was yet another loan taken to finance the college education and my feelings about that, not to mention my state of mind upon completing the last financial aid form I will ever have to fill out. As usual, there was copy to write for clients along with the concomitant “two-step” of getting paid.

Torrential rains hurled shingles off the roof, and my friend Lisa Tracy came north to celebrate the launch of her new book, Objects of our Affection – a great tale about our national obsession with stuff.  To add to the excitement, I signed on to manage two decaying properties for friends overseas which, in only two months time, has shown all signs of a disaster waiting to happen. Future fodder to be sure.

There was the bar mitzvah I attended at a reconstructionist synagogue which touched my heart, the miraculous birth of a 2.5 pound baby in New Haven, and the sad departure of yet a few more wonderful souls from the earth. Add to that more earthquakes, gushing black oil, the mine tragedy, volcanic ash that stopped the world and, of course, Goldman Sucks – and anyone can see there was more than enough material. As usual, there was a lot to talk about.

I just didn’t feel like it. I picked lilacs instead. Bunches of them. I put them all over the house, everywhere, in every room. Lilacs were my mother’s favorite flower.

I sat with the lilacs, jus’ chillin’. Quietly. Because there in the midst of that haunting heady scent, there seemed to be absolutely no need to comment.

The Fruit Lady died last Saturday night. I had the honor of being there when she took her last breath and left the body temple. I had gone to be with my friend who was keeping vigil. I didn’t want her to be alone.

Joan Arensberg, aka the Fruit Lady, owner of the famed and first-of-its-kind charcuterie at 17^th and Walnut, was dying. Sharp as a tack, big-hearted, funny, tough and ever tenacious; she was finally letting go.

The end had started in October, though no one knew it then. Even the doctors had no idea if it would be a couple of years or just a few weeks. Regardless, she needed help, so my friend stopped what she was doing, packed up some books and moved herself to the Fruit Lady’s condo in Somers Point. She would take care of her – cook healthy food, bathe her, massage her – do whatever it took to get her well again. “This is what we do for one another,” my friend said.

With no children, in fact, no family at all and a partner who had died ten years before; the Fruit Lady had instead a few loving friends, a few incredible people who stepped up  and took care of everything she needed as she went in and out of the hospital, then into rehab and then home again.

They dealt with the bills, washed her clothes, made arrangements, smoothed her nightgown, dressed her sores, fed her like a baby, walked her dog then found him a home, changed the sheets, waited for doctors, ordered equipment and rubbed cream ever so gently into the creases of her thighs when she needed to be changed. They even put out their hands for the dentures she handed over, a sure sign  that matter no longer mattered to her. They stayed present while she talked crazy, sat with her as she slept, soothed her when she was full of fear. They held her hand. Day in and day out, she was never alone.

When it became clear she was not getting better, when she began to spend more and more time in some other place, holding animated discussions with beings long since gone; my friend opted to bring the Fruit Lady home so she could die in comfort, surrounded by her memories. At home, from her hospital bed in the living room, she would have a clear view of the big blue sky over the deck.

The Fruit Lady left next to nothing in the way of money or possessions. She didn’t even own the condo. What she leaves behind besides the laughter she spread around the planet throughout her life, is a legacy of love, a new bond among a few special people who, by loving the Fruit Lady, came to love each other as well. “Have you slept? Are you all right?” one would ask the other as they checked in with daily updates to coordinate care. “I could come over,” another offered  in the early morning hours after the death, grieving himself but not wanting her to be alone. “It’s okay,” she said, “my friend is here.”

And so it goes, on and on and on. Love  bequeathed, love bestowed, love passed on. It is the gift we get when we do for one another.

After enjoying a Sunday afternoon movie at a local theater, I, along with what seemed like most of the female audience, headed for the Ladies Room. The credits had not even faded, and it wasn’t just those of us past 50 either. As I rounded the corner and opened the door to the bathroom, I was greeted with a site familiar to anyone born of two X chromosomes. There was a line. A long one. But of course.

As I always do, I guess to vent my frustration, I said something to the woman in front of me, a kind of aside but loud enough for everyone to hear, something like, “Wouldn’t you know it; there’s always a damn line in the Ladies Room.” And as always, there were the requisite nods of agreement, and I felt a little better. But, I’m here to tell you, it pisses me off. It’s unfair. An outrage. It  suddenly dawned on me;  if this isn’t sex discrimination then what is?

The discrimination angle must have occurred to me as a result of doing some work for a couple of employee rights lawyers– writing copy for the firm’s website. Discrimination’s been on my mind lately; not only is there a lot of it out there in the world, it takes lots of different forms – age, race, national origin, disability, sexual preference and, of course, gender. And although a  line in the Ladies Room has been exempt from the charge thus far, I would argue that this kind of gender injustice is the worst kind. Being passed over for a promotion may sting, but it’s nothing compared to being kept from carrying out nature’s imposing call.

The theater, the train station, a restaurant, a lecture, a wedding, you name it. There are always women waiting in line to use the facilities. Take a look, however, at the adjacent door, the one marked Men or more elegantly, Gentlemen, and I challenge you to recall ever seeing, and I mean ever, a man tapping his feet, awaiting his turn.

Once again, it’s discrimination against you know who – not just in the boardroom, but in the bathroom, the most important place of all. Forget the precious time we’ve wasted; never mind the things we’ve missed. And though it might be a stretch to call it pain and suffering, the wait can be downright uncomfortable and at times, humiliating.

How did this happen, I wonder. Are these facilities all designed by men? And if so, you’d think they would have recognized the need. Haven’t they noticed that our plumbing is different? That it takes us longer?

If the discrimination argument doesn’t hold water with you, here’s another line of reasoning, also gleaned from my recent work. “Reasonable accommodation.” Yes, I know that “reasonable accommodation” applies to an employer’s obligation toward a disabled employee – to provide  whatever assistance is needed to successfully perform the job. Whether it’s providing a chair or rearranging a work schedule, there are Federal and State laws that mandate it. My brilliant legal mind tells me it’s not such a big leap to think that women should be afforded “reasonable accommodation” too. After all, who’s not disabled when they’ve gotta go?

What a wonderful world it would be if we women never had to wait for an available potty ever again. Besides being the right thing to do, it sure would go a long way towards making one half of the population a lot happier. Come to think of it, it would probably do the same for the other half as well – those on the other side of the door, patiently? waiting for us to finish up – powdering our noses or whatever it is we do in there.

When the notice from the county arrived in my mailbox, I had mixed feelings. I had never served on a jury before, but just ask anyone who’s ever been called, and they will moan and groan, citing a litany of long-winded jury duty stories. On the one hand, could I afford all that time away from the put-food-on-the-table responsibilities of everyday life? On the other, how could I pass up a new experience?  At a minimum, there had to be a good story in it.

And sure enough, by 10am I am in the jury box, Juror Number Nine, writing the answers to the questions the Judge is reading aloud. “Have you or anyone in you family been the victim of a crime?” I wonder if it’s worth mentioning the time someone walked into my house and took the keys to the car parked out front. It pales in the face of Juror Number Two’s story – his nephew’s murder the week before in Queens. After all, I had left the door open as usual.

It’s a criminal case, a theft of building materials, and to make it more interesting, the defendant is charged with eluding law enforcement as well. When my turn comes to present myself to the court – to talk about my profession, marital status, education, the TV shows I watch, where I get my news, etc., I sail through it. In retrospect, however, there probably was no need to name the Daily Show among my various news sources. I have to wonder what compelled me. The truth, the whole truth, perhaps? The excitement of the moment?

Then, like the other jurors, I am called up to the sidebar, the position next to the Judge’s bench where whispered conferences go on out of earshot of the jury. It is my Waterloo. There huddled in intimate proximity to the Judge, the prosecutor and the defense attorney, I simply fall apart.

“How do you feel about circumstantial evidence?” the Judge wants to know. “Do you think it’s necessary to have an eye witness in order to convict?” Why do you think you’d make a good juror?

I become more unhinged with each question.  My answers seem barely coherent.  I honestly do not know. Circumstantial evidence? I’ve never really thought about it. A witness? Hmmmm, I suppose I’d really prefer to have a witness. What, I wonder, is the correct answer? What is my truth? There up at the bench in a revered court of law, I do not know either, and I am getting the distinct feeling that they are definitely not  one and the same.

“Do you assume the defendant is guilty because he has been indicted and brought to trial?” continues the Judge. A wave of relief rushes over me.  At last, a question I can answer. This is something I can speak to. “No, on the contrary,” I say with assurance, and then, to explain my position, I enthusiastically launch into a Big Brother, police entrapment story that I’d recently heard on NPR. It had been riveting. I’d been thinking about it for days.

As soon as the first words are out of my mouth, I know that I have stuck my foot right in it. I also know it is too late unless I can reconfigure the story. But I can not even cut it short. It will not end. My mouth is moving on autopilot; and it does not  stop until the damage is done, and I glance up and catch the beady-eyed prosecutor glaring down at me through his rimless glasses.

All in all, it was probably a good thing I was kicked off the jury. The prosecutor was right. People like me do not belong on juries. First, who needs a juror who can’t make up her mind? In my book, not only are there two sides to every story, there are hundreds of them. New Jersey taxpayers certainly don’t need me dithering about when there’s justice to be meted out. Furthermore, even though I did think the guy looked plenty guilty, I was pretty sure I couldn’t send him off to prison. Believe me, I’m not proud to be a wimp, but “disciplinarian” is just not part of my nature.  Ask my kid.

“That’s where ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ comes in,” I tell my sister, recounting the day for her. “The responsibility rests entirely with the State to prove guilt,” say I sounding every bit like Perry Mason. “No doubt it’s a very tough thing to do. I might have been alright.”

My astute older sister pauses briefly and then sums it all up in a brilliant closing statement, “You, my dear, have enough reasonable doubt for the whole damn world.” Right she is. And she and I both know I’m not getting “beyond” it any time soon.