On Breaking Habits

What is it in the mind that rebels against a vow?

What is it in me that repulses my best efforts to do this or that,
after only a teeny tiny time of trying? Why do I seem to want something when I wake at 9:00 am that I've forgotten about by noon?

Am I alone in my aborted-starts? And if not -- even if this is the human condition -- what good does knowing a fact like this do for me?

For example, these are some of things I promise myself I will do each day:
Write in my journal every morning. Not eat between meals. Walk up the 5 flights to my apartment at least once a day. And remember this is my list.

I could play shrink with myself. Unfortunately, even when it's me that's "asking nicely," my haughty, I-know-better contrariness around authority figures insanely boycotts myself!

Conjecture! Conjecture! "I strongly object to this hack, this mediocre shrink with her low-brow ideas, opining on my actions or lack thereof, unconscious though they may be, or even intentionally detestable.

That felt good! I love putting my super ego in its place.

I'm off to California...

No banjo on my knee.

But, plenty of luncheon tidbits that I've gathered over the past few days.
This I've done, despite my two, probably broken toes that protrude out of my strappy, Merrell sandals. Poor purple, puffy appendages still throbbing from the 15 lb. metal weight that fell heavily onto my right foot a couple days before -- an infirmity that made traipsing about for provisions tricky.

I recently read that French women stay thin because they don't eat between meals.
In my house, it's the other way around.
We put out meals to punctuate and give order to sequential eating.
But since the airlines have declined to feed me in Coach,
I must tote my own pumpkin seeds, and so forth. I've packed
jumbo-sized wraps for the husband and me, fresh fruit, dried fruit,
cashews and almonds, and chocolate yogurt from Trader Joe's. My theory being, since we will be passing through a scraggle of different time zones, we need courses for each.

Now these four containers of yogurt are my special obsession. I usually have no less than eight in the refrigerator at a time. I'm thrilled to have found something I like that I can pretend is health food. Cool, chocolatey. Rich but light. Just the comfort I yearn for since the 15 lb. weight that was propping up a large fan in our hot-as-hades apartment fell on my right foot a few days before, probably breaking, as my doctor says, two toes.
What never occurred to me is that yogurt is a gel. And as all of us
must know since the shoe bomber, gels as well as liquids are on the bad, bad list.

I've handed over water. I've left home the ivory-handled fruit knife, and other must-have accoutrements of elegant eating. But, my yogurt?

Nevertheless, we're off for 10 days in Northern California. This
all came about when I clicked on a Living Social coupon
for two nights at an inn in Carmel. I've always wanted to hang out
in Carmel. This charming town is 45 minutes or so from where
we'll be staying, while the relatives who normally live there, visit
back East.

I like California. There's something about it that's not New York, that appeals to me. In fact, it's one of the few things that's not New York
that I really like. For example, I know that Toledo is not New York --
and that doesn't pull me at all. I am one of those people who prefers coast to inland. And I like the rhythm that is Northern California. It's a different dance step. A Big Sur Martha Graham with a dip. A dip made up of chunky, avocado, a touch of jalapeno and smooth Meyer lemons, with a side of crunchy pistachios.

We settle into our seats. I practice forgiving the security agent who confiscated the yogurts and is probably eating them now. Four of them! I also work on appreciating Jed for the ingenious, but ultimately toe-destroying cooling system throughout our apartment he strung together to fight the 90+ degree heat.

You see, that 15 lb. weight propped up a large fan, and this, along with another dozen fans my husband spread about our rooms -- created "flow" -- as he often said proudly. Unfortunately, I couldn't walk more than a few steps, open a closet, or get in or out the front door, without knocking one over. And now, as I contain myself from reminding him, I can barely walk at all. Also, there is no chocolate yogurt.

It is the kind of lament that would sound particularly heart-breaking on a banjo.

My Mother's Macy's Card

The summer I graduated from the University of Michigan, I moved to Manhattan with my college roommate and "just for emergencies"
my mother's Macy's charge card.

A few weeks later, my mother called, "Where's my Macy's charge," she demanded.
"In my purse," I replied.
"I don't think so," she shouted across the telephone line from the midwest.

Someone had charged $4,500 worth of men's clothing to her charge. "Call this man at Macy's immediately," she said, and hung up on me.

The man -- I'll call him Mr. Scary -- loomed over me in the tiny office. He'd spoken at length with my mother and the two of them agreed that I was witless, irresponsible, and lacking in the maturity that goes along with a charge card to the "World's Largest Store."

He shook his head sadly. He'd expected more from a University of Michigan graduate!

"Don't you ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever apply for a Macy's charge," he said. "Never. Never. Never."

And so I did not.

Then last week, a woman in my exercise class passed out 25% off Macy's Friends and Family cards to a few of us.

I quickly ran over to Macy's and scooped up a summer palette of shirts for my husband.

"If you open a Macy's charge today, you'll get an extra 20% off," my salesperson said.
I quickly calculated -- that's 25% + 20% off already reduced prices!

What's the statute of limitations in cases like this? I'm married with a career; I even have a grown son with his own charge cards.

"Okay," I said.
How far back did Macy's keep records?

"You're approved," he said.

My mother -- who always loved a bargain -- died in February.
I'd been waiting for a sign from her.

Did this mean she's forgiven me?

For Mama

(In Honor of what would have been my mother's 90th birthday,
July 3, 2011.)

At the intersection of fear and love,
at the edge of sadness and the moment of new life,
as guilt dissolves into wholeness,
and this year spins away from what came before,
pain subsides --
leaving behind only her chocolate-covered coconut patties,
her gym shoes, a silky pink robe.

For Marlene, Who is Allergic to Pepper.

Oh, please, please, don’t sit by me, Marlene,
Although of your company I’m keen.
I had a wee disaster,
And it happened so much faster than
I could stop it, alas I’m no Paula Deen.

Marlene, Marlene, please don’t fret,
If by your side I refuse to set.
You’ll understand in a second,
why I do not beckon,
for us to sit tete a tete.

Marlene, trust me, my pet.
You’re safe no where near me, I bet.
I’m more lethal, Marlene.
Than arsenic or gasoline.
And for that I deeply regret.

I was tossing a salad for deux,
When suddenly, mon Dieu!
My peppermill burst wide –
Shooting out what’s inside
onto me, which stuck like glue.

Oh, please don’t sit next to me, Marlene.
My Dear Friend, you won’t be amused.
In my nostrils and hair,
In the very air,
With this substance I’m thoroughly suffused.

Oh, Marlene, flop next to Roz or Linnie B.
Jed or Bill, I’m beggin’, down on one knee,
Or else you’ll be itchin’
And that’s not what I’m wishin’,
That’s the truth, don’t you agree?

"Good Night, Irene."

A few days before my mother died, my friend Anne Hamilton had a vision that my Dad was patiently waiting at the Gates of Heaven for her holding her purse. “Patiently or impatiently,” I asked. “Patiently,” she said. “It’s up to her.

Anne went on to say that she saw my mother ascending to heaven, meeting my father and that they were both young and radiant as they were when they met.

Irene was just 16 and Arnold was 19. On their first date they went dancing on the boat to Bob-lo. Their song was “Harbor Lights.”

It’s hard to talk about my mother without talking about my father too. They were one of those inseparable couples. If my father went to a Lions Club meeting, my mother went along. Yet, they had absolutely separate domains.

My mother’s, as everyone knows, was the kitchen. My mother never met a recipe she didn’t think could be improved by adding a lb. of butter and a carton of sour cream. Her sucker cookies are famous. When she visited us in New York, she’d always bring with her a box of cookies carefully layered in wax paper and tin foil and usually a very large brisket, and a package of marrow bones for her pea soup. If you ever tasted her pea soup you know why she was a better cook than most Top Chefs.

My mother had a career – wife, mother, Bobe.

She took these responsibilities very seriously. When Michael, my son, was a small boy and I was a Single Mother trying to balance making a living with making a home, Mike suddenly spiked a fever. I needed to work in the morning. I called my mother.

This woman who had never traveled anywhere without my father -- took a plane from Detroit to La Guardia, a bus from the airport to Grand Central, found the train to Larchmont, and then a taxi to my house. Within hours she was standing on my doorstep, ringing my bell – naturally she brought cookies.

When I needed a car for my new job, my mother volunteered to bring one. This was long before cell phones. The idea was my father would drive their car and my mother would follow him to New York in a little gray Escort for me. Except my father pulled out of the drive and zoomed off and my mother, so she says, didn’t see “that meshugenah” again, until she parked behind him in my driveway.
Once my husband Jed and I were driving down to North Carolina at the same time that there was a hurricane on the Coast. We got a message from my mother on my cell phone, “Oy vey, Turn Back! Turn Back!”’

Two years ago I published a book. I ordered a copy for my mother. In one of those strange unexplainable flukes in life, the copy for my mother and the copy for my cousin Allee were printed incorrectly. None of the sentences made sense. I didn’t believe my mother when she told me this over the phone. “Okay, I humored her, mark the pages and send it back to me, I said. She did. She stayed up until 3:30 in the morning and hand wrote 88 little white slips of paper meticulously detailing errors she had found. I wish I had saved them.

When I visited my mother in the hospital a few weeks before she died, I asked her what she was was proudest of in her life. She answered “My 3 children. The lives they lead.”

“I had a good life with Daddy,” she added. “We never had much money, but we did a lot. We traveled, we had good friends.”

On Sunday, February 13, Jed and I flew in to see my mother. The next day was Valentine’s Day, my father’s birthday. I was terrified. I thought if she could choose, she would want to pass that day so she could be with him. We arrived about 2:00. My mother was already on a morphine drip. I’ve been told even though someone isn’t responding they can still hear you. I held my mother and told her how much I loved her and what a good mother she had been. I got to sing “Good Night, Irene” to her. Her face was slack. She had been breathing erratically for about 25 minutes. At about 4:00 pm, there was a moment when her face suddenly got radiant, suffused with joy. I teased her, “Irene, do you see Arnold right now? She did not take another breath.

I spent the next few days emptying her apartment – my Dad’s tuxedo and black tie, the beaded purses, the clocks and Royal Doultons, the bags of cashews and pecans, the funny hats and magic tricks, the hundred-thousand pictures of the grand children and great-grandchildren, and an almost full jar of Saunders Hot Fudge.

As for last words, my sister-in-law tells me she turned over once the day before and clearly said, “kishka.”

I don’t know anyone else like my mother. She was a presence in my life. I don't know if there will ever be a time when I don't think of calling her at least once a day "Good Night, Irene."

My mother

My mother is dying. I cannot stop it. Have I asked her everything I want to know?

For example, why did she say I had to be home by an 11:30 pm curfew even though it meant I’d miss the last 1/2 hour of Gone With the Wind? (What happened? Did Scarlett and Rhett get back together again?)

And if you forget to put the chicken-in-the-pot in the refrigerator before you go to bed, is it still safe to eat in the morning?

First a little background: My mother was young when I was born. Only 21. Times were difficult then. She’d been very sick and I was a preemie and my Dad was away getting ready for the war.

(Does it matter if you put the cocoa powder or the warm milk in the cup first?)

(How many books of S & H green stamps did it take for our corn popper?)

Why didn’t we talk more?

What’s a bunion anyway? And why should I care if get one?

Did she do all the things she wanted to do? Is she afraid of death? Does she think my Dad is waiting for her in the beyond?


Soon both my mother and be father will be gone – along with all the knickknacks, the bags of cashews, and the Belefonte LP’s and the photos and magic tricks, and the dish drainer and candy dishes and the clocks, and the little kitchen table and the coat rack with hats and scarves -- all dispersed, like their ashes.


I stroke my mother’s hair. But, it is not my mother’s hair. My mother had black, black shiny black hair. But now this failing woman lying in the bed is strawberry blonde with large gray roots. She doesn’t even remember about Gone with the Wind.
“I never did that," she says, 'you’re making it up”. In truth, my mother, the one I remember from when I was a little girl, -- the look of her, the laugh, my mother with the mambo, cha cha hips -- started fading a long, long time ago -- and I have wondered where she’s gone for years.

Jed says, “It’s like trying to catch a piece of paper blowing away in the wind.”

That doesn’t make it hurt less.