The Divamom Life Love Shopping and Food Blog

My Son, My Son: Don't Hate Me Because I'm Mommy

Mother’s Day is just around the corner and it’s my favorite holiday, even when my darling son forgets to pick up a token Hallmark card – or – more importantly – do some sort of task that I tell him is far more important than buying me anything. The past two years, I’ve asked him to learn songs for me. Last year, he and Cody sang “California” and “Grey Gardens” in the yard for Lina, Angela and me – and I was so overwhelmed with pride – passion – joy – whatever you want to call it – that I laughed, cried and screamed all at the same time; in an instant I reverted to being a girl in a Beatles’ video from the 60s.

The day I found out I was expecting my one and only child (at age 39) was like something right out of Juno. I had been so busy with work that I didn’t notice that “Aunt Flo” was a few weeks late – then my breasts started to resemble casaba melons - so just for the hell of it, I decided to buy a pregnancy test. I honestly had no idea that it was even possible for me to have a child. At 24, I had a serious illness and was told that I was likely sterile, and this seemed to be a certainty later in life when I tried to become pregnant - (with two different husbands and at least one fertility doctor who shot me up with hormones and made me feel like a science experiment. I figured that ship had sailed, and decided to focus on my career. Then – one day – miraculously – at a Korean deli on Lexington Avenue and 49th Street – the test turned out positive. So of course I bought half dozen more to confirm the results – and was soon reveling in the joy of knowing that – at last – I would be a mother.

This all sounds so hokey – but it’s absolutely true. I felt that a miracle was taking place inside me – that I would be fulfilled as a woman – that I suddenly had “credibility” – that I could be one of those women who digs into her pockets and pulls out pacifiers and Pampers instead of $25 mascara and xanax…

And – despite some bumps along the way – I have never regretted my decision to have my first (and only) child at age 39 – even though – when celebrating my 40th birthday with friends – I had to rush home because he was teething molars. As he grows up and surpasses me in so many areas (he’s calmer – more confident – and definitely better in math than I ever was) – the pride deepens.

I’m not sure all of this effusive display of motherly pride sits well with my son, however. His friends like to come to our house – and the only time I go into “manic mommy” mode is when they either (a) wrestle in the back seat of the car or (b) try to have wild parties when I’m not home. Having the boys over makes me happy and that I have a purpose in life other than to moan about being caught in the existential vacuum or having ugly feet or whatever bee is in my bonnet at that particular moment – but according to my virtual daughters – it might not be a good idea to be too friendly with my son’s friends…”Be sure you act like a true parent,” they say, “you’re not their friend.” So I worry about this and try to be as stern as possible – but who wouldn’t want to watch them play Ding Dong Ditch? (Rhetorical question, as always).

On the flip side – I worry that my child never sees me in a good mood. When we interact, it’s either first thing in the morning – when I’m trying to get him to wake up (or rushing off somewhere) – or at the end of the day – when I come home, exhausted, and complain because no lights are on, the doors are locked, the dog needs to go out, the cats haven’t been fed, the house is a mess – and gee – even though it’s midnight – I have to do laundry (despite having given him lessons on the proper way to separate white, dark and light colors, which detergent to use, and how to fluff and fold). I know that the right thing for me to do would be to force him to do his own wash – but then I worry – will he have any image of me other than as a shrill complaining bitch?
I think it’s a natural tendency to overcompensate for what one feels was missing from their childhood. What I missed most was transparency; everything was a deep dark secret – so I try to be as candid with my son as possible – and not let him harbor dark thoughts that maybe he did something to cause conflict – problems – issues. But did I go too far in the other direction?

My only consolation is that if you ask yourself the questions – you care about the answers. So hopefully – as he grows up and I grow old – he’ll like me enough to serenade me when I’m too old to dream – and by then learn “Sans Souci” and all of the Rufus Wainwright songs I’ve been requesting for the past three years….or – in the alternative – get the hair out of his face so I can see his beautiful blue eyes.
(Note to Dylan’s future wife: don’t hate me because he’s “my son, my son”).

God Bless You, Viktor Frankl

In the words of Paul Simon “Everything put together sooner or later falls apart…” Not exactly uplifting, but yesterday when someone asked why I never write about the “existential vacuum” since that’s one of the topics this blog is allegedly about – it came to mind.

“Oh great,” I thought, “people are actually reading the fine print? Fine – I’ll come up with something…”

And then the universe intervened! Oh happy day! Hallelujah!

Here is what happened: this morning I awoke with a crash (as in “was wrenched from restless sleep against my will”, and upon investigation (after a blatant and uncensored “What the [deleted expletive] was that?” discovered that one of my three cats had knocked a pasta-filled dish onto the floor so that the floor was covered with shards of glass and penne with meat sauce. Since apparently I don’t feed them enough, they began to try to eat the pasta. So after banishing them to another room – while cleaning up the mess – I thought “This is a blessing from the universe…we forgot to put the pasta away and someone would have gotten sick if they had eaten it…”

Then I thought, “This positive spin stuff is getting old fast…all we have lately around here are broken dishes and open wounds – what’s going on?”

Of course, this brought up thoughts of the Existential Vacuum which is one of the topics of this blog (allegedly, at least if you read the “description).

For those of you who are not familiar with the term – (those who were fortunate enough not to have their lives burdened by having read Viktor Frankl's Man's Search For Meaning in high school or college - or group therapy – here’s an excerpt:

"...many patients complain today, namely, the feeling of the total and ultimate meaninglessness of their lives. They lack the awareness of a meaning worth living for. They are haunted by the experience of their inner emptiness, a void within themselves."
I must admit – it was not much of a stretch for me to feel a sense of the ultimate meaningless of life when cleaning up the mess the cats had made.

First of all – how did I end up with three cats? I’m not a “cat person”… hell – I didn’t even give them kitty names like “Cookie” or “Butterscotch” or “Spot” …and I don’t think it’s cute or clever when they jump into my plants or dive across the room…
Then I thought of the analogy of the Aegean Stables.

Everyone knows that happy tale for sure: one of Hercules’ tasks was to clean the Aegean Stables which housed a mess of horses that were virtual “poop” machines; continually producing mass quantities of excrement.

Although Herc attempted repeatedly - with superhuman strength no less - to clean them, he was continually outpaced by the oh so many horses pooping faster than he could clean…so as soon as he had cleaned one corner of the stable, the other areas were again manure-laden - so he despaired.

But – as luck would have it – Hercules had an “ah ha” moment and diverted a great river through the stables – which turned into a sort of mass flush – the whole of the stables were suddenly clean at once, and his task was accomplished!

With that in mind – I went to the sink – took the hose – and sprayed all three cats that kept coming back to the glass-sharded pasta mess. For a brief moment – I felt that I had discovered the mysteries of the universe – or at least reached a new plateau…
Then of course, I had to clean the water off the floor – and the Myth of Sisyphus started all over again…

OK – next blog will be about love, food or shopping. Have a great recipe for Penne with Pink Meat Sauce and a special crunch…

Happy Monday.

Googling for Kugel

When my friend “who is like a daughter to me” Jessica Levin was turning 30, I offered my home for the party, as I live in Northern New Jersey which is halfway between New York (where several of Jessica’s friends and relatives live) and Central Jersey (where Jessica lives). Her relatives gratefully accepted and her grandmother, Nana Corbin, generously offered to help me with the cooking – which actually meant that she would get her husband (Boris) to cook and then complain about how tired she was afterwards. (I learned this secret – a variation of making reservations for dinner – when Jessica and her sisters explained it to me).

“My nana will call you,” Jessica said, “and offer to make food – but my grandfather will actually make it…but the last time I asked for kugel, he gave me frozen kugel that he bought somewhere and pretended he made it.”

This was getting more complicated by the minute, and became even more so when I finally got the call from Nana.

I’ll never forget the conversation – which was actually a 3-way call, even though only two of us were technically on the phone – Nana, me and Mr. Nana Corbin (Boris in the Background who gave a running commentary on everything Nana said, which I would have heard even without a headset).

Here’s roughly what it sounded like:

Nana C: Vicki? It’s Jessica’s grandmother – Nana Corbin – but you can call me Nana. Oh – you’re such a nice person to have the party in your house. Please – let me know what I can do…is there anything you want me to make?

Boris (in the background): See if she wants stuffed cabbaged.

Nana C: “Vicki – do you want me to make stuffed cabbage?

Me: Sure – that would be great…

Nana C (interrupting): Oh – that’s good – but I make mine unstuffed…

Boris in background (BIB): Tell her we make it unstuffed.

Nana C: I told her! Do you like it unstuffed?

Me: I’m sure it will be fine –

Nana C (interrupting): What about meatballs? I make nice meatballs…

BIB: Ask her if she wants meatballs.

Nana C (to BIB): I’m asking her now…Vicki do you want me to make meatballs?

Me: Well, actually, I’m half Swedish and half Italian – so usually make meatballs echoing each of my ethnicities…

Nana C: Oh, ok, no meatballs

BIB: No meatballs? Why doesn’t she want meatballs?

Nana C: She makes meatballs. She’s Italian.

BIB: She’s Italian? Does she want lasagna?

Nana C (to BIB): She makes meatballs. I don’t know about the lasagna.

Nana C (to me): Sweetie, do you want lasagna?

Me: No thanks – the stuffed cabbage will be fine.

Nana C: Ok, so you want the stuffed cabbage

BIB: Tell her it’s unstuffed cabbage

Nana C (to BIB): I told her!

Nana C (to me): You know it’s unstuffed…that’s how I make it…

Me: That’s great; anything you want to make is fine with me…

Nana C: There’s nothing else you need? Nothing?

BIB: Ask her if there’s anything else she needs

Nana C (to BIB): I asked her! She doesn’t want anything else…

Me: Well – actually – it would be great if you would make some kugel…I think Jessica loves it and I have no clue how to make it – I’m a shiksa

BIB (in a psychic frenzy): Ask her if she wants kugel.

Nana C (to BIB): She already asked me for kugel

Nana C (to me): Darling, do you want some kugel?

Me: Yes – I would love it if you would make kugel…

Nana C: Do you like it with or without raisins?

BIB (to Nana C): Ask her if she likes it with or without raisins.

Me: I love raisins.

Nana: Jessica hates it with raisins.

BIB (to Nana C): Jessica hates raisins in her kugel.

Nana C (to BIB): I know – I just told her…

Nana C (to me): Jessica doesn’t like it with raisins…

Me: Oh then – make it without – it’s her birthday…she should have it the way she likes it…

Nana C: But she can take them out – it’s no big deal…

BIB: She can take them out – it’s no big deal.

Nana C: Is there anything else you need, dear?

BIB: Ask her if there’s anything else she needs.

Nana C: I just asked her that!

Nana C (to me): Is there anything else you need, dear?

Me: You really don’t have to do this…

Nana C (to me): But I want to …please tell me if you need anything else at all…
(At this point, I paused to hear what BIB had to say. After 10 seconds of silence, I spoke again)

Me: Maybe if you want to make a brisket?

Nana C (to BIB): She wants a brisket.

BIB: Brisket?

Nana C (to BIB): Brisket.

Me: You don’t have to…

BIB: Brisket?

Nana C (to BIB): That’s what she said – she wants brisket…

Nana C (to me): You really don’t have to serve so much food….no one eats anymore…

BIB: She doesn’t need brisket – they won’t eat it…no one eats anymore…

After all of that I was, as you can imagine, exhausted. So I stopped arguing and said "You're right - no one eats...you know Jessica better than I do - so just make what you'd like to make and I'll serve it."

Nana C: Ok darling - I'll bring the unstuffed cabbage and the kugel...

Before BIB could interject, I said my grateful goodbyes and hung up, knowing that if nothing else, the food at the party would be covered and no one would go hungry (especially since "no one eats anymore").

Of course, the fact that the kugel had raisins in it when Jessica hates raisins caused what has become known as the Corbin Family Kugel Controversy, an un-holiday which occurs several times a year at Corbin Family gatherings.

"Can you believe my nana made the kugel with raisins?," Jessica's little sister Tiffany said, "Jessica hates raisins in her kugel."

I paused - waiting to hear BIB say something (even though he was two rooms away at the time). He didn't, however, either because he didn't hear what Tiffany said, or because his mouth was full of the meatballs I had ordered from the Italian deli at my corner. I would have rolled them myself, but took a leaf from Nana's recipe tree.

And if some of you are now craving kugel, here's a recipe for dairy kugel that I "borrowed" from someone. I've never actually made it - but either did Nana C, and if you make this one, Jessica Levin might Twitter about you since there are no raisins in it.

Enjoy!

• 4 cups uncooked egg noodles
• 1/4 cup butter or margarine, melted
• 5 eggs
• 2 cups small curd cottage cheese
• 2 cups sour cream
• 2 cups milk
• 1 (8 ounce) package cream cheese, softened
• 1 1/4 cups sugar, divided
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 1/8 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

Cook noodles according to package directions; drain. Toss with butter; set aside. in a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs for 8-10 minutes. Beat in cottage cheese, sour cream, milk, cream cheese, 1 cup sugar, vanilla and salt. Stir in noodles.

Transfer to a greased 13-in. x 9-in. x 2-in. baking dish. Combine the cinnamon and remaining sugar; sprinkle over noodle mixture. Bake, uncovered, at 350 degrees F for 55-60 minutes or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean. Let stand for 10 minutes before serving.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Plate

The High Tech Hottie – whose job often requires her to travel to various locations and eat "meal after meal after meal" – is fed up with food. When in a particularly Lady Macbeth-esque mood, she contemplated whether the controversial experimental memory erasing drugs – which, if you believe the news reports, will be on the market within five years - would have the ability to numb the emotional sting typically associated with our intensely bad memories. She wondered whether this type of drug could work regarding erasing the memory of unhealthy or excessive food one had eaten, erase the caloric content, the toxins, thereby, erase the negative effects. Anyone who has heard of, read or seen "The Secret" that type of logic would hold true. According to "The Secret" – thoughts become things…and whatever the mind can believe the mind can conceive – or – simply put - it’s all mind over matter – so if you don’t mind it doesn’t matter.

When Life Gives You Mangos, Make Margaritas

My son Zimmerman’s friend Nico (who Zim and his other friends have aptly labled a “freeloader”) was at our house one afternoon and, inter alia, after rifling through the refrigerator, helped himself to a mango that was ripening in the center of the kitchen table (where it was placed, with other fruit, with careful attention to the feng shui of abundance).  I didn’t notice that the mango was missing until I found a knife on the middle of the desk in our home office, and when I questioned Zim, he said that Nico needed it since our peeler didn’t work all that well.  Long story short – the kid stole my mango and left the peels to rot in the upstairs garbage can, unnoticed until the next day when the stench became unbearable and Coprock was left with the task of cleaning it up (and spraying the area with Lysol). 

I wasn’t too happy about the incident, and I had a neo-Joan Crawford explosion – after which I said something like “I’m not yelling at you, Zim...I’m yelling at the (expletives deleted) MANGO PEEL”

After that, I thought I must be the worst mother in the world.  However, thankfully, one of my friends (who asked me to omit her name since even her a/k/a is now recognizable) might have topped me. Anon Mom is a single mother whose Anon Ex contributes little or nothing to Anon Son’s life, financially, emotionally or in any way. Here is her story, in her words, about a conversation that took place between her and her son on Father’s Day:

Anon Mom:               Call uncle Mike and wish him a happy father's day. 
Anon Son:                 Why? He's not my father.
Anon Mom:               He's more of a father figure to you then your own father is.
Anon Son:                 Yeah, but he didn't do you.
Anon Mom:               If you had to call everyone that did me, you would be here all day.
Anon Son:                 Nice Mom

There's so many things wrong that conversation that I don't know where to begin.

On days like those described above, a Mango Margarita might help.  Here's a great recipe:

To Make Mango Margaritas

Puree 1 1/4 pounds fresh mangoes, 1 cup water, 1/2 cup sugar;
Put in a blender with 3 cups ice, 3 oz. Triple sec, 6 oz. Tequila or

6 oz. Rum – blend until smooth – drink until you can no longer stand upright.

:

The Way We Weren't

Yesterday, I attended the wedding shower of a couple that I fixed up accidentally at a coffee station in Newark when the groom was wearing a John Travolta-esque shirt and the bride was dodging the advances of many inappropriate suitors, including but not limited to one of Coprock's co-workers who was married.  The shower - which was the culmination of a courtship right out of a Danielle Steele novel - was at the Stony Hill Inn - a beautiful Northern New Jersey location which makes even the most tasteless events elegant...even those that leave a bad taste in one's mouth.   Soon after I arrived at the event (early to help the bride's mom - followed shortly by Kagee who was bringing hand-made chocolate roses), it was apparent that despite our close friendship with both the bride to be and her mom that Kagee and I we were on the "D" list - not only because the groom's family had taken everything over, but because we sat among women who, like us, were showcasing.  Kagee originally asked to borrow a pin to make her dress less revealing but quickly abandoned the idea when she realized that there were no straight men around so there was no reason to hide the "girls."  I even showed her how to help enhance the appearance of her cleavage through the use of Bare Escentuals "Pure Radiance" (thank you, Leslie Blodgett!).  We sat with the groom's cousins who each had a different black and white dress (except for a fey 16 year old whose dress was slightly more festive) - and cleavage was the fashion statement of the day such that it wasn't just the "D" list table, it was the "D" cup table.

Wedding showers are tolerable at best - even for the bride who is expected to ooh and aah over blenders, toasters and other appliances - from the ritualistic opening of the gifts (which is tedious even for the bride) to the corney games, innuendo and remarks about honeymooning that bring everyone back to an era when ironing boards were actually a useful household item.  (Personally speaking - I haven't used an iron in more than 20 years and even then it was only to make grilled cheese sandwiches).  When I saw the gifts piled high, I knew I'd have to do something to pull through, but the only "hemp" around was in the shampoo I used that morning, and drinking heavily was not an option, since after only one martini, I fell to the floor.  Not too many people noticed, though, because - as luck would have it - simultaneous to my spill one of the father-of-the groom's favorite nieces arrived at almost the same time, so he hopped right over me (literally) in bunny rabbit style to greet her.  He then informed everyone within earshot that she was a professional singer and how lucky we all were to have her there.  Suddenly, I didn't feel like breaking out into Cole Porter as originally planned, and I could tell where the day was going, so the only logical thing to do under the circumstances, other than make tasteless jokes with the other D-cup Divas at the table, was to focus on food.  And thank heaven for both.  The Divas were part of a family almost as dysfunctional as my own, and Kagee, Aunt B and I had a wonderful time with them - sharing trenchant repartee and discussing our estranged relatives, our similar black-and-white fashion choices, and of course - the food...because  - oh - the food was wonderful.  Hot and cold appetizers, served by an attentive yet not overbearing wait staff.  Salmon cooked to perfection.  Mashed potatoes to die for - fresh mozzarella - roasted peppers - life couldn't possibly get any better...at least not for me, at that moment in time...

As I watched the bride open her gifts -surrounded by her future in laws and their seemingly endless array of cousins twice and three times removed - none of whom she knew half as well as Kagee or me - I felt a stab of sadness watching her slip away into the abyss - the young woman who was once a girl who was my son's first babysitter - the daughter of one of my closest friends - the beautiful and talented creature whose accomplishments were brushed over and buried by stories about how wonderful her future groom was, from how he was conceived to where he went to school and whose meatballs he munched on to survive his first year of college... when the groom's aunt thanked everyone for coming to an event planned and paid for by the bride's mother - I felt like spontaneously bursting into a Barbara Streisand song - "The Way We Were" - not because of the sentimentality of it...but because of a line I remembered from the film of the same name...

"I feel like we were invited for drinks and everyone else is staying for dinner..."

Thank heaven I was able bypass most of the drama - both real and imagined - by enjoying mass quantities of dessert with the other D-cups.  Cute little chocolate shot glasses filled with various flavors of goo.  Cake from the Lyndhurst Pastry Shop.  And - the cannolis were, some kind of wonderful...a little small, but delectable nonetheless...no tasteless bridal shower pun intended of course...

Sausage Festival Reunion

  When a case of Diet Coke exploded in our garage refrigerator, in a spring cleaning frenzy, I asked my husband to hose it down since it would soon be grilling season again (although for Kagee, it’s apparently all year round). During the purging of the exploded cans and a few bottles of presumably stale Coors Light -he stumbled upon a package of frozen blood sausage which was left over from our first annual sausage fest held last July.

"Should I throw this out?," he asked.

Even though it was about 9 months old old, and frozen (almost) beyond recognition, it wasn’t a rhetorical question; he knows well how upset I can become if something is inadvertently tossed. "You threw away my lucky sage?," I might say, "I was saving it for a smudging ceremony." (To him, it was dead foliage in the back of the vegetable drawer; to me it was an aborted purification ritual).

Our sausage festival was one of our more memorable parties - even more so than the "bring your own ball" tree-trimming bash or the martini "wakes" we host in celebration of Xmas and my birthday (in January - see above photo of some of the babes in black). The most notable martini party was held at the same time as a Pampered Chef demonstration. The hostess was somewhat dismayed when she realized no one was paying attention to her demonstration, but retrospectively thrilled when she realized how many sales she had made based on the number of martinis consumed. Of course a lot of the guests ended up sleeping on the floor, but I scored quite a lot of crockery for future celebrations…including a sausage casserole made with kielbasa, apples and cheddar cheese…

So to segue back to the Sausage Fest - since many of my gal pals were unattached at the time, when I extended the invite to the Sausage Festival they immediately thought I was using Freudian imagery and that I was actually inviting them to singles networking event of sorts and wanted no part of it.  "I'm happy with Ben and Jerry," one said, "I don't want a sausage in my life."  When I convinced them that the invite should be literally construed and that the sausage they would meet would be the likes of Jimmy Dean or Bob Evans - they flocked in droves. Kagee, who helped me formulate the concept, invited her sister-in-law with two young dogs (Monkey and Tula) to help eat the spoils of the event, as well as her dog Polly (name changed to protect the guilty) - who can stuff more into her small frame than a team of Alaskan Huskies.  Kagee and I had determined some months before at a Pierogi Party (the details of which I’ll spare you) during which one of the guests was a hyperkinetic caterer, Kent, who had an "in your face" style of conversing (despite his protective girlfriend Para's "looks that would kill" to any woman who went near his rolled proscuitto appetizers - which were even worse that her usual disgruntled "I hate the world" stare) made everyone afraid to talk to him and incur her wrath (particularly since she, like most of the people there, were like Sumo Wrestlers) – we got into a rousing discussion about a safe subject - food - and collectively came to the conclusion through that every ethnic group makes some type of sausage; even our Jewish friends, who shunned pork, ate Kosher hot dogs from time to time…and the Vegans ate tofu…and so on and so on… The more we talked about it, the more types of sausage we thought of and then we realized that July was the birth month of Basha, the Kielbasa Queen – so we had no choice but to schedule in July.

Left - Basha and Slim Jim after the fateful meeting at Sausage Festival.

Everyone came to the table with something delicious (with the obvious exception of whoever brought the blood sausage, which never made it to the grill).  Irina and Katrina, a/k/a The Mojito Mamas brought their own mint masher for the drinks which made them famous and got everyone smashed; Katrina also brought an abundance of chocolate covered strawberries from the infamous Carlo's (City Hall) Bakery in Hoboken; Mrs. D. made sausage and broccoli rabe; Slim Jim (who, coincidentally, has is slender and has the same name as a popular type of beef jerky treat) brought macaroni salad (I think he might have gotten the invite to the Pasta La Vista bash by mistake); Basha was crowned not only with Kielbasa, but ended up linking up with Slim Jim (probably because she brought tuna pasta salad and they sensed they could make beautiful macaroni together); Mrs. Meo - three hours late as usual - looked more like Liz Taylor than ever - and brought cupcakes.  I tried to spike a melon but only once section ended up with any alchohol content whatsoever, so whoever had that chunk might still be somewhere in the garage...

All of the above being said – and despite unappetizing blood sausage frozen solid into an igloo-esque mass in the back of the garage freezer…I’m already trying to figure out the best time to hold this year’s bash and searching frantically for recipes involving weenier, bangers - and of course – seasoned tofu tubes. All recipes gratefully accepted.

Zena's Brown Sugar

Zena, my kick-boxing trainer - who should be given a medal for patience since I get confused between jabs, crosses and roundhouses - is committed to her job.  Today, after several annoying encounters - including my battle with a title closer in the parking lot at work (who was upset because I took his spot, even though I did him a favor since it was in the line of fire of the kamikaze pigeon zone) - and after eating what seemed like ten million (well done) french fries at lunch with Zenaida and Lara - I went to the shelter of my car to call Kagee.

"Is it ok if I VENT?," I said, which was clearly a rhetorical question, since I was already snarling.

"Sure," she said with characteristic patience, "What's up?"

I proceeded to list (in 250 words, rapidly-spewn forth like a glass of chocolate milk spat out on the floor of life) all of my days' frustrations.

Kagee said "I know what you mean.  I felt that way last night - so I went to the gym."

I immediately called Zena to see if she had time for a session.  I had been avoiding her since my last session when my son accompanied me and told me I hit like a girl. "COME NOW," she said, "I'm bored - and the owner is here so I have to look like I'm doing something."

"You must really be bored if you want me to come," I said, "I don't remember what to do."

"It will come back to you - it's a natural instinct," she said.

"But I ate ten million fries today," I told her.

"Don't worry - I ate candy for breakfast!  Then I worked out so now it's gone!  Come on in!"

Hours later - after a little more road rage and two "Fast Breaks," Zena held focus pads for me as I mentally recounted the days' events and pictured the smug face of the title man who waited in the parking lot for me to move my car (even though he had already parked his). 

"It's a good thing I'm working out today," I said, "I ate everything in sight."

"I do it all the time," she said, "If I know there's a jar of peanut butter in the house, I can't sleep; I stand in front of the cabinet and eat it till it's gone.  I even scrape the sides of the jar till every last bit of it is gone."  She went on to say that her parents never kept junk food in the house, so she improvised by drinking Aunt Jemima pancake syrup and eating spoonfuls of Cremora from the pantry, and boxes of brown sugar.

"That's why I work out all the time," she said, "If I didn't, I'd blow up really fast."  She told me that she allows herself to pig out on weekends only, during which time she goes from one store to another in Hoboken finding the cookies, ice cream and candies that she loves and that on road trips she drinks sickeningly sweet fake coffee drinks like Vanilla Fake-a-chino, and consumes bags and bags of junk food.

I was strangely comforted by the story...even more than I might be by Kraft macaroni and cheese or chocolate frosting in a tub for breakfast (which Heather Locklear is rumored to have for breakfast every morning).

As Kagee said: "God Bless America."

Not About Wedding Cakes, But Next Time