NorthSideFour Plus Russell

Three years is a long time to wait, even longer when you're ten years old and three years accounts for just under one third of your life. But wait three years they did, and their patience and diligence has paid off in one big furry reward named Russell.

This summer they worked in earnest, presenting their case early with a well written persuasive essay outlining the benefits of dog ownership, and making clear their plan to meet and exceed all expectations regarding care. They searched online for a suitable pet, initially setting their sights on a young beagle named Tiny Dancer who was available at a nearby shelter. Their informative paper written about Tiny Dancer included this line, "I'm sure we all agree that we will want to change Tiny Dancer's name immediately", but alas, Tiny Dancer was adopted quite quickly by a family perhaps better suited to Elton John admiration. The girls were disappointed but undeterred, the search continued.

It was Jack who needed convincing and yet it was Jack who found Russell, a five year old Beagle/Jack Russell mix who was surrendered to a nearby shelter when his family moved to Ireland. He was confused at the shelter and wanted little to do with us, by evening he was sound asleep in my lap. He slept until almost 10:00 the next day, earning a place, if not yet in Jack's heart, at least in his good graces. He is happiest with Mary and Kate, finally eating, and working hard on his chase the tennis ball skills. He is the perfect dog for us (although I am campaigning for a name change: Rousseau, Roosevelt, Franklin). Good work girls, patience and diligence do have rewards, you did a fine job, and so did your Dad.

Welcome home Russell.

Three years ago our beloved beagle Eleanor Roosevelt died, the girls and I have been campaigning for a dog ever since. 

No Square to Spare

Of all the neuroses I brought with me from childhood, none is easier to identify than my need to have, at all times, at least 20 extra rolls of toilet paper on hand. For several years I was able to hide my secret and then one dark day he discovered the cache, a multiple Costco shopping trip supply rivaling that of any major hotel.

"What is this?"
"Toilet paper dear".

Jack took over the management of the household toilet paper and deemed himself responsible for maintaining a reasonable supply. Foolishly I trusted him.

"Mom, there's no toilet paper!"

For almost 10 years we have survived with this new order, with Jack managing the bulk of the toilet paper inventory, and I, like any dutiful wife, surrendering my neurotic need to know exactly, to the square, what was in the kitty at all times.

And then we ran out. It was late on a cold and blustery Sunday, far too late and far too cold for any reasonable person to walk the block and a half for reinforcements.

"Mom, there's no toilet paper!"

It was immediate; gone was the confident 46 year old mom so certain that the reserves were being maintained, and in her place, a scared child searching for a box of tissue.

This ride is over Jack. Thanks for your service but clear out the basement honey, I'm going to Costco.

Past Due Notices

We went to Costco last weekend which, in itself, is not necessarily noteworthy. We took Jack along which insures that it will be a practical trip with few frivolities finding their way to our large cart; no books to add to the collection, nary a cd or movie and not one box of 36 lemon flavored madelines. We stocked up on beginning of the school year lunchbox supplies: yogurt, grapes, blueberries, pasta, cheese and falafel (it’s a new year). We came home.

When we remodeled our kitchen a few years ago we built, into a corner of formerly unused space, a pantry. It’s a wonderful addition to a somewhat small kitchen and we welcome the storage space. But a pantry built into a corner has a deep dark secret, a corner. In fact it has six corners, one on every shelf. If you make a habit of not reaching into the depths of the space you can successfully avoid those corners for years, until your husband decides to help put away the groceries from Costco.

He opened the pantry door. “Where do you keep broth?”, the very first question, like a missile aimed straight at my unorganized heart. Broth is often found as close to the back as possible, “anywhere is fine, thank you!”. Jack is not an “anywhere is fine” kind of guy, his pantry would have a spreadsheet on the inside door with grid locations for every possible item contained. My pantry does not.

He reached in. Out came a box of smoked salmon. “Where did we…Allyson, this came in a gift basket from one of my clients, before the girls were born”. He’s right, it did. He went back for more, “matzo ball mix? Have you ever made matzo ball soup?”. In fact I have not, but five years ago, when I bought the box of easy to make soup mix, I thought I might. “This is fruity tea, blueberry fruity tea, why do we have this?” I drink an enormous amount of tea, all of it black, none of it fruit, “it was a gift”.

The gauntlet was now thrown down, the challenge was on. Get a garbage bag and bless yourself, Jack was going to clean out the pantry. Four bags of butterscotch chips, all with rolling expiration dates, because each September, when I think that maybe this year I might be that kind of mom, I buy a new bag, for when I make Oatmeal Scotchies. We found oatmeal, because we actually eat that, but no sugar. There were peanut butter chips, two years past the best by date. Frosting, cookie decorations, assorted half full bottles of food coloring and cream of tartar, all ready to go for the holiday cookies that rarely get made.

A partial list of the food, with expiration dates, that Pantry Cleaner Jack deemed unfit for human consumption:

• Vegetable glace, (2/10), now a hard chunk
• Pork bouillon (I don't eat pork) given to me by his mother when we married (3/01)
• Cornstarch, no known date or purpose
• Cornmeal, (4/11), unopened
• Tiny jars, many tiny jars, of jam
  
• Three boxes of chicken broth, (1/11)
• Asian salad dressing (3/11)
• Marshmallows, and
• Hershey Bars, because I bring home leftover s'more stuff every summer from Michigan, and the next summer I forget and buy new.

Everything with a soon to expire date was moved to the front and thus, our meal planning for this week was complete: cous cous with toasted pine nuts, lime cilantro rice, wild rice, Irish oatmeal cakes, rosemary flecked sea salt, Kansas City barbeque sauce, dried cranberries, smoked salmon and for dessert, butterscotch chips with a tablespoon or so of hard brown sugar.

We've never been more popular. Friends called, they were going to an Oktoberfest, did we want to come? Our next door neighbors asked us to join them at the beach for dinner. Are you kidding? There was a pantry half naked, vulnerable, doors open, it's contents covering every surface of our once neat kitchen; we couldn't leave, not when there was this much fun to be had at home. And certainly not when there was this much delicious food to be eaten. Next up, Pantry Jack learns to cook.

Grunt and Lift

In the middle of the hallway, the long and relatively narrow hallway that leads from the front of our apartment to the back sits a very large white dresser. Passing requires one to turn and schimmy, with nothing more than a cup of tea in hand (children have a bit easier time at this, and are not allowed to walk around with tea).

With sweaters stacked not at all neatly in a basket on their floor, the girls were in need of furniture. One dresser was fine when their clothes were scaled to doll size, girls who own multiple Obama t-shirts need more space. In that I have not ever, to my recollection, actually purchased furniture from a furniture store, I had no idea that pieces are now made scaled to the wildly large, and vastly open, new houses being built in suburbs nationwide . Furniture to fit in our old apartment, one with actual rooms rather than the much coveted "open concept", was made 100 years ago by men named Jeb. Furniture for the girls was purchased on Craig's List, from a woman who warned us that the pieces were large, but failed to mention that she lived on the third floor of a walk up, at the end of a long and icy front path.

Happy that I was actually buying something, rather than pilfering it from the alley, Jack agreed to rent a van and make the delivery himself. He rang up his former friend Michael, a kind soul who foolishly agreed to forgo his weekly tennis game to spend a frosty evening throwing his back out with Jack.

Three hours after they left there was a thud in the hallway, followed by "LIFT", then a grunt and another thud, this one noticeably louder. Cautiously I opened the door. Wedged between two grown men with tear strained faces was what one might call furniture, a huge white box strapped to a mover thing, that in my previous life could have passed as a studio apartment. They were on the third step, we live on the second floor. Two hours later they rounded the corner into the hallway, the second piece was still in the truck.

For fear of being killed and left to die inside the huge box now sitting in the hallway, I said as little as I could, which was still much more than any wife of reasonable intelligence should have muttered. After five hours of grunt and lift, they stumbled out for pizza and beer. When Jack returned I optimistically suggested we take the entire family out to dinner, as a means of thanks. "Dinner, really? That's going to do it? I can't walk. My arms no longer rise above my shoulders, there are bruises all over my legs. Dinner? He may never play tennis again, he may never talk to us again, he most certainly will never talk to you again".

Right, but what if I threw in a semi new dresser, with room for the entire family to store clothes? We don't really have the space.

Culinary Inspiration

We generally start the planning on the beach. Sprawled on a towel in Michigan, while the girls bury my feet, inspiration hits, often with a quick shot of sand to the face, about something I could assemble using cranberries, sage and walnuts. Jack responds with a wine offering, something he has pulled from the latest Wine Spectator, recently read on the back patio while fighting off mosquitoes, long after bed time. We move effortlessly into long and painfully dull conversations about goat cheese and gin, roasted nuts and tapenade, which entertain us for the remaining days of our summer sojourn.

But this year the wheels were slow to turn, for no real reason. We dragged our feet, the lists were short, without my usual mad scribble, and we took a very long time deciding which ridiculous project we were going to undertake weeks before the guests were scheduled to arrive. In the end we moved rooms, shifting four of our seven rooms, a project which really sucked the life out of my menu planning.

As always some things sound much better on the beach in Michigan, a tart shell topped with arugula, Camembert, walnuts and pears sounded simple and delicious, in execution it was soggy and pungent, not a best seller. Pink eye and the Remodel Project left me culinarily uninspired, but 93 friends wedged into our small apartment made me happy, albeit claustrophobic. More than twenty children under the age of six in any space is madness, letting them loose in our new playroom was simple insanity. And then Santa arrived and any thoughts of a child free party next year vanished.

Plenty of food, drink, joy and children, not to mention good friends, Santa and a priest from the church at the end of the street, the best recipe I could create for holiday cheer. Merry Christmas!

Eighteen and Gassy

A few months after my eighteenth birthday I set off for college, to live, for nine months, with a person I knew not at all, in a room so tiny we could have used a bathmat as a floor rug. But we didn't, like all the new freshman we went out that first week to buy a carpet remnant, a dark green AstroTurf looking thing that served as our living area floor cover. To that we added posters and photographs, covering all walls with brightly colored images of high school friends, Winterskol competitions and hometown city views. There were two beds placed at an angle, with a large dresser placed tightly in the corner. On top of that we piled a stereo, too high for me to reach. On the other wall were two desks, one used as the "applying center", the other as a drop off point for clothes, books, food, garbage, wet towels, coats and dirty laundry. In between we wedged a small refrigerator, purchased by my father in response to a phone call where I lamented my lot being stuck out in "western Kansas with nothing", when in actuality I was about 60 miles from the Missouri state line. We covered it's white surface with stickers from Egg Roll King, our favorite fast food Chinese spot. Once we tried to fry an egg in our popcorn popper, huge mess, lots of smoke, a completely unsuccessful experiment. When we actually used the thing to make popcorn, we burned at least half of the kernels. We shared a bathroom down the hall with about 30 other strangers, where you were expected to yell "flush" in case anyone was in the shower and would be, had they not moved out of the way, washed with a 5 second spray of scalding water when the toilet was fired off. There was a resident advisor who watched over us, security guards at the door, and bars on our windows. Boys were not allowed on the floor at night, and meals were provided, albeit disgustingly, in the large cafeteria downstairs. There was not, and oh how we could have used this, anyone to help clean our 10 by 10 foot room. And so the mess accumulated until at last we could no longer walk through the small space and then we would clean, or rather, pick up. It took all of the day, with numerous distractions, ending with a triumphant trip to Egg Roll King and two new stickers for the refrigerator.

We were 18, left on our own, somewhat, and behaving appropriately as two 18 year old quasi adults would do in this situation.

Our current neighbors downstairs are 18, three roommates who live in what once was a beautiful apartment owned by a family of five. Last summer they moved to Europe and the college students moved in. We don't see them often, keeping to themselves with closed windows and doors, moving around at night, escaping during the day to open the door to the pizza delivery man. This weekend they were out of town, we assumed, as the car in the garage space was gone both day and night. Saturday morning the woman upstairs smelled gas. We sniffed around, called the gas company and they found a small leak in the third floor stove. Problem resolved. Sunday afternoon when we came home from a day of costume wearing about the neighborhood we were greeted with a gas smell so strong that we immediately marched the bumblebee, the ladybug and the beagle to the front porch while we investigated. In no time my head ached and I moved to the porch as well. Jack called the gas company. We waited outside, not carving pumpkins or baking apple pies as we had planned, thankful that Sunday's weather was not the freezing rain of the last week.

Jack and the Gas Man made their way into the college hall downstairs and found the stove on, no flame, gas pouring into the apartment as it had been doing since Friday when they left town for the weekend. We were one small spark away from complete disaster. Her army of cats survived, grateful was I that none of them smoked. Doors and windows were opened, the air so thick with gas fumes it was nauseating. We left, taking the girls to dinner in hopes that an hour away would sufficiently clear our apartment in time for bed.

The roommates were home when we returned, doors and windows closed, shades drawn, back to the reclusive cave in which they live. My year of living dangerously was spent many years ago in a tiny room with a good friend and a multi functional popcorn popper; I'm not ready to relive that time, wonderful as it may have been.

Mr. Clean

My normally freakishly clean and groomed husband smelled, and so, at 1:26 in the morning, he is in the shower. Nothing like a Friday night spent in the basement with sewage to bring back the romance. But then, it's Friday night, where else would you want to be? Better this week than the previous, last Saturday we hosted 8 people for dinner, tomorrow it is just 10 small children celebrating Mary and Kate's upcoming birthday, and thankfully, not here. Tragically the kitchen has been shut down, that is until Mr. Sewage can come out and give us the all clear.

Cake ordered, gifts wrapped, cute plates in the bag (along with the cake knife), stinky husband cleaned, basement above water, we're ready to go. Happy birthday party day my little ones!

What a Day This Has Been

It began with a quest for party shoes, apparently impossible to find in the greater Chicago area. Simple black patent Mary Jane's are clearly a thing of the past, the MJ's of today have bows and ribbons and sparkles. Or heels, that is just what my not always coordinated four year old dancing queen needs, heels. Like so many things, shoes seem to be less and less little girls shoes and more and more small mom shoes. In Kate's size we have found mini pumps, ballet flats with lace up ribbons and peeky toe faux wedgies, please, she is four, she is still a little girl. Stride Rite makes Mary Jane's, bless them, but this time of year they are only available in white or bone. She is not a nursing student, she is a pre kindergartner who is looking for father daughter dance appropriate footwear. Found, but in an outlet store in the far Western suburbs; fine, we'll make it a day, a little car trip for the three of us.

But first we have to stop and see a new apartment, and that will only take a few minutes. And we need to walk Eleanor Roosevelt, that's nothing, and then we'll leave, and after the apartment tour we'll stop for tea and a muffin, and then we'll go. Ready set, crash...Kate fell while walking the dog, full out splat on the sidewalk, both knees covered in blood, and just two buildings down the street. I hand Mary the dog, scoop up a sobbing Kate, survey the damage, the dog takes off, and the neighborhood dog walker grabs her, brings her back and upstairs we go to clean the knees, change the pants and still make it to the apartment showing in 15 minutes. Done, knees are scuffed but alive, one large band-aid, clean pants and "MOM, Rosie pooped in our room!". Right, Mrs. Roosevelt did not finish her morning walk and has clearly decided to voice her disgust with the children. Clean the offending and disgusting mess, sanitize the room, lock the dog in the bathroom, grab the children and head out the back door with no chance of being on time. Circle the block, no parking, no surprise, circle again, spot the realtor in his car in front of the building, "Hello, hi, yes, I'm so sorry, we had a series of mishaps but we're here, just so sorry, and, what?". The realtor could not get his keys to work, someone was to have called me, no one did, he's very sorry, perhaps we could reschedule?

We stop for the promised muffin, and tea, at the neighborhood tea shop. The girls find a table while I juggle two milks, two plates and a cup of hot tea, fully expecting to drop the entire order with a crash onto the floor of the urbanely quiet spot; I am one of the few people here, ever, with kids. Tempting fate I turn to add milk to my tea, sit back down, catch my back pocket on the chair and rip off the entire back of my pants. Quickly I sit. The girls eat their muffins, oblivious to their mother's posterior exposure. Thankfully I am wearing a cardigan that can be tied around my waist, although under the cardigan is a sleeveless shirt and it's not yet 50 degrees in Chicago. As if I walk through the city every 45 degree day with bare arms, I casually pass the woman in a down parka and hat, scoot the children out the door and back into the car. Home again, wardrobe maladies corrected, back into the car and we're off.

Two traffic accidents (not ours) and an hour and half later we arrive. They have the shoes, simple black patent Mary Jane's with just enough click in the heel to make the requisite four year old dancing sound. Of course Kate is sidelined with injury to both knees and is walking like a bent up old chicken with bowel issues but should she chose to rebound and hit the dance floor, her feet will be ready, tip tap tip.

Entertaining the Wild Side

Despite the late March snowfall a few weeks ago, Jack and I decided to do a little spring cleaning. After four days of being home bound with a sick child, I was happy to pull out the short sleeves, pack up turtlenecks, and unearth what was rooting at the bottom of the old rocking chair in our bedroom. This renewal also involves the annual moving of the cookbooks. We have two shelves in the kitchen, one accessible to me on my very pointy tippy toes, the other completely out of reach without a step stool.
In the cold winter months books on soups, breads and baking occupy the lower shelf. Once I have any notion of spring coming, that perhaps farmer's market time might be in the foreseeable future, those all day long on the stove books move up and Italy moves within reach. Mexico also, one of my favorite books being from Daiquiri Dicks, a wonderful restaurant on the beach in Puerto Vallarta, right where I can reach it. There's a wonderful Mediterranean book,basil and corn and tomatoes, now within relatively easy reach. And this is just what I keep in the kitchen, the collection has spread into the family room, occupying almost an entire shelf in the huge bookcase, where I promised to put just a few overstocks.

My dear husband, once every few months or so, wanders in, sighs loudly and points out to me that I really don't use any of these cookbooks, the ones I must have near to me, the ones I insist on buying whenever we travel, the ones I move about seasonally. And while that is true, I rarely just open a book and make what I find inside, I love reading my books, making notes and scribbles on things that look interesting, subtracting, adding, and creating my own masterpieces from what I have absorbed. This leads to a few one hit wonders, I made potatoes a few years ago with a chipotle sauce, huge hit with the husband, and I have no idea how I did it. Of course the opposite is true, we suffer through, with some frequency, things I thought really sounded wonderful in my mind, horrific in execution.

The kitchen is the true exception to my very tidy, tucked in, button down'd life. Understanding that my daily life involves rules and order, neat hair, cardigans and music that calms me, the kitchen is the wild party, mismatched clothing, loud music and the essence of patchouli oil from every corner. Of course my essence of choice is garlic, and the clothing is often a towel draped cardigan covered shoulder, but the theme remains, wild abandon, a rule free insanity zone, and I love every bit of it, especially when the party guests are four year old sous chefs, realizing their full wild side potential. Bon Appetit!

Sick Day

Around 11:00 they wandered out, the whole lot of them, husband, children and the dog. I crawled out of bed to the sofa, and they were back, but only to drop off the dog. Eleanor and I curled up, under the old red plaid blanket, and didn't move for at least an hour. Tea, a cracker, and then two hours of Sex in the City followed by a short nap, a shower and a return to civilization, at least for a bit. Prying me off the sofa was difficult, I haven't spent two motionless hours on any piece of furniture, save the bed, in over four years. More tea, a fire in the fireplace and the remainder of my day was spent writing on my laptop, curled up in the big comfy chair in front of the fire. The wild ones returned around four, they had been on the bus three times, to lunch, the flower store, the cleaners, the market and places unknown, although the gelato stop was quickly revealed by the chocolate smudged all over Mary's shirt, she's terrible with secrets.

Finally a sick day, unfortunately called in on a relatively warm and sunny Saturday, but appreciated none the less. And while I missed the madness, it was nice to be home alone, if only I could have not been sick. Next time.

Small and Furry and Dead

Valentine's Day is a special day, full of love and happiness, over priced floral bouquets, recession ending sales for Hallmark, and sticky heart shaped chocolate boxes, but for me today marks the third anniversary of the day I touched a dead mouse.

Three years ago we had a wee bit of a mouse problem, little guys sneaking in behind the refrigerator and running wild about the place while we slept. I did very little sleeping, knowing these uninvited guests were scurrying about our apartment.

Hurrying about, trying to get two 18 month old girls ready for dinner, shoes on, dresses on, we sat on the couch to rest a minute before we headed out to meet their dad for Valentine's Day. Kate was looking for a stuffed animal, had to have it before we left, very upset at the thought of not having the bunny, or bear, or dog before dinner. As I often did, I ran my hand, sight unseen, under the sofa in the family room, yes, there it was, something small and soft and furry, and so I swept it out in my hand. I looked down, thankfully, before scooping it up and handing it to the child.

This is no bunny, it's not a bear or even a small stuffed dog, this my dears is a dead mouse. Yanking my hand back, I grabbed both girls at once and ran to the front of the apartment, as far as I could get from the corpse. And then I remembered Eleanor Roosevelt, the beagle, the hunter, the sniffer, and, screaming, ran to find her. Mrs. Roosevelt, the laziest dog you could ever hope for, was thankfully celebrating Valentine's Day sleeping on her bed, having yet to notice the carcass laying just feet from her. Without looking at it again, I grabbed the dog and ran to the front. Both girls now crying, their mother screaming and crying, the dog confused and wanting to sleep, I found the phone to call Jack. I got his assistant. She put me right through, "I TOUCHED A DEAD MOUSE". He had me on speaker phone, the entire bank now knows that one, we have mice in our house, and two, I touched a dead one.

Locked the dog in the bathroom, stuffed two children under my arms like footballs, grabbed my bag and ran out the front door, leaving the dead one on the beautiful Persian carpet in our family room.

Renovations on our kitchen began sooner than originally planned. We have not seen a mouse since.

This Old Lady

My friend Megan wrote a beautiful piece about old houses recently, an opinion I am absolutely terrible at expressing. I usually end up insulting someone, not my intention, rather than voicing my love and respect for the old bones of a beautiful home. Soul, old homes have soul, and character, and history, they command respect for what they are and what they have endured. I love that my family gives life to our little apartment, a wonderful old gal with plenty of spirit, and amazingly beautiful details not yet destroyed by progress.

Our neighborhood is slowly being robbed of much of its character, brand new three flats replacing the old gray stones that stood for years before them. I shudder to think that one day that will be the face of this great old neighborhood, so long known for the old stone buildings built after the Chicago fire.


But then, I am a lover of stories, and storytelling. And old homes have stories that new homes do not, not yet. As is the case with the things in our old home, most come with requisite baggage having been handed down from my family, or acquired on our travels, or received as true gifts from friends and family, all with their own story to tell. Stop by, I'll be happy to bore you to tears with their saga, that old wooden bottle from a Romanian hotel is dying for it's chance to speak.

All I Want for Christmas

"Oh Jack, you romantic, you shouldn't have!". There were just not enough gifts under the tree this year, Christmas coming so quickly of course, so just as a special treat for the two of us we decided on the emergency "before your apartment catches fire" new electrical system, just what every girl dreams of!

It was warm in Chicago this weekend, upper 40's Friday night, and warmer still on Sunday. With warmth comes melting, inches upon inches of melting snow, coupled with rain all day Saturday, we were under water, and so was our basement. Handy Jack, who sometimes has trouble hanging pictures on walls, was out in the downpour at 1 am Saturday morning stretching a tarp across the neighbor's back deck in an effort to divert some of the roof snow from pouring into the semi swamp like basement. But it was too late Ethel, our turn of the century electrical system had had too much and poof! it was gone.

The crew arrived at 5:30 am today, turned off what limited power we had and set about installing an entirely new system. Jack went to his well illuminated office; the girls and I, after fumbling around in the dark, opted for a day at Tooty's apartment,with Eleanor Roosevelt, the Senator and the President elect. Bless Tooty. They were bored. We went out to lunch, or we tried. I thought perhaps a day out would be fun, maybe Water Tower? We don't often go to Water Tower, I hate malls, but it was cold and I thought they might enjoy the madness. Everyone in the Chicago area thought the same thing, it was packed, unable to move packed, 30 minute wait for an elevator packed. We left, so much nicer outside, not to mention much better food. A 45 minute wait for anything terrible inside but outside, cold air, and plenty of open tables to be found.

We are without power again tomorrow as they put the final touches on our big gift. Difficult to wrap of course but a lovely gift just the same. And the piece of mind that comes from knowing that you are no longer just a spark away from blowing up, the best gift of all. Pass the eggnog.

Matzo Ball

When I am sick there is nothing that sounds better to me than a bowl of matzo ball soup from The Bagel. We've moved out of the delivery boundaries so I either drag the children down with me (they love it, smiley face cookies at the front) or I beg the husband to pick up a pint on his way home. Clearly a nod to my Anglo/Irish Catholic upbringing, matzo ball soup is just the thing to chase the chill away. This is not the chicken soup Mimi made when I was a young sick person, this is the remedy I chose when I was an older and single sick person who could make a big bowl appear with one phone call. Now of course I am a much older and not at all single sick person who would love, just for a few hours to be single again.

But not in the woo woo I have no responsibilities dance on the table way but in the calling in sick, staying in pajamas and spending the day on the sofa with Law and Order reruns and matzo ball soup way. I'd light the fire, drag my comforter out from my bed and curl up with Eleanor Roosevelt for a marathon day of sneezing, sleeping and recuperating. I can think of no place I'd rather be when feeling lousy than in my own home.

Eventually all that rest would wear me out. In no time I'd be aching for a quick Dance Around the Room Like the Nutcracker, I'd start talking like Mary Poppins without being begged, or I would really need to color, but for a few hours, I could do it, I know I could.

On Eggshells

The whole dozen, all twelve eggs, double yolks. Four years ago, while pregnant, I would have breakfast at the deli in my building, trying so hard to choke down an egg when I could. One day when I stopped in for my daily effort the egg guy went nuts, "Dos huevos, senora, gemelos, dos bebes!". While making my eggs he cracked open a double yolk. This was early, we had no idea there were two beings in there and looked what happened, GEMELAS.

Nervous?