One Good Fool

Today is my birthday. I've always felt secretly pleased to have been born on a day for fools. It's like being handed a "get out of being serious for free" card. Expectations are immediately lowered. Levels of amusement markedly raised. I can be a goofball and well, we knew this would happen. The thing is, it almost didn't happen. My mother is charged with telling me my birth story every year (it is tradition), but I wonder if I shouldn't just tell it like I've heard it all these years and see if I'm right on or if I'm not as great a listener as some of my past bumper stickers have claimed. I will likely romanticize it more than she did. I will put in a few fade outs for effect. I will create a sense of urgency that the nurses may not have felt. And my mother's hair will be perfectly sprayed into a beehive I recall from one of her earliest photos with me. Or was it Aunt Susan? At any rate, here it goes...I was born on April 1, 1968 in Fort Knox, Kentucky at Ireland Army Hospital. My Dad was in Vietnam. My Mom was there (heh heh). I believe either on that very day or days before she was driving my Dad's old stick shift car somewhere and got stuck on a hill and the car kept rolling back. It could have been months before. I just know that my Mom can't drive a stick and I can and she always says the only reason is because she was pregnant with me and was stuck on that hill. If only I'd been born sooner! I could've clutched her out of there. Anyway, I digress. The sheets at Ireland Army Hospital were very green, the doctors and nurses were all decked out in green, my Mom's gown was green and the whole place was one big shamrock green building. Hence, my subsequent degree from Michigan State. Mere blocks away was a huge vault of gold (Fort Knox) and a horse racing track. I was destined to be rich and love horses. One out of two is not bad. When my Mom went into labor I was two weeks early. I was not expected to arrive until April 12, which coincidentally, was my Grandpa's birthday. It would have been equally special to share this date with him and quite likely would have excused me from a few minor indiscretions (beer, whiskey, cards, pretty women), but being funny would not have been nearly as, well, funny. I'm told showing up early was not my idea. It was brought on by a series of seemingly repeatable circumstances but in hindsight, not enviable. My mother is a chocolate covered cherry fanatic. They were then, and I believe still are, her favorite. She ate two boxes on March 31. Listen, she was preggers, her husband was on the other side of the world, my sister was running around in diapers, maybe the cable went out, probably it was cold outside, give her a break. Minutes later she wasn't feeling so hot, so my Oma (her mom and in many ways, my beloved second mom) rushed her to the hospital where no less than 12 blood sugar specialists soaped up and put on their surgical masks to consult her about the baby. "Mrs. Fracker, there's a good chance your baby will be born mentally challenged." Fade out. And we're back...it's April 1, about 9:30 p.m. The room is packed with doctors and nurses. Many looks of concern and anxious whispers. My Mom is so matter of fact, I can only imagine her saying, "I will have the baby now" in a thick German accent with her perfectly swooped beehive and then everyone prepping for delivery. Turns out it was a good idea to just get it over with. I popped into the world at 10:00 p.m. weighing in at a cool 6 lbs. 7 oz. or something like that (I still fudge my weight a little, a girl's gotta have some secrets) and a whopping 22" long. Tall for my age then. Not so much now. It's hard to tell at the time if I was mentally challenged. I couldn't hold a pen and Sudoku hadn't come onto the American scene yet. But there's no question I was an April Fool's baby, which my Grandma (Dad's mom) delighted in calling me from that day forward. My Dad found out in code that I'd made it into the world. The overseas call was a bit garbled, but one line came through loud and clear: "Mr. Fracker, your wife Sue Ann had the baby." Since my Mom's name is Helga, this could have been cause for confusion or jail time, but he knew what it meant. They both agreed if I was a girl, I'd be named Sue Ann, for some famous actress at the time whose name looked beautiful on the big screen in the only scripty font available at the time. 10 months later, Pops and I met for the first time in a local restaurant over steaks and fries. Me in my high chair, him in the booth. By way of introductions, I crumpled up my napkin and threw it at him. To this day, that's still how I greet people. I relish being a fool. And I thank my parents for giving me such an auspicious start. Happy Birthday to me...Mom, let me know if I got it right.

My Cah Is Pahked in Heaven

I miss my car. Whenever I say that, nice people around here go, "Oh? What happened to your cah?" Which makes me even sadder cuz it was born a car and then evolved so much in its short life that it died a cah. It traveled all the way from Michigan to start up fresh on the east coast and one fateful night in June '08, it was smashed in by a renegade pick-up truck with nothing to lose. It was a 2007 Chevy Impala 4-door, white with black leather interior and those cool feaux wood accents on the doors and dash that old people like. I'm old people! It had a power sunroof and a kick ass stereo and at some point XM radio. And 27 minutes of OnStar left. You could fit a toddler in the glove compartment (presumably...) and the back seat had seatbelts for three people. It still smelled a little new. The trunk was big enough for a flat screen TV or four sets of golf clubs or 9 garbage bags full of 80's clothes you could finally part with. It rode smooth. It went fast. It stored important things in the console. Extra change. Scattered pictures. Emergency glass breaking hammer thingy. GPS lady. Leftover french fry. For several years prior I had been an SUV-er. The Impala was my first real car after a series of Rangers, Jeeps, Explorers and Trailblazers. I felt re-introduced to driving like a normal person - low to the ground, close to the road. Maneuverable. Swift. I showed it off when I got it. There were mixed reviews (it's just a Chevy for God's sake!) but I didn't care - I only heard raves. The tiny and faint shoe prints of my nieces on the backs of the front seats were still there after its demise. They loved their test ride in it around the curvy country roads of Traverse City...

What happened: Meg and I were coming home from a show in Clinton. I pulled up to the Weston tolls. There were cars in front of me and I realized I was in the cash lane with a fast pass. The fast pass lane was wide open, so I flipped on my blinker and began moving to the right. I had just pulled into the open lane when BOOM. We were hit from behind and pushed for a ways toward the open toll. Thank God no one was in front of us. Long story short, the entire back end of my dear sweet Impala was crunched, the rear window blown out and the license plate apparently left spinning and retrieved from about 300 feet away. Meg had a bit of whiplash; I was unscathed, outwardly. The other guy, as he is still known today, banged his head on his steering wheel and cracked it open. He looked awful. But it was totally his fault. I expected him to be cuffed on the scene. Instead, the cops noted he refused an ambulance and the tow truck guy helped pull his front bumper out so he could drive off. Meanwhile, Meggie and me waited while all this went down, finally got the car loaded for tow, sat up front with the tow truck driver, were towed to a body shop approximately 45 minutes from our apartment and spent $80 in cab fare getting home. Later, when the Impala was deemed totaled and I visited it in the body shop graveyard to collect my things, I had a hard time saying goodbye. It was surrounded by so many fallen comrades, so much loss. From the front, it looked like nothing happened. But walk around to the back and....sigh. It was over. I think about that car a lot and wonder what it would be like to still have it. Truth is, we really don't have room for it now. I don't miss the payment. And my carbon footprint now matches my girlish figure. So part of me wonders if it knew. The car knew it was a luxury. A bit excessive. Impractical. And for me, it made the ultimate sacrifice, hurled itself in front of a moving Masshole and took itself out of the equation. I think it knew two cars is too much around here. We still have the Corolla. We get around fine. But on really sunny days when we want to hit the open road and visit some little town on the water, I'm not gonna lie, I do miss my cah...

Hi Janie

I heard it's your birthday. Mine's coming up. (Billy's, too). April 1st. People always make fun - oh, you were born on April Fool's? No foolin'? Like I haven't heard that a million times. No foolin'. Ha. The next time somebody tells me they were born on Christmas Day, I'm gonna be like, "You were born on Christmas Day? Well, Jesus Christ." Happy Birthday, Janie! xoxo

Take the Stairs

I need more motivation to stay in shape. Going to the gym is great and all, but it can get dull. I think when the sun finally shines and it gets above freezing, it’s more interesting to venture outside to work out. If you’re like me, you can work in your workout when you’re doing other things. Running errands, shopping, buying cheese. I’m a firm believer in taking the stairs. Park on the top floor; pretend the elevator’s broken. Whenever possible, avoid the escalator – go up the middle and take the stationary set. Or here’s a concept: keep moving on the escalator. Just because the stairs are in motion doesn’t mean they’re not stairs anymore. You could still step up. By the way, if you are going to stop and stand on the escalator, please get to the far right so the rest of us can get by. And if you are a couple in love, follow this rule by stacking yourselves one in front of the other instead of standing hand in hand side by side on one whole stair. I don’t want to get smooched when I bust up the middle. There are lots of ways to burn calories outside the gym, you just have to put yourself in situations that make you move. Park far away. Imagine your world without drive thrus. Buy heavier stuff. The other day it was very windy and I asked Meg if we were burning more calories walking in the wind. She said yes. See? Don’t sit inside and wait for things to calm down out there – take advantage of it. Especially if you are a runner. I wish I was a runner. Like an outdoorsy runner that puts on the special pants and has glow in the dark shoes and good form. I can’t run just for the sake of running. I need a reason. Like maybe I’m on fire. And even then I don’t have to run far cuz I also have to stop drop and roll. When I go to the gym I get on the steppers and the climbers and the elliptical because I like the robo cop feel. I like the motion of running but not the impact. I am a horrible runner. I wheeze. I bitch. My knees protest. And the whole time I’m thinking why, why, why. Every step is punctuated with why, why, why. Where am I going? When will it end? Probably there should be more air. I know why people say running will prolong your life. It actually takes an eternity to run one minute. When I go outside to exercise, I’ll jump up on a cement wall and walk it like a tight rope. I’ll do step ups on a park bench. I’ll chin up a tree branch. I might even climb a tall fence. But if I gotta run… I need something chasing me. Like a big brown Grizzly. Or a giant flying spider. Or someone with a spoonful of peas. Otherwise, why? With running, incentives don’t work. Even if it’s pizza on a stick instead of a carrot, I’m not falling for it. I am more likely to run from something than toward it. That’s why I think those treadmills at the gym would be a lot more effective for people like me if they were longer and you could fit a monster on it just behind you. There should be a toggle switch on the panel – Monster/No Monster. “You need a monster today, Ms. Fracker?” “Mike, I need a monster every day.” Flip the switch and run like hell. Sigh. I think I'd rather just take the stairs.

Stranger Than Fiction

You're not supposed to talk to strangers. Or accept candy from them. But I think the older you get, you can't help it. We don't live in bubbles. There are people all around, many of them just dying for someone to talk to. Let's face it, all your "friends" are pretty much on Facebook - contact with real people has seriously diminished since school. You gotta reach out now and then when you're next to someone and just say hi. Make eye contact. Give a little smile. I've done it. It's crazy! Most people don't know how to react. I smile at a stranger and I think they think I'm weird. I really do. Most raise an eyebrow. Some look over their shoulders. No, dude, I mean you. I was smiling at you. A few will actually change direction, or check their purse. What the hell am I smiling about? If I wave it's even worse. Too friendly. Back off. I don't blame them. I used to react that way too when someone stared a little too long in my direction. I used to feel like maybe I had something in my teeth or I forgot to put on pants again. I would busy myself with my cell phone or re-organize the stuff in my pockets. Anything to avoid a conversation with a stranger. I was really bad about it for a long time. I think my mom's incredible compassion for everyman made me hesitate. She is a sponge face, and I have her face. Standing in the grocery line, all she had to do is look at the woman next to her and minutes later that woman would be pouring her guts out. At McDonald's, we could never just order. The distraught teenager behind the register would catch one glimpse of my mother's kind face and we would get an earful about how the lunch rush was going. I just wanted my nuggets. My mom can talk to anyone. I guess when I say talk, I really mean listen because people just reveal themselves and she hardly says a word. No subject is too delicate, no matter too private. When you're young, that's a frightening prospect and not a can of worms you want to open with an innocent smile. I'm older now than she was when I witnessed the sponge, so I figure it's time to just give in. My powers have yet to be realized, but I am my mother's daughter. I just cut my cable bill in half, so I'm starved for entertainment anyway. What better way to amuse oneself than to get strangers to open up a little? I tried it at the RMV. That's east coast for DMV. I was re-newing my driver's license, changing it from MI to MA. The lady behind the desk seemed disgruntled. I thought it was just her, but I'm told that's a pre-requisite for the job. I pictured her smiling in the interview and the supervisor giving her a little tip. Turn that smile upside down, lady. You want this job or not?

So when B38 was called, I handed her my forms. She pulled them toward her and kept her eyes on her computer.

"It's $90."
I smiled. "What a deal!"
No reaction. Eyes still on computer. "Look in the viewer for the eye test."
I chuckled. "Oh, and me without my glasses...can't believe I made it here!"
No reaction. Eyes still on computer. "Read the smallest line you can see."
I sobered a little. Peered into the viewer. I read the letters.
Her: "Okay. Do you see a flash, right side or left?"
Me: "Ever wonder who writes these eye test lines? I want that gig. How hard can it be?"
No reaction. "Right or left?"
"Right. Left. Right."
"Pass."
She typed something in the computer.
"Wow," I said. "That is some cast you got on your finger. What happened there?"
She actually looked at me. Oooh, I think I got her.
"What, this?" she nearly flipped me off.
I laughed. "No, your other hand."
She smiled. She is so fired!!!
"Ha ha. You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
"Try me."
"You know those tension rods you use to put up curtains? The metal ones that have a spring in them?"
"Sure, I've seen them."
"Well I was putting up curtains and the damn thing slipped and snapped back, sliced my finger wide open. Almost fell off!"
"Holy crap! That musta hurt. Was there a lot of blood? I would have passed out."
"I almost did! It was awful. I hadda call my daughter and she took me to the ER. Nine stitches. It hurts like hell."
"That's one hell of a bandage. Must suck trying to type with it."
"Nah, it's okay. I usually just hunt and peck anyway."
"Was your daughter scared? Did she freak out when you called her?"
She gathered my forms. "I gotta take your picture, hon. Sit in the chair real quick. Yeah, she was like, Mom, what did you do? She wrapped my hand all up real tight and got me in the car. Smile! Great. You can change it if you want, but I think it looks good."
She showed me the photo. I am not vain, but I want to be excused for accepting this particular version of me as I was more interested in my conversation with a stranger. Looking at my license now I believe I resemble someone who ate all the cookies.

"It's fine. Kinda funny, huh, when your daughter has to take care of you - you're probably used to the other way around."
"Oh, yes, if you knew my daughter. We had a good laugh about it. She reminded me about Mr. Prince." She tapped something in the computer, looked at my forms. Then back at me. "Mr. Prince was her stuffed turtle when she was a kid. It got ripped in half somehow, maybe the dogs, I don't know. But anyway, she cried so hard. I sewed Mr. Prince up good as new. So she says, 'Mom, this is just like Mr. Prince. You'll be good as new!"
"That's so great. She's right, I'm sure - Lynda, is it?"
"Yep, that's me," she grinned and pointed to herself with the bandaged finger.
I wrote the check for $90 and handed it to her. "Thanks for your help - I'm glad to check this off my list today. And it was fun meeting you!"
"Of course, no problem. You should get your license in the mail in the next week or so."
"Did you ever get those curtains up?"
She smiled wryly, "Went with the mini blinds, actually."
We both cracked up.

I left the RMV smiling. People think I'm weird. But I don't care. Every once in a while, one doesn't.

Jack to Reality

Vegas has a way of illuminating an otherwise forgettable moment. I guess that's why what happens there always stays there. Try to tell someone else about it when you're not there anymore and it just doesn't have the same luster. I just got back from Vegas this morning and I feel like my head is still there. Must have something to do with falling asleep on a jet plane and waking up at my desk... I still have the Goldfish Bonus song ringing in my ears and I keep seeing 17, 20, 32, 5 and 00 / 0 float across my screen. We were there for 4 days. I was a bit sauced for 3.5 of them. I think this is because you can pull up a chair to any given game of chance and within moments a woman in some form of mesh hosiery and a too teenie bra asks you if you want a cocktail. Looking at her like it's 8:00 a.m. because it's, well, 8:00 a.m. is a natural reaction, but what becomes even more natural is your acceptance that she is dressed properly for Friday morning at the Rio and you would in fact, love a cocktail. After all, you've been here since yesterday. Minutes after she delivers your breakfast Jack and Diet, it comes as no surprise she is now the lead dancer spotlighted in a one-woman show atop a row of slot machines 6 feet away. Of course she is. She's not doing anything until you need another drink anyway. It's not like that at home. It's not like that at work. It's not like that anywhere else, really. Order a drink at Chili's and you'll be lucky if the big guy behind the bar remembers your straw. He's not going to start tripping the light fantastic for you. It's such a letdown. Your expectations for entertainment and stimulation soar in Vegas. Everything's a show. Everything's as lit up as you are. It's hard to shake that VIP feeling when you come home. Things dull quickly; there's no action here. No one's trying to accost you with racy booklets of chicks boasting aeriolas too big for their stars. No one's drinking out of a 3 foot genie bottle. No one's removing their oxygen mask to hit a cigarette while simultaneously pressing Max Bet. It's too quiet. There's just the usual hum of the office lights. Every time the phone rings I think I caught a scatter for 30 credits, but it's just Verizon. Transitioning is always the hardest part. Vegas is fading fast and reality is at the door ready with a smile and a handshake. Welcome back. I've got your bills. You need to make an eye appointment. No, I did not bring drinks. What's this $2 for?

While I was in Vegas I thought about my cocktail of choice and topic #25: why Jack is better than Dad. I'm referring to Jack Daniels and Old Granddad. The thing is, I enjoy both. There was a time when I much preferred Old Granddad. I liked the sound of it. I liked the raised eyebrow ordering it would illicit. I liked it's grainy, alcohol-y taste. It's powerful stuff, the Dad. I made fast friends with the very few others who shared my passion for it. Whenever Granddad was not available, I would fall back on Jack or Jim. For a while I thought Jack and Jim were interchangeable, practically twins. But Jack surfaced, the cream rose. Jack is simply smoother and rarely makes me regret him in the morning. It's not like I go around pounding shots of whiskey and/or bourbon to determine their distinctions. I'm not an expert; I don't pontificate. I merely befriend and then see who lasts. Jack has endured, no question. Granted, I can only have so many nips and it's best we part ways for the night (and perhaps a few days after). Maybe I hook up with a Mich Ultra or two in between, but it always comes back to Jack. Bartenders and friends have told me to avoid the Diet part, stick to Coke or even Coke Zero, but I can't help it. Coke is too sweet and Zero is not often an option. I'm sure my liver, spleen and whatever else can turn green is hoping I'll give it up soon, but I am a whiskey girl at heart, I guess. As long as I keep hitting the gym, wearing the patch and avoiding heights, a few swigs of my favorite blend can't do any real damage, right? I vow to re-evaluate in 10 years. Maybe by then I'll favor pina colatas. I do like getting caught in the rain...

Are You Insane?!

Topic #24...Insanity breeds confidence. Sometimes I like to put a few big words together and see what happens. What was I thinking? I don't remember why I wrote this, but it must have been inspired by the number of crazy people I've seen attempt things that a saner body would not. I wish I were crazier. I might do more stuff. Like take the bus. Or eat at Arby's. Or bitch about standing in line at the post office. I think crazy people are missing a few filters, the kind that give you pause and make you look before you leap. I wish I could remove my filters for awhile and get a taste of the action. I want to be one of those people you see walking down the street yelling at cars to slow down. I want to be wearing next to nothing when I do it. I want to go someplace fancy and order a lobster, a crab and two sets of pliers, then put on safety goggles and a garbage bag and ask for extra butter. I want to drop everything and go to Hollywood and hand my screenplay to the first famous person I see. I want to write a screenplay. I want to have the balls to ride a roller coaster on top of a building while the building is rotating opposite the earth. I want to go to Mexico. I want to ride a bus in Mexico. One of those overcrowded ones where everyone's yelling in Spanish and I have to throw my luggage on top of the bus before I board. I want to stand in the aisle cuz I can't get a seat and halfway through the trip I want someone to hand me a chicken. I want no less than three toddlers gripping my legs like those little koala bear clamps that used to hold my pencil. I want to be in situations where I don't know the answer and I don't know what's next and God help me, I'm not worried about where the nearest bathroom is. I want to be without a net. Bungee jump off the bed and see if I spring back at the end of the day. I'm just not crazy enough. I'm too sensible. Sensibility is nice, but by the time I weigh all the options, the boat has left the dock and crazy people are yelling bon voyage. When you look at your life, see yourself, review your notes, I think most people are pretty satisfied with how they turned out. I like me all right, but I'm a bit of coaster right now. Not the kind you put drinks on, though I have held my fair share of cocktails while waiting for crazy people to come back. And not the amusement park kind, though I've been told by a psychic I am on a bit of a roller coaster. More like the sled kind. One of those plastic circle sleds that you sit cross-legged on with those plastic strip handles for grips. I'm on that sled coasting small slopes and handling it well. I need a bigger hill. One so steep I have no choice but to slip off the edge and hold on for dear life. One that rips the plastic grips from my hands so I gotta throw my arms up in the air. One that's more ice than snow so the sled spins me around and around while plummeting toward the forest at the bottom. One that gets me safely through the trees despite coming horrifically close to an Ethan Frome ending. I've been on top of those monster hills. I've surveyed those courses. I've imagined the worst. And I've picked up my sled, dusted the snow off my ass and gone in for hot chocolate. I'm not that crazy. But I hope I'm headed there some day.