The Heat Wave

It was so hot. So damn hot. She couldn't believe that her air conditioner was STILL broken. Freakin' cheap landlord. What a pit this place was. She couldn't wait until she'd saved up enough to move somewhere decent, a place like she used to have before her boyfriend skipped town with her best friend and most of her worldly possessions, not to mention all of the money in their joint account.

But she hadn't managed that yet, so for now she was stuck here in this dump. A third-floor walk-up without a working air conditioner in the middle of a July heat wave that was breaking every record on the book. 104 degrees in Manhattan, a real day to remember. She peeled herself off the couch and headed for the kitchen for another glass of iced tea. Maybe this time she'd try pouring the damn drink right over her head, maybe that would cool her off for a few minutes.

She took a long swig from the glass and headed back to the couch. She was right in the middle of a really good book, one of those mysteries that just suck you in and don't let you go until you've turned over the last page. Good thing too, because it was too hot to do much else. She was finally getting to the climax of the book, about to find out who in fact had killed the host of a popular cooking show right in the middle of a live taping. The clues were pointing towards a member of the audience with a grudge against the well-known chef, but her money was on the writer who'd been slighted one too many times.

She was so engrossed in her book that she almost didn't hear the doorbell ring. She put the book down again and peeled herself off the couch with an aggravated sigh.

The doorbell rang again.

Okay, okay, I'm coming, keep your shirt on. You better not be a door to door salesman. I mean it, that would really piss me off right now.

She unlocked the front door, thinking as she did that she probably should have checked the peephole first.

She opened the door and gasped as if she'd seen a ghost. You! But, but, but, but you're dead! You died! I saw you die! What the hell?

Before she could utter another word a shot rang out. Her last thought as she died was that she'd never know who killed the tv chef...

The key to my blog

For this week's Rockin' Chair Writers prompt Brian says “If your blog is your home show us around.”

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The first step in showing you around is of course opening the door. The key you see above is actually the key to my roof (I live in a penthouse in an urban suburb of Tel Aviv), not my front door, but it worked better for Project Black than the front door did, so let's just go with it, shall we.

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The kitchen island, pictured in my blog header, looks remarkably like the one where I fed my children breakfast a few moments ago. Oh wait, it IS the one where I fed my children breakfast a few moments ago. Fancy that.

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The rest of my blog home also looks quite like my actual home - reasonably well done up but not designer-perfect, a bit chaotic, more than a bit eclectic, prancing fancifully from one interest to another without a clear pattern or flow, a bit messy but comfy and well lived-in, little bits of interest here and there, and full of love and good times.

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There are essays, and other essays, and photos, and lists, and a few recipes, occasional puff pieces, and all of the other bits of flotsam and jetsam that find their way through my brain to my keyboard, some more successfully than others. Grab a cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchen or from the pitcher of iced coffee in the fridge if you prefer that on this hot summer's day, help yourself to some of Jay's homemade bread, fresh out of the oven, and take some time to look around. You never know what you might find, but there's always an open spot on the couch (or the rocking chair or stool or heck even the floor when it gets crowded) and a welcome to join in the conversation. Kick off your shoes and join in.

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Thirty-Nine

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That's how many birthdays I have had.

Some were more memorable than others - the pool party at age 4, the year the dog ate the rollerskate birthday cake my mother spent hours making (and that was only the start of what went wrong that year), the surprise party at age thirty that found me gaping slack-jawed at a restaurant table full of friends in utter confusion (I always was a bit slow on the uptake). A lot of birthdays. Thirty-nine. Far fewer than some but more than many, with many more hopefully to come.

Thirty-nine.

I'm supposed to feel panicked at the impending demise of even the last few fleeting illusions of youth (most of which have already fled for parts unknown along with my girlish figure).

I don't feel panicked. Actually, I feel pretty good. Thirty-eight had its ups and downs, just as every other year has - some of the lows stomach-plungingly low but ultimately balanced out by highs which made my heart soar in joy.

I feel more balanced as I embark on this journey that will be thirty-nine. More aware that a number is just that - a number. It isn't a state of mind or a burden if I don't let it become one. I find that I am becoming more comfortable in my own skin with the passing years. Less enthralled with the outer packaging perhaps, but more able to recognize that for the wrapping paper that it is while the real me continues to grow and thrive. Confident in my likes and dislikes, in my abilities and strengths, and knowledgeable and accepting of my faults, for without them I would not be me. Proud of the woman I have become.

The kind of woman who is confident enough in her choices to stand up and say "yes, I went to see Air Supply in concert last Saturday night and I LOVED it." (And apparently so did thousands of other people too - the venue was PACKED with smiling people singing along to all their old favorites, the way you would slip on a favorite old sweater on a cold winter's night. I felt so vindicated.) The kind of woman who can admit that she used to own Air Supply's Lost in Love album, long before she discovered the Grateful Dead (and followed them up and down the East Coast) but long after discovering the Doors and Meat Loaf and Peter Paul and Mary. Yes, that's me. I paved my own path even back then. Hey, it could have been worse. It could have been the Bee Gees.

It's all good. And it will be even better tonight when I'm surrounded by gifts and cake the love of my family as we welcome thirty-nine together.

Bring it on thirty-nine. I'm ready.
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