The Smile List

"Start every day with a smile and get it over with."
~W.C. Fields

So here are few things that make me smile, for no reason other than they do.

• The song Mr. Blue Sky by ELO

• The deep, resounding "moooooo" of the mad cow that roams the hillside in back of my home.

• Cowbell. Gotta have more cowbell.

• The scent of chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven.

• The memory of my sister and I attempting to sing "I'm Henry the 8th I am" by Herman Hermits on karaoke night on our Alaskan cruise. "Attempt" being the operative word, since we were bent-at-the-waist-knees-crossed laughing too hard.

• Sighting a deer.

• Flight of the Conchords, "She's So Hot-Boom".

• Finding one of Lucy's stuffed toys on my bed. Dog, you are so busted.

• "We are no longer the Knights who say Ni...we are the Knights who say Ekke Ekke Ptang Zoo Boing..."

• The "ping" of an incoming text.

• The happy prancy-dance that Elvis does whenever I ask, "Want a cookie?" or "Let's go bye-bye."

• "No hablo espanol. HEY, hablando espanol!" from Bedazzled, one of the funniest movies ever.

And my guaranteed-to-produce-a-smile-favorite:

• A home video of a wedding entrance march that made the rounds last year. It was criticized by some as corny, but to critics I say "pppffffttttttt." Every time I watch this, it makes me happy for the couple whom I believe have a joyous future ahead of them. Mazel tov!

The Dismantling of a Life

Today was the day my sister and I have been dreading the most: cleaning out Mom's bedroom. Except for large furniture, the entire rest of our childhood home is almost completely empty, except for her bedroom. It still looks exactly the way she left it eight months ago. When I close my eyes I can see her packing her hospital bag, kissing the dogs on the nose, and telling them to behave because "I promise I'll be back in one week."

It was a promise she couldn't keep.

When I called my sister this morning to confirm our scheduled 11:30 am meeting time at Mom's house, I could hear the dread in her voice, the fatigue, the sadness. And I knew she just couldn't handle this particular chore, the final dismantling of our mother's life. As I've said before, we all have our sore spots and hers is the house. God only knows, my baby sister has been there for me when I've needed her and I'm only too happy to return the favor.

"Stay home," I told her. "I'll handle it." She gratefully accepted.

But it wasn't easy.

Mom's bedroom is huge: two large closets, two large dressers, a bathroom, sitting room and a trunk. My best friend, Pam,assisted me and I couldn't have handled it without her. As we went through each section, she helped keep me focused when she saw me tearing up, getting weary, slowing down. It felt so intrusive, going through Mom's drawers and boxes, manhandling her possessions, taking her clothes off the hangers, removing her shoes from the racks, smelling her perfume; remembering that this was the dress she wore during formal night on our cruise to Alaska; the "mother of the bride" dress she wore to my sister's wedding; the silly Tasmanian Devil sweatshirt she always donned at the dog park.

As we stuffed each item of clothing into one of three plastic bags ("Keep," "Donate," Trash") I felt like I was losing a bit of my mother all over again. What made it more difficult was that Mom had saved many of Dad's possessions, as well as her mother's, so I had to go through these items too. Passports, photo albums, letters, keepsakes, news-clippings and certificates. Each conjuring up a plethora of long-forgotten memories of people I loved, of people now gone.

After four hours I was worn, depleted, dusty and shell-shocked. Surrounded by boxes, Hefty bags and trash. Surrounded by a discombobulated mess that represented all that was left of my beloved mother.

The deeper we love, the harder we grieve. And today served as a reminder of just how much I've loved.

The Root of Perfection

In her eyes I was perfect. Beautiful, smart, witty, funny and engaging. My hair always looked nice and my body was just the right size. Not too fat, not too skinny. Perfect.

In her eyes I was a resounding success. Any employer would be lucky to have me, any friend fortunate to claim me, any man blessed to love me. Whenever I shared my excitement about a new article I had sold for publication, she wouldn't bat an eye. Of course my work would be published! Why wouldn't it be? And of course I'd be paid for it! All brilliant writers were paid for their work.

In her eyes there was no one she'd rather spend time with. We could be grabbing an early dinner at Applebee's, catching a matinee like Up (the last movie we saw together), or simply hanging out in her kitchen with a glass of wine; it was never about the event or location: it was about me. Being with me, laughing at my jokes, relishing my stories, valuing my opinion. Taking sheer delight in the presence of my company, whether we were standing on the deck of a cruise ship in Italy or sitting on the lawn chairs in her patio. All of it - the meals, the scenery, the entertainment - may have been the cake, but I was the icing.

In her eyes I was perfect. The perfect friend, sister, employee, pet guardian, human being. Daughter.

And in my eyes any perfection that exists in me is thanks to her. After all, the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. On this day when we honor our mothers, my heart grieves for the woman who cherished me unconditionally; who loved me in that very special way that only a mother can love.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

The Poker Face and the Psychic

So it was my best friend's birthday and I wanted to treat her to something unique and entertaining. Pam always turns my birthdays into fabulous, memorable and decadent affairs and I wanted to do the same for her.
And since she's always been curious about psychics, I thought a reading might be just the ticket. A little Googling, a little research and voila! I found a psychic that had been featured on TV and boasted over 30 rave reviews on Yelp. Cool!

But maybe this gal was TOO good, seeing how she was booked through June. When she referred me to someone that she sees when she wants a reading for herself, I figured, hey, a psychic's psychic! Maybe this would be even better.

So I booked an appointment for Pam. And what the heck, I reserved a reading for myself , too. Afterwards, I thought we could share a laugh while comparing notes over lunch.

Oh, and indeedy we shared. But we weren't laughing. It was more like we were lifting our gaping jaws off the floor and wondering how the hell this woman knew what she did. After all, we had each worn our best poker face during our private sessions; saying nothing, revealing nothing, acknowledging nothing.
How did this psychic know what she knew?
She told me lots of things, like the recent date I'd had replete with mixed signals. She said I was perplexed about his behavior, but reassured me that "it's not you, it's him. Not you, HIM." She described an exact date I'd recently had, but I said nothing.
She told me that my spiritual guide was a deer and that I relate to them. Now friends know me as a dog lover, but I've never shared the kinship I feel with deer. Every morning I look for them throughout the hills when I drive to work , considering it a good sign if I spot one. I've got 911 on my speed dial in case I see a deer strolling on the shoulder, afraid it might get hit by a car. I've got photos of deer on my bulletin board at work and find peace looking at their gentle faces. My poker face remained intact.

"You are spiritual," she observed, "but no longer religious." Until recently, I had attended church faithfully for over ten years; that is, until I realized that my pastor was more interested in trolling the Internet for jokes to use in his sermon than tending to people in need. I haven't stepped foot in a church since. Gulp. Still, I remained silent.
Then she read my Tarot cards and gasped, clasping her hands to her chest. "Oh, you've been struck in the heart!" she exclaimed in her clipped British accent. "You are grieving, mourning over the death of a loved one."
I said nothing.
"You've lost a lot of weight because I see a stripped soul."
Nothing. Poker face, poker face.
"She's with you all the time, watching and protecting you."
How did she know my loss was a she?
"She never leaves your side. And she wants you to know that she's glad it happened this way. She's glad she went suddenly because she didn't want to whither away for six months."

Mom died quickly from a pulmonary embolism, but had been scheduled for six months of a grueling experimental chemotherapy. The tears started welling.

And the minor detail that clinched it: "She was concerned about her hair and had made an appointment."
Mom had scheduled a date with her hair stylist to go shopping for wigs. The appointment card is still posted on her refrigerator door. With that, my poker face collapsed and the tears flowed.

Real deal or talented scam artist? We'll never know for sure. All I can say is that this was supposed to be a present for Pam. But at the end of the day I walked away feeling like I'd received the gift.

And You Know This Because...

Okay, show of hands please: how many of you know what a "fluffer" is?

Really, that many, eh? Guess it's just me.

Because I think "fluffer" sounds like a pretty word, a noun used to describe a person whose work results in something fluffy and lacy and delicate. Like a pastry chef who bakes mouth-watering macaroons or a seamstress who crochets exquisite soft shawls.

When I described my co-worker as being a good "fluffer," it was because she can work magic with a bag and decorative tissue and crepe paper. She fluffs them into lovely, wispy mountain peaks, cascades and bows. If she fluffs well, wouldn't that make her a good fluffer?

How was I supposed to know that a fluffer is actually the crew member on a pornographic movie set whose sole responsibility is to keep the male star, er...."happy" prior to filming sex scenes? It's not like fluffers are used on shows I frequent, like Ghost Whisperer or What Not To Wear.

My co-worker isn't holding my faux pas against me since we both agree, she does fluff exceptionally well. Although just between you and me, I still say she's one heck of a fluffer.

What the $#@$*k!!?

Okay pottymouths, listen up -- California's first official "Cuss-Free Week" kicks off today, March 2-7. And while most people may find a non-swearing vocabulary paralyzing, immobilizing and incapacitating, I for one anticipate sailing through the week unscathed. C'mon, how hard can it be to go a few days without using expletives? Should be a fu....er, I mean, flippin' piece of cake.
Barring a few exceptions, of course. And so, this week I vow to not utter one single swear word. That is, unless I:

• Drop my Bluetooth in the toilet. Again.
• Stub my toe.
• Discover that my teenage niece has posted a photo of me on Facebook in which I bear a striking resemblance to Howard Stern.
• Sneeze and wet my pants. Not that this has ever happened before, mind you. I'm just mentioning this in case, uh, you know, beyond my wildest imagination it did happen.
• Get stuck behind some idiot in the "15 items or less" line who apparently can't read because he is buying enough groceries to feed Squaw Valley.
• Receive any type of correspondence from my physician that includes the word "colonoscopy."
• Gulp a generous swig of my latte only to discover that the soy milk I used expired three weeks ago.
• Am rammed in the knees by an over-zealous mall mom who is using her child's stroller as a battering ram so she can race over to Macy's for their daily "one day only" sale.
• Find my greyhound, Lucy, once again using my $125 handmade medium density side-sleeper hypoallergenic luxury down pillow as her own pillow...for her butt.
• Get yet another "invitation" from those stalkers at AARP. Hey, I'm in denial, folks. Work with me.
• Step in....oh, never mind. That's a Hall of Famer and goes without saying.

Yup, piece of cake, all right. Somebody hand me a staple gun for the lips and I'm good to go.

And in the End

Different versions of this essay, about how I'd like my memorial service, have appeared in various publications, but I'm repeating it here--only to ensure that that nobody calls me a "wretched soul" (from the hymn "Amazing Grace." I never did like that line). Not that I'm planning on going anywhere soon, so you can ditch the panicked call to 911. Just consider this a proactive measure on my part and listen up pals:

THIS is how I'd like be remembered.

For starters, I want my greyhounds, Elvis and Lucy, at my service. They may be confused and a bit scared, wondering why their human has left them and they're suddenly living with someone else. But they must be at my service. If any one thing were to capture my essence, it would be found in the love I have for these dogs. Elvis and Lucy are as much a part of my family as blood relatives and close friends. They sit. And stay. In the row reserved for family.

I want people to laugh. Really. I hope my friends will muster the courage to stand up and tell funny stories about me because I will have died without tears and regrets. So I never married. Never had kids. Never had the corner office, wrote a best-seller or squeezed into a pair of size two jeans. Know what?

Don't care. Doesn't matter. I was happy. Content. Grateful to wake up each day healthy, in a warm bed, with a roof over my head, a job to sustain me and people who loved me.

Amidst carnations (take note: my favorite flower), I'd like my sister, Jennifer, to talk about that joke she played on me, the one where she convinced me that her house was haunted. Pam, my best friend, should 'fess up about us attending a Donny Osmond concert--uh, in our forties. Richard can share memories from our time at Dublin High ("it's all your fault!"), and Deb can laugh about that time in New Orleans when we feared we were being sold as middle-aged sex slaves.

Shared lives and experiences. In good times and bad, through grimaces and grins, we held each others' hands for strength and support. And laughed. Always, we laughed.

Music must be an integral part of my service. Friends may know me as an Elvis Costello fan(who do you think my dog is named for...that Presley dude?), but there are many songs I hold dear, mainly due to fond childhood memories.

Moon River by Andy Williams. Just about any sixties tune by Johnny Mathis or Herb Alpert. The instrumental Love is Blue by Paul Mauriat. Clair de Lune, because my father would play it on the piano and as a child I thought he had composed it. I remember hearing it on the radio one day and running to him in hysterics, screeching that someone had stolen his song.

I love the poignancy of God Only Knows by The Beach Boys. The optimistic Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head by B.J. Thomas, and the corny Everything is Beautiful by Ray Stevens. Since lyrics should be somewhat relevant, given the circumstances, this probably rules out Always Look at the Bright Side of Life by Monty Python. My friends can make that call.

Oh, but there is one song that must be played. Someone once quoted these lyrics to me, in an email response to an article I wrote about adopting Elvis. It's from the Beatles Abbey Road, incidentally my all-time favorite album. The song is titled, appropriately enough, "The End. " Just 28 words long, the last eight say it all. The same eight words I quoted just last week in my Valentine's Day post:

And in the end...
the love you take,
is equal to the love,
You make.

And with that final song, my service will be over. Held on a day I hope to dodge for many years to come.