I ran into an acquaintance at school the other day. Barely slowing down our respective paces in the hallway, she quickly noted, “the book’s coming out soon — excited!?”

“Yes!” I’m sure she expected to hear. “I’m super excited,” as we each made our way towards the parking lot. Of course I would be excited about my upcoming book release. What else would I possibly be feeling? It was the equivalent of asking “how are you” and anticipating a “fine” in response. Practically obligatory.

Unfortunately for this acquaintance, I’m a bit of an over-sharer. And also, a bit of a mess.

“Excited? Um, I wouldn’t say that’s the word, exactly” I began, dropping my bag onto the ground.

“Actually,” I sighed, I’m totally freaking out.”

“I mean, what if the book doesn’t sell? I put so much of myself into it, what if people don’t relate? What if nobody wants to help spread the word? What if the critics tear it apart? What if my publisher is disappointed with the sales? What if I make a fool of myself when I’m promoting it? What if I get stage fright at a reading?”

I took a breath.

“I know, I know, it’s great to just have written a book and I should just appreciate that and enjoy the ride. Who cares if it doesn’t do well? I’ll survive, right? I know. But I can’t enjoy it. I don’t know why I can’t, but I can’t.”

I sighed and leaned against the wall for support.

“I am excited, I guess, but there are just so many other emotions, too. I’m just not used to this kind of pressure, you know? I’m not normally accountable like this and I don’t think it’s good for me. It’s scary. I mean—”

“Ah! Hold on a sec,” the acquaintance interrupted me as she fumbled for her completely silent phone.

“I think I heard this ring and it must be important. Oh, it is. Very important. Good luck!”

She bolted off without looking back, whispering to an imaginary friend about an imaginary emergency that took her away from a very real crazy person. I haven’t seen her since and I’m pretty sure she switched pre-schools just to avoid another potential run-in with me. Can’t say I blame her at all.

The moral of the story is: Don’t ask how I’m feeling about the book unless you really want to know the answer. And, you don’t. Trust me.

My mom, who is as anti-medication as one can possibly get, has begun practically ramming Xanax down my throat.

My agent gets frequent frantic 3AM e-mails from me as I lie awake at night, my mind racing with things which would never dawn on me at normal hours.

My husband is about ready to move into the unfinished, mouse-infested, pipe-exposed basement for the next three months just to not have to interact with me.

My friends have suddenly gone missing.

So, I’m turning to you, my dear readers. For my sanity, for my fingernails, for my marriage — hell, FOR THE CHILDREN — won’t you buy a book? (here) If you already have, or if you really want to make my day, will you consider sharing it with your friends?

I’m not too cool to admit that I am stalking the pre-sale numbers somewhat obsessively. Alright, completely obsessively. Basically, each book purchase is like a tiny sanity pill for me to pop. That makes the ten dollar purchase practically a medical deduction for you, and ensures a less crazy Jill for the three months to come.

I think it’s best for all of us. I’m much better at scary than crazy.

Jeff has always been the spender in our marriage. Not because I hate ever spending money, but because he loves it so much that if I did as well, we would be completely broke. So, I pinch pennies and clip coupons and dole out warnings about the status of our checking account just to make up for his spending habits. It’s not fun, but someone has to do it.

.

Yes, I am a martyr. And, also a bit of nag. But, I have no choice!

.

Anyway, last week Jeff was an asshole. Admittedly, I have been a tad tough to take lately, between the hunger pains thanks to my annual January diet and the anxiety attacks over my book, but still. He was indisputably an asshole. In fact, he was such an asshole, that I was forced to take some action.

.

Did I want to emotionally eat a brownie? Nah.

.

Dull my anger with a glass or two of wine? Eh.

.

Run around the neighborhood? Snort.

.

My heart was beating out of rage and my butt, firmly planted on the couch. How could I quietly take out my anger on him, right then and there?

.

And, then it hit me: I could shop.

.

I’ve been looking for a new bag for several months, comparing prices and fabrics and sizes. Leather? Fabric? Slouchy? Stiff? There was so much to consider that I hadn’t been able to make a decision, but at the moment, none of it mattered. All I wanted to do was violently hit “purchase” and eagerly await the UPS truck. It was totally out of character and a complete rush. For the first time in my entire life, I actually felt pleasure rather than guilt over making a purchase. It felt great. Dangerously great.

.

Take that, asshole, I thought. Let’s see how you like being on the other side of things for a change.

.

The bag arrived yesterday. I was admiring it and plotting for a possible revenge shoe purchase the next time he got on my nerves when Jeff walked in from work.

.

Is that the new bag? he asked.

.

Yes, I gloated, and I love it. So there!

.

It looks nice on you, he responded. Good choice.

.

You’re not supposed to like it, I hissed, as my previously exciting and highly anticipated bag transformed into nothing more than an overpriced, frivolous purchase.

.

The leather suddenly looked dull and it didn’t fit in the crook of my arm quite as comfortably as it had before. It was just… a bag. One that didn’t seem worth it in the least. I let it fall back into the box, defeated. Today it will travel back to the warehouse where it came from and that will be the end of that.

.

Asshole.

As a kid, I went to a YMCA day camp on the north shore of Boston that was located on an island. Every morning, the campers took a boat from the dock to camp and every afternoon, we returned by boat to our awaiting parents. It was one of those things that was far better in theory than actuality, as the camp was pretty poorly run and kind of a dump. Well it was every day, except for the visiting days when the parents got to see it and remind us 57,932 times just how lucky we were to go to camp there. Which we were… in theory.

The highlight of that camp were the days that were too rainy to take a boat out so they were spent at the Y, watching movies, listening to tapes and making macramé bracelets. That was the kind of summer camp I could get on board with. No swimming, no races, no dodge ball, no poison ivy… sign me up!

One of those days, in between braiding hair and licking orange cheese puff cheese off of our fingers, we listened to the Free to Be You and Me soundtrack to pass the time. There, on the floor of the community room listening to Marlo Thomas belt out Parents Are People, my life forever changed. “Parents are people,” she sang. “People with children. When parents were little they used to be small, like some of you. And then they grew.” Hold the (corded) phone, I remember thinking. My parents are people? My parents, the folks whom I sincerely thought were put on this earth for no reason other than to produce my brother and I, were… people? People?!

It was an epiphany of earth shattering proportions.

Until that moment, I thought of my parents solely as my mother and father and it simply never dawned on me that they had a life or existence outside of my brother and me. I mean, I suppose I was aware that they grew up in different places and met in school and eventually got married and had us, but I never spent any time reflecting on what that meant. To me, they were just my parents who knew everything and made only the wisest choices. For me.

I don’t ever recall seeing my mom flustered or overwhelmed. I can count on one hand the number of times I heard my father really yell and the single time I heard my mom utter the word “fuck” is forever burned in my brain. They could shoot a single look, which would snap my brother and I into instant obedience—one that I would pay a million dollars to possess now, as a parent. Back then, my mom and dad had all of the answers to every question I asked, and guiding us just seemed effortless.

As an adult, I know that my parents didn’t have all the answers or do everything the right way, but they did fake it really well. Or, at least well enough to fool me as a child. I never once questioned that they knew what they were doing or had any doubts themselves. Maybe that’s the key to parenthood: Pretend you know what the hell you’re doing until your kids know better than to believe it.

Unlike me, my children will never have the luxury of thinking that I’m anything other than a completely flawed human being. I raise my voice more often than I’d like to admit and my kids don’t flinch when they hear a curse word pass my lips because it’s simply not all that rare of an occurrence. They’ve seen me cry out of frustration and witnessed me slam the door in an effort to scare them into listening to me. They’ve seen me stressed out and sad and confused and angry. They’ve heard me answer with an “I don’t know” when I truly just don’t. For better or worse, they know me exactly for who I am: Just a  person, who is lucky enough to be their mother, and who loves them more than anything.

Some days, I think that’s all they really need to know.

A few nights ago, Jeff and I were laying in bed, side by side, on our respective computers. He glanced over at my Facebook page and asked about an old friend, which led to the topic of another old friend and an even more random old friend. “Are you in touch with xxx” he asked? I wasn’t, but I looked her up and, God love Facebook, there she was.

Our jaws simultaneously dropped — she looked nothing like what we’d remembered from 8 years ago when we last knew her. Her hair was glistening and sun-kissed. Her smile was bright and shiny. She was thin and groomed and practically glowing.

“What did she do to herself?” I gasped.

It didn’t look like plastic surgery, and she really wasn’t the type anyway. But, she looked a decade younger, at least. Gone were the sweats that were once her uniform and her hair was actually washed and out of the permanent pony-tail I knew it in. Her previously pasty skin was bronzed and vibrant. Her house looked neat and orderly in the photos, not the disaster zone I remember having coffee in. She was almost unrecognizable.

Suddenly, a light-bulb went off in Jeff’s head. “I know what it is”, he said, like he’d discovered the cure for cancer. “She doesn’t have young kids anymore. Think about it– what do you look like most days now that we’re the ones with the little kids? Look at our house.”

My life flashed before my eyes. The slippers I wear in public and the never-ending yoga pants. The lack of makeup and perfume and scheduled brow waxes. The house littered with crap and bathrooms that reek of little boy piss. I’m her, eight years ago, when I thought she was such a mess.

Is that what people see me like these days? As frumpy and unorganized and just… a mom?

Maybe so.

But, at least there is some good news: In eight years, I’m going to look fantastic.

You know that dialogue in When Harry Met Sally about whether or not men and women can ever really be friends? Here it is, in case (unlike me) you don’t have the entire movie memorized…

.

Harry: You realize of course that we could never be friends.

Sally: Why not?

Harry: What I’m saying is — and this is not a come-on in any way, shape or form — is that men and women can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way.

Sally: That’s not true. I have a number of men friends and there is no sex involved.

Harry: No you don’t.

Sally: Yes I do.

Harry: No you don’t.

Sally: Yes I do.

Harry: You only think you do.

Sally: You say I’m having sex with these men without my knowledge?

Harry: No, what I’m saying is they all want to have sex with you.

Sally: They do not.

Harry: Do too.

Sally: They do not.

Harry: Do too.

Sally: How do you know?

Harry: Because no man can be friends with a woman that he finds attractive. He always wants to have sex with her.

Sally: So you’re saying that a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive?

Harry: No, you pretty much want to nail ‘em too.

Sally: What if they don’t want to have sex with you?

Harry: Doesn’t matter because the sex thing is already out there so the friendship is ultimately doomed and that is the end of the story.

Sally: Well, I guess we’re not going to be friends then.

Harry: Guess not.

Sally: That’s too bad. You were the only person that I knew in New York.

.

God, I love that movie. But, back to my point…

I don’t believe this argument to be true. I think male/female relationships can exist without the least bit of sexual complication entering the picture. I really, truly do. Or, at least, based on the number of close female friends my husband has, I sure as hell hope so.

I do, however, wonder about another type of friendship: The mother and the non-mother.

It’s easy being friends with fellow moms. There are no hurt feelings when a phone call abruptly ends and you forget to re-dial for three days. There is no dry-heaving when you describe, in great detail, what your child just puked up and changing a diaper mid-conversation isn’t notable in the least. You aren’t offended by the chaos on the other end of the line, because it echos the chaos in your own household. It’s welcome, because for a change, it isn’t yours.

Non mommy friends, on the other hand, aren’t always so accepting. I find myself calling single girlfriends while in the car after school drop-off or hiding out in the bathroom, so we’re not interrupted with pleas for snacks or ass-wiping. I’ve been hung up on because I sounded “distracted” on the phone and wasn’t appearing to focus my full attention on the call. But, isn’t “distracted” a defining characteristic for a mother? Do we ever actually have the luxury of focusing 100% on a phone call?

Even if a non-mom doesn’t vocalize it, is she forever resentful not to be number one anymore? It’s not so easy to jet off for a visit anymore or meet for dinner and drinks when a sitter cancels at the last minute. As much as you love your friends, once you have kids, they take second fiddle. They just have to.

Of course a mother and a non-mother can be friends. Some of my dearest friends don’t have kids and I love them just as much as I did before. But, I wonder, if like Harry says about sex, the kid thing eventually gets in the way and messes things all up?

I’m not sure…

What about you?

Last year, Jeff had pneumonia. He was feverish and sore and tired and all around completely miserable. As the doctor gave him instructions for the next few weeks, he pathetically moaned, why me?

I have to sleep alone?

I have to stay home?

I have to be quiet?

What did I do to deserve this, he cried.

Yesterday, I too, was diagnosed with pneumonia after a couple days of feeling crappy culminated in shortness of breath that scared me enough to get my ass to Urgent Care. After my x-rays and blood work, the doctor sternly gave me my orders:

Stay in bed as much as you possibly can. 

Don’t allow your husband or children in the bed with you.

Don’t share food or drinks with anybody.

Take lots of long steam showers.

Talk as little as possible.

Take lots of naps.

Beware that the Tylenol with Codeine will make you “loopy.”

Just do as little as you possibly can for as long as  possible.

Do you have any questions, he asked as he was finishing up my chart.

Yes, I responded, with glee.

Why me? What did I do to deserve this?!

I don’t dance.

I don’t like it, I’m not good at it, and I’d pretty much rather be doing anything other than getting down on the dance floor.

Seriously.

Taxes, a deep cleaning at the dentist, a 45 minute long call with Comcast over the fact that I have not had reliable internet service all year. These are all things preferable to dancing for me. It’s simply not my thing, just like drunkenly belting out all the words to Broadway show tunes might not be your thing, and there shouldn’t be anything wrong with that fact. (Although, really, you haven’t lived until you’ve performed Phantom of the Opera with six drinks in you and poor pitch. But, I digress.)

The problem is that the entire world seems to think that dancing is my thing, and I’m just not aware of it yet.

All of my life I have battled the people who yank me on the dance floor and tell me to lighten up. To less loose and feel the music. People who bring me drink after drink after drink so I can really have fun under the hot lights and pounding music. People who drag me over— against my will— forcing me to “have fun.” People who bump me and grind me and make me think of moves meant to knock them over, sending them landing flat on their asses, just so I can plant mine back in the chair, where it happily belongs.

What is it about dancing that makes everyone think that anyone not participating is missing out?

See, believe it or not, I know myself pretty well by now.

I actually want to be sitting in that chair, sipping my drink and chatting with the other non-dancers. I want to be matte when everyone else is shiny and dryer sheet clean when everyone else is sweating buckets. I want to have conversations in a quiet corner and not have to scream my head off and I want to maintain my sense of hearing and feeling in my feet.

What I don’t want to do? Is dance.

Period.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina. Just because I’m not dancing, doesn’t mean that I’m not having fun or that I’m sad or pathetic or need desperately to be cheered up. In fact, I’m perfectly capable of  having a good time. A great time. That great time just isn’t found on the dance floor.

No matter how hard the world may try.

Remember back in the days when you and your spouse were merely dating and sharing a dessert  was the most romantic way to end a meal? You’d settle on a single dessert along with two spoons, to savor, together. Feet would  intertwine under the table and lips would sensuously lick chocolate off of silver. You’d gingerly take a bite, careful not to take too much, in between deep conversation. The last bite would always remain on the plate, because it seemed rude to take the last one and you were each too considerate to dream of such a thing. It was delicious and satisfying and you just couldn’t get enough of it. The dessert and the company.

And, then you got married. And, though romance isn’t entirely dead in marriage, it most definitely isn’t found on a plate of molten chocolate cake.

Or, at least in my marriage it’s not.

When Jeff and I split a dessert these days, it’s more of a race to the finish line than an enjoyable indulgence. We may as well have our hands tied behind our backs and be head butting each other in order to be titled the winner. Most times, I can barely even taste the food I’m inhaling, I’m just shoveling in it my face fast enough to ensure that he doesn’t eat it all before I do. Our dueling utensils fight for the biggest bite; we’re merely one step away from spitting on the plate to claim it as our own.

If it were up to me, I would simply ask for two plates and cut the dessert in half from the beginning, you know, like we would do if we split a main course of fish or chicken. That would make sense, right? It would be equitable and civilized and so much more enjoyable. But, dessert is supposed to be shared for some bizarre reason, clearly the brainchild of a still smitten single person.

We become barbarians, forgetting that a few minutes ago when we placed the order, we were too full to each get our own and only wanted a bite. And, we vow not to share again next time, because neither saving five bucks nor a few hundred calories is worth seeing this side of each other.

Until the next time we go out for dinner, and we do it all over again.

Ten years ago, this week. It feels like yesterday and a million years ago, all at once.

I remember thinking, on my drive to work that Tuesday, just how very beautiful the particular day was. It was the type of morning you just want to clone for the entire month. The sky was bright blue and the air was crisp and it was just right for my new denim jacket. Sunny, but brisk at once. Perfection.

I was working in the advertising department of the now out of business Hecht’s department store and Jeff was working at the US Capitol building. We were newlyweds, living in downtown DC along with Penelope, who turned one that morning. The day began with doggy cupcakes at the park and we had big plans for a special dinner for her that night. (No, I’m not kidding.) Life, at the time, was totally selfish and easy and revolved around the three of us.

Once the first tower was hit, word spread around my office and we all poured into the break room, watching the horrible accident. I saw the second tower hit in real time, and it became clear that this was, indeed, no accident. The office became silent, as we just watched in horror. I remember the sight of people falling from the buildings. People who went to work, just like every other day, suddenly having no choice but to fall from the sky. It was incomprehensible. It still is.

Newscasters were reporting that DC was the next target and I was unable to reach Jeff. I frantically left the office and started the drive home, in hopes that he would make his way there, too. I remember thinking that it seemed like a movie and I was just playing the role of a nervous new wife. At the same time, Jeff was told by the police to evacuate the Capitol and run for dear life. He made it through DC, a mass of racing business suits and arrived home while I battled traffic on the Key Bridge. Hours later, I finally reached our apartment, to find him waiting there. Once I hugged him, I never wanted to let go. We just held each other and cried. It felt like the world was ending.

I was glued to the TV for weeks. I sobbed for the widows and the parents and the siblings and the children. All of those innocent people, gone. I constantly played the what-ifs in my head. What if the last plane hadn’t been brought down in Pennsylvania? What if Jeff never made it out? What if it happened again?

Helicopters circled the sky above us as we tried to fall asleep every night. Restaurants with previously endless wait lists were empty. Stores opened their doors, but nobody shopped… Why would they? We all just sort of sleepwalked through our days. I vowed, upon reading about a neighbor killed in the Pentagon crash, never to have children. Why bring people into a world where something this horrific would happen? It just seemed unthinkable.

But, then again, everything seemed unthinkable at the time.

Ten years ago.

And, here we are.