The Steep Price of a Certain Education

Saving u a seat, texted Ellen from inside Theatre 2 of the Lincoln Plaza Cinema.

I checked the time on my BlackBerry while climbing frantically out of the cab I had caught on Columbus Avenue ten minutes earlier. Somehow, I was always rushing. Not that I didn't have a good reason, having just driven down from a business meeting in Westchester, stopped in Riverdale to pick up Little Babe from choir practice, made a pit stop at our Morningside Heights apartment to drop him off (and then ran upstairs after him to place an order for pizza only to dash downstairs before the car got ticketed), drove like I was on crack to find a parking spot that was good for Friday, which turned out to be right off of Columbus, where I grabbed the cab that brought me to the theatre.

It wasn't that I was actually late; the film would start in twelve minutes. In Manhattan, however, failing to get to a movie early can result in that most severe form of film-goer's agony -- sitting in the front row.

Though I had to squelch the desire to strangle the two ultra-slow patrons in the line ahead of me, I needn't have worried in the least. But I didn't know that yet, so I fled down the escalator like a fugitive, ripped through the ticket-holder's line like a marathon runner breaking through the finish line and stomped into Theatre 2 like Godzilla on a rampage, whereupon I came to a complete standstill. Smack dab in the center of the empty theatre sat my friends and their adult daughter. Aside from them, about 10 other people had shown up for the 8:15 show of An Education.

Of course, the film had been out already for over a month and evidently every other person in the city had already seen it.

This film came with the highest of recommendations from HOBB and Big Babe, who had gone to see it together when it first opened. "You will LOVE An Education," my husband enthused when they returned home. "The girl will remind you of yourself."

"Yeah," chimed in Big Babe. "Especially her obsession with Paris. And her relationship with an older man."

"Hey," I said. "I was not exactly SIXTEEN when I met dad."

"Mhhmmm. Twenty-two is really old," observed my son sarcastically. "Of course, not quite as old as thirty-three." I rolled my eyes, having heard this drill before. Since my two older children entered their twenties, they became fixated on the fact that, by the tender age of twenty-two (almost twenty-three!! I keep insisting) I had married their dad, who was thirty-three (actually a couple of weeks away from thirty-four) at the time.

This fact always constituted a unique selling point of my marriage yet as my children have approached (and surpassed) the age at which I got married, I have become outraged at the notion of the cradle-robbing that took place twenty-six years ago... involving me. Who supported this idea? Why did my parents hand me over at such a tender age? And wasn't HOBB uneasy at the prospect of marrying such a young girl? Not that I remotely thought of myself as a child or little girl at that time. By moving in with an older guy, I felt myself to be on the cutting edge of rebellious sophistication, jump-starting my adulthood, skipping over all the awkward and unnecessary stuff. And it was not wifedom that I sought but adventure; intrigue, dinner parties, travel, ideas, witty conversation, a passport to the grown-up world where I could charm one and all by being perpetually younger.

Some 26 years after hooking up with an older man -- the oldest in a series of older men, in fact -- I found myself in a darkened theatre with friends watching a young British schoolgirl pursue an affair with her older man (Peter Sarsgaard unconvincingly playing a Jew named David Goldman.) Allow me to skip over my chief objections to the film – too predictable, too obvious, too glib, too unrealistic for such a smart girl to fall in with such a rake, too That Girl in its wide-eyed depiction of how the world opens up to Jenny through her association with David (the cliched weekend in Paris scenes actually made me want to slash the movie screen) – and simply state that I watched this film mostly without pleasure. As I was really hoping to love An Education (and afterwards call son and husband to gush and reminisce about our favorite scenes), I felt tremendously let down.

Over the past day, I've tried to analyze the situation and concluded that what ruined the film ultimately for me was the certain knowledge that Jenny, not David, would end up with the broken heart. There is a sad and unspoken truth in most situations involving older men and younger women (excluding Lolita, but perhaps not really) and that is that the romance is never equal to the reality, the younger partner never properly "catches up" to the older one and that there is a steep price to be paid by those who seek premature access to the adult world.

Who's the Slut?

I was having a conversation the other day with a dear friend about marital protocol -- what we could and could not properly do within the bonds of wedlock -- and the talk turned to the case of a man we knew who was the very picture of propriety. Cultivated and somewhat reserved, he was the last person whom one would suspect of promiscuity.

"You wouldn't guess it from looking at him, but the guy is a slut," I told my astonished friend. "Not in the conventional sense. He doesn't sleep with other women. What is sluttish about him is how he cultivates relationships with young women, flirting and pursuing them, keeping them in his orbit. As he hits his middle years, he seems to have stepped up his courtship more aggressively."

My friend fell silent, looked stricken, really. This conversation had taken her to an unexpected -- and unpleasant -- place. We had been talking about the rules that spouses abide by, the degree of flexibility in these rules, the boundaries we set for ourselves and those we break. We were talking about testing limits...not trespassing them. We talked about acceptable and unacceptable forms of flirtation. Sipping Starbucks early in the morning, we traded tales of our own marital situations, testing out stories against the other in an effort to gain insight into our own actions and reactions. Our mood was lighthearted. And then our conversation turned to this matter.

Obviously, someone who is promiscuous with his attention does not deserve the same designation as a true Don Juan, still it is useful to examine the question of how much we are allowed to share of ourselves when we are in a committed relationship. Being married requires a certain degree of tzimtzum, contracting the essence of oneself, bestowing it only upon one's beloved...or an inner circle of loved ones. Flirting is a part of life but fidelity is not just a matter of NOT sleeping around. Giving too freely of your time and attention -- or pursuing emotionally intimate relationships -- is a breach of exclusivity, I believe.

Do you think I'm judging this man too harshly, I demanded of my friend? Do you see what I see when I look at this situation? I see a married man trying to have it both ways...getting the wife, yet setting up a lifestyle where he is able to essentially court young women. Don't you think that makes him a slut?

My friend looked pained. She was deep in thought. Finally she said, "Maybe no more than most men. But I guess it comes down to how his wife feels about his behavior. What does she think?"

Suddenly, I felt depressed by the whole conversation. "I was merely borrowing the word she used when she talked to me a couple of days ago," I replied. "Frankly, she's pretty disgusted because he figured out a way to be married and single at the same time. So, yeah, she thinks her husband is a slut."

Music. Prayer.

It's just past midnight. Little Babe is lying on the couch watching the Black-Eyed Peas perform on SNL, HOBB is camped out in our bedroom on his laptop and I'm writing at the dining room table, listening to Leonard Cohen's live recording of "Gypsy Wife" from the 1979 Field Commander Cohen concert tour through headphones for possibly the hundredth time this week.

Earlier tonight, the three of us went to see Pirate Radio, the most joyous, entertaining and rock-saturated film I've ever seen. For those who HATED such films as Across the Universe and Moulin Rouge as much as I did -- not just for the thin plot line but for the torturous experience of hearing great songs performed by mediocre singers -- Pirate Radio is a thrill-fest, offering a flash flood of the best rock music of the late sixties alongside a kick-ass cast and creative storyline.

Even as the credits rolled at the end of the film, the audience was loathe to leave the scene of so much musical defiance and transcendence.

This week was a music-saturated adventure, which included a Monday evening performance by Mimi Cohen of a show based on the life and music of Laura Nyro; my second singing lesson with the legendary Mary Rodgers where I worked on Leonard Cohen's "Halleluyah;" an obsessive infatuation with a recording of Elton John and Mary J. Blige singing "I Guess That's Why They Call it the Blues," from the One Night Only concert (which I love so much that I sang it at the top of my lungs several times in a row while driving around the Upper West Side on Thursday morning trying to find a parking spot); a similar fixation with "Higher and Higher," the title cut from Neshama Carlebach's newest CD (which caused me to spontaneously choreograph -- and then perform -- a dance in my kitchen late one night); a half-hour spent listening to George Harrison's "Cheer Down" over and over while pumping my way through two miles on the elliptical trainer at the JCC; a visit to the Metropolitan Room on Thursday night to hear Karen Oberlin perform caberet songs...and finally the good-spirited fun of rock 'n roll captured in Pirate Radio.

Like my focused fiction reading, I listen to songs intently, delving deep into the world of a particular artist through one or a select few songs. I sometimes feel as if I am stuck eternally in adolescent fascination with music, especially rock music, which is my medium, going as far as to ponder the lyrics of a given song and the weird coincidence of their relevance in my life at that particular moment in time.

In Mimi Cohen's impressive one-woman show-in-progress at the Cherry Pit Theatre in the West Village, she brings Laura Nyro to life in all her obstinate artistry and integrity. I openly admit that prior to this past week, I had no idea that this young, quirky, awkward woman with unruly dark hair had written so many of the iconic songs of her era, had indeed been clueless about the extent of her legacy and incalculable contribution to music from the sixties through the present day. Mimi's Laura is a fragile yet stubborn hippie girl-woman, refusing to lose weight or prettify her ethnic features, understanding her destiny as a singer-songwriter and ideological purist, speaking in synesthetic imagery about the colors of particular musical phrases, insisting that her music be played a certain way, refusing to compromise.

My crash course in the life of Laura Nyro comes at exactly the right time for me - b'sha'ah tova. She and the other artists who are my current faves are my rebbes, imparting wisdom, guidance and truth couched sometimes in riddles. As I score my life with songs that speak to my soul, I take their lessons to heart. I am empowered by Laura Nyro to insist that things of importance be done a certain way. I am inspired by Elton John, who sought out Mary J. Blige to bring soul to his sixties-inflected song. I am uplifted by Neshama Carlebach who opened up the music of her father, Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, to brand-new interpretation through the portal of a gospel choir, I am gladdened by the Beatlesque essence and sweet playfulness of George Harrison's message, I am endlessly moved by the prayerful songs of Leonard Cohen.

It is the quiet essence of prayer that I am aiming for when I sing "Halleluyah," I explained to Mary Rodgers by way of asking if I could sing the chorus an octave lower instead of reaching for the higher notes, which sounded to my ears like a preteen auditioning for High School Musical.

Ever flexible, Mary complied, and we took the song from the top. I sang about King David's secret chord and when I reached the first Halleluyah, it poured from my soul -- mournful and elegant, respectful and sad -- just as I had intended.

Meeting my eyes in the mirror above the piano, Mary nodded, almost imperceptively. I continued crooning Halleluyah, my voice a searchlight, my brokenness revealed. Halleluyah morphed and bloomed, unfolded, contracted, expanded and took flight; God's word, His song, my song, my prayer, my name, my destiny.

Sharing a Bed with Alberto Moravia

Alberto Moravia shares my pillow tonight, in the form of a paperback edition of Boredom, published by the New York Review of Books in 1999.

Having finished Contempt mid-Saturday, I took a one-day hiatus to recover from the perfect devastation I felt at the book's conclusion only to plunge into Boredom...a novel whose dense and suffocating atmosphere rises up from the very first paragraph.

On the floor next to my king-size bed is more Moravia -- The Conformist and The Woman of Rome. The groaning shelves in our dining room bear others of his work, but it is so late that I cannot recall their titles and I am too tired to leave my cozy bed to check.

Over the past few months I burned through Clarice Lispector and before her Junichiro Tanizaki and before him Richard Yates. The most heartbreaking encounter I had was with Oscar Wilde, two winters ago, begun with The Picture of Dorian Gray on a trip to Dublin, concluded on a bitter cold afternoon in New York with the reading of De Profundis. The most ill-fated affair I had was with Elfriede Jelinek, whom I had to ditch in the midst of Lust, begun in good faith after The Piano Teacher shattered me. The most epic authorfest I've ever had was with the novels of Nabokov, read in their entirety over one glorious summer, on the Shortline Bus traveling from my country bungalow to my then-job in Manhattan. The most fun? The works of Daniel Handler, aka Lemony Snicket, begun with an avid and conspiratorial reading of A Series of Unfortunate Events with Little Babe and concluded on my own, with his uneven adult works.

This is my preferred way of reading -- an intense and exclusive audience with a writer's entire body of work, best accomplished when the writer has ceased writing, that is to say, when he is dead, though I will make exceptions for exceptional living authors, reading them in real time.

The hour has crept past midnight and it is time to close this instrument of a century that Moravia did not live to see. After all, he is my date tonight and for probably many nights to come. I lay back on my pillow and wait for him to overtake me.

Reservoir Walk

About a million hours ago it was Sunday morning and HOBB and I fled the urban bungalow at an hour we normally dedicate to coffee, tea and a sleepy perusal of the New York Times.

The sunshine was abundant and the forecast was for a day of unseasonable warmth. Pulling on shorts, t-shirts, sweatshirts and sneakers, plunking his 'n her baseball caps on our heads, we left our home in record time, leaving a sleeping teen and perplexed Pomeranians, who could not recall the last time they saw their masters so alert at this hour on a Sunday morning.

The Central Park Reservoir Walk has been a cherished feature of our marriage, an approximately 75-minute opportunity for information sharing, gossip, negotiation, political debate, dream analysis, complaining, calendar coordination, strategic planning, child and household maintenance, problem solving, arguing, advice-gathering, current event discussion and philosophical musings about matters important and trivial alike.

It is around a five-mile journey from the urban bungalow to the reservoir, once around and back home. We are creatures of habit, walking pretty much the exact same way each and every time -- heading east on W116th street, turning right on Morningside Drive, heading down until W110th Street, turning left until we hit Manhattan Avenue, walking along the avenue until 108th Street, crossing the street until Central Park West and entering at the transverse -- closed for cars on Sunday -- joining up with the reservoir at the tennis courts, stopping first at the bathrooms.

For variety's sake, we might walk through Morningside Park or take the stone bridge directly onto the reservoir. What is important to state is that HOBB and I walk. And not in a particularly speedy fashion, either. There is no heavy breathing, no rhythmic running for us. While others whizz past us on blades, bikes or the power of their own feet, we amble happily, neither fast nor slow -- just right. As the season changes, so does the scenery, but a reservoir walk is a reservoir walk is a reservoir walk.

It is now a million hours later. The day was busy -- I barely got to read the New York Times, nor did I lose myself in the Sunday morning spate of television shows featuring pundits and talking heads. Aside from the briefest perusal of internet news (CNN.com; nytimes.com; Jpost.com and the Huffington Post), I have no idea what's going on in the world...aside from the tragedy at Fort Hood and the anniversary of the collapse of the Berlin Wall. The day took me to other places, both on foot and by car, actual and conceptual. Some of the destinations were shared by HOBB and Little Babe, our only child at home right now. Others were mine alone. There were adventures of the spirit and of the body. There was good food and delicious drinks. There was the opportunity for creative expression.

I think about the essence of Sunday -- a handbasket to be filled sparsely or generously with experiences, a day dramatically different from Saturday, if you are a Sabbath observer. I ponder the lifesaving quality of the weekend for all people, but especially those who are deprived of unstructured time, oppressed by the commitments of work during the week. I regret the melancholy I have experienced on so many Sunday evenings, the threat of Monday encroaching, muttering in my ear, breathing down my collar. The marked absence of that dreaded feeling -- Monday as a bully -- is a gift, recently acquired. A great tikkun is underway.

My focus is fading. It is time, finally, for dreams. I think about this particular, inimitable Sunday and recall that it began with a reservoir walk with my husband of 26 years, early in the uncomplicated morning.

Candy-Gram

Between proofreading Middle Babe's essay for her college class in Biomedical Ethics (which defends the sale of human organs) and catching up on correspondence with the press for a conference on female clergy last night, I managed to snack my way through half a candy necklace, left over from Halloween.

The necklace was classic, featuring pastel-colored powdery disks strung on a elastic string, exactly as I remembered from my own childhood. To get each candy bead off, it was necessary to bite down, breaking it in half. Though my internal health nut looked on in horror (tooth decay!!! simple carbohydrates! empty calories!!!) primal instinct kicked in.

A joyous munching of flavored sugar ensued...until the powdered confection melted and it was time to snap off a new bead.

Those who know me would surely be shocked to hear that I was eating candy close to midnight and frankly, I'm not sure how the candy necklace came to be between my teeth. Perhaps slicing the new Macoun apples on my kitchen counter seemed too taxing and wasn't the necklace -- discovered draped suggestively on a desk in Middle Babe's room -- begging to be bitten?

As I ponder this puzzle by the light of day, I think about yesterday -- a manic Monday framed by two separate phone conversations with loved ones on a similar theme: their sadness, even despondency in the face of disappointment from friends. And while my morning caller vented her feelings of rage and betrayal in the face of unrequited loyalty from a long-term friendship, my evening caller sounded emotionally depleted by his realization that a more recent friend lacked the most basic sense of personal responsibility towards him.

Dealing with heartache is draining; indeed, I've done my share of venting to the point where I was sick of hearing my own voice. As someone who loves and lives by language, I am nevertheless struck by the human need to use words to quantify, examine, contain and ultimately transcend our pain. Clinging to words, working in words, trading in words, dreaming in words, I am still continually surprised that tears alone do not suffice when they are such a spontaneous expression of our grief. Proponents of psychotherapy talk about the talking cure where words become the rungs of a ladder we construct for our emotional and spiritual redemption or the beads of a candy necklace that we string for our comfort, to be eaten in case of emergency.

We use words to rationalize our actions, to construct our arguments. The problem with sanctioning the sale of human organs rests in the notion of the slippery slope, admitted Middle Babe in her Biomedical Ethics paper. While the case can be made for the sale of kidneys from living donors, imagine the possibility that a poor family might consider selling a vital organ -- the heart, for instance -- of one of their members in a desperate and sacrificial bid to keep the entire group from starving.

Such an act of obscene indifference to human life arouses horror in all people of conscience and the ghoulishness of this scenario is obviously extreme. But in truth, human hearts are sold all the time, ripped out of their living hosts, traded for something that masquerades as salvation.

By the light of day, I note a half-eaten candy necklace next to my computer. Nothing has changed and everything has changed. The world remains full of heartache yet it is also true that creation has renewed itself through the dawning of a new day. The blank slate of the new day poses a tantalizing opportunity.

I drop the limp candy necklace in the trash.

Leonard Cohen for Shabbat with a Side of Broken-Heartedness

"You are hungry for experience," observed a friend last year, seated opposite me at a cafe just north of Columbia University.

"Sometimes you skate close to the edge of danger," he offered as a bonus, leaning in to catch my expression. "You have to be careful."

As I sat next to Big Babe this past Friday night at Leonard Cohen's spectacular one-night-concert at Madison Square Garden, crammed into my seat, shivering with fever, weeping at the beauty of the music, shattered by new sorrow, hypnotized by the aesthetics of the performance, saddened by Leonard Cohen's advanced age even as I was enchanted by his ageless elegance, bonded to my first-born in love of him, this moment and this music, I thought of my friend's observation and uttered a shehechiyanu -- the blessing Jews are commanded to say upon attaining a remarkable experience.

Because it was Shabbat, there were several other prayers I might also have uttered, in fact, I teasingly dared Big Babe to yell out "Good Shabbos," between songs. Though we did not recite the kiddush over wine that night, Shabbat was not forgotten; indeed, she was all around us. Squeezed into the inadequate seat beside me was the Shabbat Queen -- dressed as a gypsy, wandering, forsaken, almost human, also shivering, also broken-hearted. The Shabbos aspect of this concert was key. A strictly Orthodox person would likely have given up the experience of being at the concert, but it seemed to me a worthy challenge to both attend this great cultural event AND keep Shabbat.

Thus, all the measures we had undertaken en route to the concert were in service to this ideal -- the pre-Shabbat cab to the Time Warner Center before sundown; the Whole Foods salads hastily purchased within the magic eighteen minutes; the brisk jaunt down Broadway to the Garden; the stoic resolve to walk home after the concert, traversing the four miles by foot despite my hacking cough, high temperature and the hairline fracture in my right foot.

Those were the reasons and that was New York and this concert is now in my recent history, having taken place one week ago tomorrow. My firstborn sat beside me, he who made me a mother. The music drew my sadness from me, as a healer draws venom from the bee-sting. The tears flowed easily. It was, for me, the day after the discovery of a painful truth; the third generation of a particular sorrow. The discovery introduced me to true loneliness, which exists in a physical sense, weighing about the same as a human heart.

Last Shabbat, in Madison Square Garden, Leonard Cohen befriended and comforted me, he lay down beside me, he was my man, my rabbi, my brother of mercy, my yedid nefesh, friend of my soul; his music my personal kiddush, my Shalom Aleichem, my promise of redemption.

Howl of the Wild

The Bungalow Bunch participated in a rare family-wide cultural excursion last night -- an opening weekend viewing of the film version of Where the Wild Things Are, easily the most beloved book of the Bungalow Babies' respective and collective childhoods, a book I read so often I can recite it by heart, even now, at least a dozen years after I last held it in my hands.

With Big Babe living in Berlin, Middle Babe living at college in Maryland, Little Babe and me spending two-plus months every summer at the bungalow in Monroe and the general peripatetic pace of our lives - not to mention an 11-year spread between Big and Little Babe - we tend to take our culture in clusters, bunches and a variety of configurations and geographical settings.

Because I was in New Orleans last week, HOBB put himself in charge of the family's social life over the weekend, suggesting Where the Wild Things Are for Saturday night, a plan I enthusiastically endorsed. With Big Babe visiting for a month due to an NEA fellowship, Middle Babe popping in for a long weekend and Little Babe forming our only source of resistance ("I hope it's not a baby movie!" ), we wanted to create an indelible family memory, revisit a moment in our history, bond over the cinematic interpretation of a favorite book.

We had the magical experience of meeting, en masse, at the movie theatre -- Big Babe fresh from dinner at Alouette with the NEA fellows, me walking uptown after my workout and art lecture at the JCC, and HOBB, Middle and Little Babe coming, via taxi, from our apartment.

We had the further surprise and pleasure of meeting friends inside the theatre, playing quickie catch-up with them, showing off our kids.

And then we settled into our seats for the film to begin...which is where the family togetherness ended.

Two of us loved the film, two of us hated the film and one stated that he was "confused" by the filmmaker's intentions.

Two of us were enchanted, two of us were bored silly and one sought to articulate his problems with the film in a measured, nearly academic manner.

Such was my hatred for the film that I found myself chomping at the bit, then blurting out my assessment before the credits even stopped rolling.

"Omigod, I HATED this movie! I could not wait for it to end!! What did you guys think!!!!???"

To which Middle Babe snapped, "Stop being so negative!" and Little Babe high-fived me. "I know!" he groaned. "It sucked!"

HOBB looked surprised by his youngest son's reaction. "Really?" he asked, stung. "I loved it!"

"Me too," said Middle Babe, narrowing her gaze at the alliances being formed. All eyes instantly fell upon Big Babe, the family culture critic.

"So," I asked, holding my breath. "What did you think?"

Big Babe looked pained. He cradled his chin in his hand. He tilted his head slightly to the side. "I was confused by what the filmmaker was trying to do," he finally said.

"Did you hate it?" Little Babe asked avidly.

"Nooo," Big Babe said, thoughtfully. "I'm just disappointed. It didn't work for me."

"I loved it," repeated Middle Babe, tossing her hair. "I think it's not nice to diss the movie when dad planned this and bought us all tickets."

"We're not criticizing dad," I protested. "We're just debating the film's merits."

"But you were crying!" she stated, accusingly."I saw you! You cried when Max had to leave."

Middle Babe was right. When Max leaves the island, causing Carol the Wild Thing to let out a wrenching howl, I sobbed at the sound and the sight of the awkward creature expressing his grief. That howl pierced me and held me captive to its honest sorrow.

That howl reverberated all day long; it still echoes within the chambers of my heart. It has the texture of unadorned loss. It is a primal wound. It might be a small or negligible or even forgettable moment in the film but for me, it is what remains.

Now it is late, so late that my eyes are closing as I finish this post. In her room, Middle Babe is Skyping a friend and I have heard every word of her animated conversation. Next to me, Big Babe is grumpily writing a classical music review -- an assignment for his fellowship.

Little Babe is asleep now for nearly two hours and I suppose that HOBB is reading or went to sleep without saying goodnight.

Now Middle Babe is singing. Big Babe is still typing. With my fatigue comes a grace of sorts, or at least a reprieve. My sadness feels less central to my definition of self. This new thought forms the boat that delivers me to the shores of a new workweek with this dislocating day finally coming to a close.

I hold tight the magic of my family gathering on a Saturday night in October to watch a new, much-heralded movie -- two young adults, one teen, one parent newly turned 60, the other caught in the amber of forever waiting for her real life to begin -- lured by the romance of revisiting cherished memories from points in time both distant and forever at hand, by the irresistable offer of putting on a wolf suit, making mischief of one kind or another and joining Max as he sets sail for the place where the wild things are, knowing that the only way to survive a wild rumpus is to have a home where someone loves you best of all.

A Birth, A Death, a Glimpse of the Soul

Seventeen years ago this weekend, I got a call from my friend Judy at 10:30 at night. "I'm in labor," she told me. "Can you come now?"

It was the festival of Shemini Atzeret, a time that I would normally not even answer the phone. However, as we had arranged that I would not only attend but photograph the birth of Judy's child, I readied myself to leave for the night, tossing off a guilty goodbye to HOBB, who looked skeptical about the entire enterprise.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked, alluding not just to my departure but to the forbidden act of driving during the holiday.

I did not answer, wondering the same.

It was the early 1990's and Judy and I were revolutionaries in Westchester County, New York -- critics of the often-invasive style of obstetric care, avid consumers of midwifery, which most people believed to have been outlawed about a century earlier. My own daughter, Middle Babe, had been born in 1987 in a crowded municipal hospital in the Bronx because Westchester hadn't yet granted delivery privileges to midwives.

I gave birth to Middle Babe in a hallway, assisted by four women and HOBB, lying sideways on a purloined gurney with one foot pushing on my midwife's shoulder, moaning melodically through my contractions, bellowing like a female moose as I pushed my child out of her private ocean and into the brightly-lit world. The drumbeat of my ancestors echoed in my ears; I walked the path of my great-grandmothers, I transcended the here and now, reached above and beyond myself, became a she-wolf, a lioness, a galloping mare, sinewy and wild.

After the terrifying premature birth of Big Babe four years earlier, when I was only 23, my midwife-assisted second childbirth was spectacular, primal and deeply spiritual -- the ascent up Sinai, the face to face encounter with the Almighty. When I walked out of the chaotic hospital hours later against medical advice, tiny girl wrapped in my arms, I felt like I could run a marathon.

And now, with Middle Babe just three years old, the right for midwives to "catch" babies in Westchester County had been won. Judy queued up to be one of the first to take advantage of this miracle, booking her birth at a swanky, state-of-the-art birthing center in Yonkers which came equipped with Laura Ashley decor and a country cottage motif.

My friend had given a great deal of thought to her midwife-assisted birth and had an elaborate birthing plan. It included long walks down the peaceful birthing center corridor, sips of red raspberry leaf tea, dedicated breathing, visualization, journal writing, dips in the Jacuzzi, talking, resting, listening to music and a harmonious childbirth with her husband at her side.

A writer, she intended to sell her story and asked me along to capture the event on film.

Flattered and greatly moved, I said yes.

And now the drama was about to unfold.

When I arrived at the birthing center, a business-like midwife opened the door. "Diane," she said, by way of introduction, shaking my hand. A far cry from the soothing, hippie-chick midwives I had found up in Ossining, Diane set about to scrub the Jacuzzi in preparation for Judy's immersion. Judy's contractions are quickening, she tossed over her shoulder, disappearing into the bathroom. Remember, she doesn't have to suffer needlessly, she shouted from inside the bathroom. I have medication if she needs it.

I entered a spacious room where Judy was deep into labor -- serious and unsmiling -- leaning into a wall in a flannel nightgown, her dark curls sticking to the back of her neck. Her husband sat on the edge of the bed watching TV. The sound of running water filled the space between us. I put my hand on the small of her back, felt the heat of her labor.

"This is tough," she reported.

For a long while, the water ran. I went to make red raspberry tea with sugar, steaming hot. I brought it in for Judy, who could barely drink it. Her contractions were layered, two and three-tiered, peaking and waning, chasing her then disappearing...only to ambush her again a minute later. Her nightgown grew sweaty. Her eyes were wild and agitated.

"Let's take a walk," I suggested.

We walked and walked. We walked the entire night, it seemed. We stepped forward one or two or three steps, then paused to honor the contraction's will. We barely spoke. I held her hand or arm. I touched her back. I made her drink water. I argued when she said she couldn't do this thing -- give birth. I reminded her that labor ends and babies are born. I told her that she could have medication if she wished. I wondered where Diane was, realized I hadn't seen her for a while. I hope that I was right, that this labor would end...and soon.

The labor squeezed Judy's spine, producing that rare form of torture -- back labor. I had had it with my first child and thought I would not survive the pain. After back labor, regular old labor is a walk in the park.

Do you need anything? I asked uselessly.

"I need the Jacuzzi." she said. "I want to give birth there."

I found Diane sleeping in a small room and woke her up. She examined Judy and found her fully dilated. Together, we helped my friend into the tub, but the hoped-for relief she imagined would arrive cruelly eluded her. When the contractions came, she draped her arms over the sides of the tub and moaned. Diane poured warm water over her back, smoothed the damp hair from her forehead with a washcloth. A female scent hung in the air, thick and heavy. Suddenly, Judy let out a cry.

"I'm going to have a baby!" she cried, nearly collapsing as the relentless waves of labor overtook her. Diane crouched at Judy's head, administering a blood pressure test.

"Out of the tub!" Diane commanded, directing me to get my friend up. She turned off the jets of the Jacuzzi and opened the drain. "She's too weak. Her blood pressure isn't stable. This is too dangerous."

"No!" Judy cried. "I want to give birth in the water!"

"Out," Diane said, handing me a large towel. The water slipped down the drain with a gurgle and a hiss. Judy looked like a mother sea mammal, sleek, wet and magnificent. I threw the towel over her shoulders. Diane stepped into the tub and wriggled her hands underneath Judy's arms.

"Stand up," she said. "We've got to get you to the bed."

I don't remember the process of walking my laboring friend to the bed. I don't remember draping the nightgown over her. I do remember her crying. I don't remember seeing her husband. I do remember her kneeling into the bedpost, panting. And then, I recall hearing the sound of something cracking.

"Ohhhh!" she exhaled.

"The baby!" cried Diane, gloving her hands, bringing her birthing kit close.

A current went through my friend. Her face took on a beautiful agony. Her brow was knit in concentration. Her legs were quivering. My heart started galloping. Every cell in my body stood at attention. A white energy filled the room.

"The...camera!" she panted. "Pictures of the birth."

What camera?

My lungs filled with the purest air. I felt sheer elation. My breath caught in the back of my throat. Something was in our midst. Something had joined us. We were not alone.

"Ahhhhwwwwohhhhh!"

Slipping, sliding, slithering out from my friend's body came a tiny creature, face scrunched in earnest concentration -- the baby, her baby, Judy's baby. We let out a whoop, catching the being, escorting her from the ocean of her mother's womb into the new, waterless world. We told Judy it was a girl. Judy broke into happy tears. "A daughter!" she said. "I have a daughter," she repeated. Diane took the child and did her midwifely or doctorly things. Flushed, Judy lay back on the pillow, weak, relieved, smiling. The punishing labor was now just a dull reverberation in the ever-growing distance.

The baby born that magical, tortuous night is now a beautiful and poised 17-year-old. My friend looks more magnificent with each passing day; indeed mother and daughter share an uncommon resemblance. These intervening years have been dramatic and sometimes difficult for my friend, witnessing the break-up of her marriage, innumerable heartbreaks and staggering successes, personal transformation, stellar achievement, the stuff of life itself.

As for me, I would leave my beloved Tudor home in Westchester a couple of years later for a Manhattan apartment, leave the life I had built as a freelance writer for one which offered greater financial stability, have the remarkable chance to live in Israel and Europe, travel more than I ever had before, give birth to a third child -- also with the help of midwives -- undertake challenges both professionally and personally, endure my share of heartache and disappointment, find myself thrillingly in the middle of important conversations and pressing issues of the day, watch my older children grow to adulthood, have adventures of the mind, heart and soul, keep alive the dream of returning to my life as a full-time writer.

You know, I never did take pictures worth anything that night, I reminded my friend when she called me the other day. I was a good labor support but a lousy photographer.

I know, said my friend. I forgive you. You stayed with me throughout my labor. It was awful. I'll never forget that.

And I will never forget the presence that filled the birthing room at the instant of the birth of Judy's daughter. It was luminous and comforting; it stayed with me for a while afterwards. I have pondered it many times since, trying to recapture the wonder, shyly and secretly wondering -- was it the Shekhina? And if so, are all laboring women so visited?

Or was it the descent of a new human soul into this realm, separating itself from the great collective of souls that is God, that is eternity? Was it the contraction of the Great One, the mystical concept of tzimtzum that I witnessed, the physics of the soul which must be poured into each new person at the moment of birth?

Since that time, I have been visited only once more by the same overwhelming presence and it was in the exact opposite context -- standing graveside at the funeral of my mother-in-law in the spring of 1995... in the eighth month of my pregnancy with Little Babe. With greatly swollen belly I stood next to HOBB in the cemetery, watching the coffin of my vibrant, beautiful mother-in-law lower into the ground. I had feared this moment since she was diagnosed with incurable cancer, nurtured nightmares about the spectacle of her burial, nearly campaigned to stay home, away from death when I was bursting with new life.

As the coffin slipped ever lower into the ground, one of the planks on the top shifted suddenly. The assembled mourners took a collective intake of breath. One of the party -- I cannot remember whom -- knelt to right it. And at that moment, I was visited by that same overwhelming presence, filling me with a feeling of wonder and happiness. It enveloped and comforted me, powerful, maternal and eternal. My eyes filled with tears as a message made its way into my heart. I am saying my farewell. Don't worry about me anymore. I am released.

There are things that I have doubted, there are people who have left me feeling bereft, uncertain, unloved, there are questions that I carry. There is sorrow that I carry in my soul. There are mysteries that surround me.

But one certainty of my earthly life has been the existence of a universal being, He or She whom we call God or any variety of names. And the other certainty has been the existence of our eternal souls, compressed and poured into human form to accomodate our time on earth, property of God, patient and indwelling, longing to be free.

The Buzz of Englewood

It is now 12:41 on Tuesday morning. I just got in from seeing A Serious Man with HOBB and Big Babe at Lincoln Plaza Cinema-- a seriously surreal, unpredictable, hilarious, quirky, deeply Jewish and original film that only the Coen brothers could have made.

More than 12 hours earlier, I opened up this template to write a spiritual travelogue of our recent holiday and Shabbat excursion to the beautiful community of Englewood, NJ for Succot but got immediately sidetracked by the pressing demands of work and life.

With the rapid-fire volley of urgent emails on hold, I have returned to my task of earlier today, eager to capture the experience of the weekend before it evaporates from the forefront of my memory.

Our exodus to Englewood is actually a tradition of sorts, now closing in on its first decade. Since the first Succot following 9/11, it has been our tradition to flee Manhattan for the refuge of suburban New Jersey, staying with friends and taking our meals with the loving, generous and culinarily-gifted COBBs (Cousins of Bungalow Babe) -- who come equipped with two teenage boys (a taste of Nirvana for Little Babe) and a wonderland of friends.

Celebrating Succot in Manhattan has always seemed especially pathetic. Fitting oneself into a cramped, crowded Succah in the alleyways of apartment buildings, on a busy urban sidewalk or, gloriously, on the rare and windy roof, is always something of an ordeal. Even when the Succah occupies a beautiful space -- such as the quad of the Jewish Theological Seminary, just blocks from my home -- the logistics of arranging meals is an exhausting manner.

The ultimate destination for Succot (as for all the Jewish holidays) is Israel, but short of buying plane tickets, the drive over the George Washington Bridge transports us to a Succot Xanadu. Whether hand-built wooden shack or prefab cloth structure held up with scaffolding, beautiful Succot adorn porches, backyards, frontyards, driveways and decks as far as the eye can see.

In the final hours of our visits, HOBB and I always stroll solemnly through the streets, gazing hungrily at the FOR SALE signs adorning the charming homes of the neighborhood, asking ourselves, could we, should we consider this pleasant community if only for the sake of Little Babe, born and raised in the city?

Anyway, it was my intention this morning to capture not only the warmth of time with family and friends around the colorful holiday table, the myriad meals, late night wine-sipping, Succah hopping, leisurely strolls and power walks to burn off the gajillion calories we ingested...but also to gleefully report that I had the personally satisfying experience of being greeted as the Jewish equivalent of de Toucqueville during my visit, praised at every turn for an article I had written this summer about the non-sustainability of Jewish day school due to the exorbitant tuition.

The impact of the article derived from my ability to write candidly about the dramatic effect that this financial overhead has had on my own life over the past two decades, I was told. My willingness to admit that the cost proved ruinous to my personal life in a variety of ways -- shattering the myth that if something is important enough, you simply "stretch" to make it happen -- opened the door for others to do the same.

Even in this enclave of gracious homes and stylish families -- where affluence seems both ubiquitous and effortless -- the high cost of being Jewish had suddenly become a real problem, I learned. But appearances deceive; people have lost their jobs and their savings. The prospect of new employment is elusive. With tuitions soaring over $20K per child at most local Jewish schools (with Manhattan schools topping $30K), the amenity they had counted on is suddenly a luxury item.

So I stopped and listened to people's stories, heard painful details of what it is like to live through an economic cataclysm, took in shamed confessions about applying for financial aid, heard doubt expressed about the soundness of the educational system we had built, gained behind-the-scenes glimpses at the stresses visited on families in their effort to earn enough money to pay for Jewish day school.

Though I had lived it myself, there is power and poignancy in hearing these stories from other people. I was touched by the father of three who cannot afford summer camp (because of day school tuition), the doctor's wife who is astonished to find that her husband doesn't earn enough to support their lifestyle (because of day school tuition), the day school educated twenty-something with the three preschoolers who is adamant upon sending his kids to public school...because of the looming prospect of crushing tuition.

This matter is indeed one of the most pressing issues plaguing the Jewish community and my contribution to the discussion is to keep it on the radar screen. I wish that my expertise was in finding a solution (a communal fund for Jewish day school??) but my role is to identify and explore the dimensions of the problem and stoke outrage that so many of us have suffered in silence. As in the period immediately following the publication of my article, I encountered excitement and relief in Englewood that this matter is finally being aired and change might be on the horizon... as witnessed by the group of local parents who are seeking an alternative within the public school system.

Still, to paraphrase the doctor's wife whom I met on this visit, there is an equal amount of fear that once the economy adjusts itself, the issue will evaporate with the wealthy resuming their ability to pay tuition with nary a thought while the rest of the community is left with their private, shameful struggles.

Which is why it is impossible to ignore the irony of the recent renovation of Ahavath Torah in Englewood. Standing in the lobby on Shabbat morning, the prevailing conversation appeared to be about the new shul building itself, beautiful yet also cringe-inducing in the current economy. Overhead in the bathroom, from two college girls home for the holidays – “I hate coming here; it’s all about your clothes and shoes and how rich you are.”

These are not my words.

Yet it did make me wonder if anyone had proposed that even a portion of the renovation fund might have gone to level the economic playing field and guarantee day school tuition for the Jewish kids in Englewood, which would have set a fine and bold example for the American Jewish community.

Which brings me full circle to A Serious Man.

The most intimately Jewish movie I believe I have ever seen, filled with mystical ideas and insider references, A Serious Man is not for everyone. Some Jewish viewers may have a difficult time with its exaggerated and often unflattering Jewish characters and concepts. Stereotypes prevail; there is often a lampoonish, nearly grotesque aspect to practically every scene. I was fascinated and uncomfortable at the same time.

Yet I cannot recall another movie where Hashem -- called by the name Hashem -- exists in dialogue and concept, where the characters suffer and weep for the lack of their ability to figure out His/Her plan. As the sun comes up on this Tuesday morning, I confront the startling realization that my visit to Ahavath Torah entailed more than grousing about clueless affluence.

Indeed, as a parade of people with movie-star good lucks and outfits passed through the cavernous lobby, I stood in a tight circle with Big Babe and my friend Scott discussing the problem of prayer, the nature of God, Buber's concept of the I and Thou and our respective relationships with Hashem, both inside and outside of the synagogue. We formed a pow-wow in the midst of the kinetic space, our theological musings constituting our shared reality. The synagogue fulfilled its mission after all, housing our Hashem-directed thoughts and conversation.

My article on day school tuition is here, if you wish to read it: http://http/www.thejewishweek.com/viewArticle/c56_a16519/Editorial__Opinion/The_Last_Word.html

Chag Sameach!

The World After Yom Kippur

After Yom Kippur, the world is a different place.

Sequestered in synagogue for the better part of 25 hours, the fellowship known as the Jewish People bond in prayer and humility forged by physical deprivation and the acknowledgement of the day's sanctified purpose: standing before God on The Day of Judgment...Yom Ha-Din.

It takes something quite beyond cynicism to deny the power of the day, the spiritual and emotional power of gathering together with hundreds or thousands of those who are focused on the same, the knowledge that around the world, millions more are likewise occupied in their respective time-zones with their unique traditions.

The power of the day is assisted by a belief in God but not dependant upon it. Yom Kippur exists on its own merit -- a freestanding Tent of Meeting between humans and their souls...and perhaps God.

Even for those like me who have davening ADD and find it difficult to remain focused on prayer after, say, 60 minutes, Yom Kippur is a deeply transformative day.

As I sit typing these words, three hours after the conclusion of the fast, I am a different person than the one who entered the holiday filled with dread, casting a fearful eye toward the endless hours in shul, the inevitable caffeine-withdrawal headache, the hunger pangs, the nagging thirst, the sorrow that inevitably bubbles up in the back of my throat at the contemplation of all that is tragic in human existence.

And of course, dread of the intimate encounter with God, the prospect of baring my soul in front of Him/Her, working up the spiritual stamina to confront the task of the day, resolve to allow the powerful prayers to sweep through me, igniting uncomfortable thought, painful memory, regret, insight, resolution, acceptance, cleansing, change.

This Yom Kippur felt momentous in many ways...HOBB (husband of Bungalow Babe) just turned 60, our oldest recently celebrated his 25th birthday, our middle one turned 21 and our youngest entered High School. But it wasn't just the chronological milestones that lent the day a different dimension. Over the course of the day, HOBB and I felt moved to take stock of the joint monument we had built over the past quarter century...this family, our shared passions, our travels, adventures, achievements, heartaches, losses, joyous moments, arguments, political differences, religious clashes, epiphanies, disappointments, little and large moments, memories of Yom Kippurs past, hopes for our shared future.

We talked about our childhood memories of the day -- HOBB with his beloved aunts Minnie and Paulie at the very same synagogue we attend today -- Ramath Orah; me, as a rabbi's child, overawed by the somber decorum of the day, sitting in a new holiday dress on a pew with my mother and siblings, face tilted upwards as my father preached to hundreds of rapt congregants, looking like John F. Kennedy in a flowing white robe and white satin yarmulke. We recalled our first Yom Kippur -- as honeymooners in Jerusalem 26 years ago; a Harvard Hillel service with our firstborn infant; a homegrown service in our Tudor home in Westchester; many years spent with my parents in Forest Hills with two young children; the Yom Kippur of ten years ago, just before my father-in-law died.

Walking Alfie and Nala the Pomeranians in the brilliant sunshine of Morningside Drive, we plotted future adventures. We felt awed by the very survival of our marriage in a time that is tempestuous, filled with self-driven agenda, deceit and ulterior motive.

I praised HOBB's steadfast nature. I voiced my desire that our children find mates who have this trait, a rarity in the couch-surfing, instant hook-up culture they inhabit. Sounding like Jewish mothers throughout history, I prayed out loud that they find such mates, sooner than later. We regretted the uncoupled lives of people we loved, their thwarted efforts to find worthy mates. We issued prayers for them to find loving companionship as well.

At Ramath Orah, a sea of white prayer shawls and garments sanctified the sanctuary. The air was heavy with prayer. The pews were filled with regular worshippers and holiday visitors alike, many students and faculty from Columbia University. Announcements were made regarding congregants who were sick, in need of prayer or hospital visits. The cantor chanted like a marathon runner, glib and guttural, sure-footed, never tripping, pausing only when the congregants needed to join in song or response. At several points, worshippers abandoned their pews and prostrated themselves on the floor, a practice reserved only for Yom Kippur, thrilling for Jews-who-do-not-genuflect. Downstairs, parents of young children sat around tables, talking, their charges running and occasionally yelling. A group of young teens gathered inside a reading room, giggling and complaining about hunger.

In the mid-afternoon hours, while HOBB slept and Little Babe talked with friends in his room, I lay on our black leather couch, reading Why This World, the new biography of Clarice Lispector, the Ukranian-born Brazilian writer. In the final stretch of the book, Lispector's life takes on shades of mental illness and hardship, owing to the schizophrenia of her oldest son, her insomnia and injuries sustained in an apartment fire. Reading her biography is akin to being burned. So painful did I find the events in the life of this sacred monster that I had to put the book down several times to contemplate the sweep of her life and legacy.

While doing so, I saw my own life through the portal of nearly fifty Yom Kippurs, thought that such a view provided a thoroughly unique way to write the biography of a Jew. By focusing on this one day per year, for every year of one’s life, the microcosm of an individual human life is revealed.

But of course, the activity of Yom Kippur is all inward, hidden from view, accessible only to us and to the author of the Book of Life.

Still, the thought stays with me, hours past the breaking of the fast, that the measure of our lives might be noted by collecting the miscellaneous scribblings of our soul, the utterances of our hearts, the memories and tears, the noble aspirations of our minds in this 25-hour world known as Yom Kippur.

My Son, the Stand-Up Borscht Belt Comic in Berlin

Big Babe, my 25-year-old freelance writer son, has cultivated two new talents in his adopted city of Berlin: trumpet playing and stand-up comedy.

Borscht Belt-style.

As the most overtly Jewish New Yorker in Berlin, Big Babe was tapped to deliver the inimitable zingers immortalized by Henny Youngman, Rodney Dangerfield, Woody Allen, Larry David, Jerry Seinfeld...and the rest of the gang. And he mixes it up with post-Shoah, edgy, expatriate American wry observations that are his and his alone.

As he felt moved to send a clip of a recent performance, I am posting it here. Check it out: yiddishe naches, 21st century-style:

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=244702815033

Night and the City

At 3:40 in the morning the traffic on Amsterdam Avenue is light; hushed, like a thick broom sweeping briskly across a rough wooden floor.

I am awake because I am beset by a midnight-of-the-soul mission -- turning a matter over in my mind while begging my body to cease its strong surge of adrenalin, fueling my brain and my wakeful state.

I'm not thrilled to be up -- restless yet in need of rest -- still, I tend to be philosophical and pragmatic about such situations.

At the risk of sounding Pollyannish, I seek the silver lining of sleeplessness -- more time to do stuff that I cannot accomplish during the day.

Better yet, the possibility of insight.

Shortly after midnight, I set up my bed on our black couch, taking two pillows and a sheet. At the foot of the couch, Alfie the Pomeranian slumbers happily. Nala, his sister, is curled up nearby on the floor.

In the midst of distress there are moments of grace, even comfort.

The landscape of this night is vastly changed from last night, which I spent in the bungalow with Little Babe. We stayed up until 1:30 am watching old music videos on my computer, which I set up on the porch, singing along with Elton John, Don Mclean, David Bowie, Duran Duran, the Beatles and Weird Al.

We found footage of fascinatingly horrible auditions for American Idol.

And then I remembered The Gong Show.

Searching through Youtube, I located several episodes and watched this wacky seventies television fare with my 14-year-old son, shrieking with laughter at the insane antics of the performers, judges and stoned-out-of-his-mind host, Chuck Barris.

Eventually we found http://www.animalnews.com/, where we were introduced to stories about elephants who got trapped in manholes, puppies born with five legs, a newly-discovered miniature deer, turtles who blocked a runway at Kennedy International Airport and other amazing dispatches from the animal world.

Observing the late hour, I closed down my laptop, ordered Little Babe to brush his teeth and go to sleep. I fell into bed giddy, sprinkled with magic, happily exhausted.

The sweet Catskill mountain air blew my curtains outward in billows. The refrigerator in the kitchen just outside my bedroom hummed reassuringly. I heard the scuttle and rustle of nighttime animals across the lawn outside my window. Before I knew it, morning had dawned, sweet and sunshiny.

Little Babe and I drove into the city today during the lunch hour. Setting foot outside our car was a punishment. Manhattan was abominable today, a classic August day -- sticky, hot, heavy with moisture and bad smells; conducive to crankiness.

Even walking across the campus of Columbia University this afternoon -- an oasis of civility and beauty -- I nevertheless longed for the carpet of lawn stretching from my front porch to the woods, the staggered Adirondack chairs, our neighbor's Big Wheel, the sight of Alfie and Nala scampering freely.

Sitting at my dining room table working on my laptop, I felt robbed of my regular summer work space. The cocktail party I later attended at a swanky Upper East Side location -- surrounded by important works of art -- seemed the epitome of everything shallow and meaningless in New York; peopled by the gorgeous glitterati, gauche and gaudy in an era of belt-tightening.

But the yearning for my rural retreat really took root this evening as I lay wrapped in a sheet on a leather couch, hearing the whoosh of traffic below, seeking comfort from the indifferent night of the chrome and concrete city, tasting disappointment, closing my eyes in search of a dream lover, friend of my soul.

A Hasid Walks Into a Laundromat

I learned something new about my people tonight.

During the Nine Days leading up to Tisha B'Av, Satmar Hasidim do not launder their clothes, sheets, towels or anything.

This piece of information was imparted to me by the elderly, stoop-shouldered, limp-haired, snaggle-toothed laundromat lady in the stretch lavendar pants whom I overhead talking to the Spanish guy who was mopping the floor.

It was 9:50 p.m. and the joint was closing in ten minutes.

I was the only non-employee of the Monroe Laundromat at that hour, hastily tossing hot clothes from the dryer back into the hamper in order to make a quick getaway to the bungalow where I had left Little Babe, two hours ago, to watch anime on his i-Pod Touch. What I overhead, in fact, was the laundromat lady explaining that "the Jewish guy" had come in earlier to request that the laundromat stay open on Thursday night until 1 am to allow the women of Kiryas Joel, the nearby Satmar village, to catch up on their dirty laundry of the past nine days. Though the laundromat had accomodated this request in years past, it was now under new ownership and the lavender-trousered lady had to check with her boss.

"They've got this thing called the Nine Days where they don't do normal stuff," she explained, with a measure of authority. "It leads up to a fast day."

The Spanish guy nodded respectfully, mopping his way around my sneakered feet. The sweat from my recent workout was drying on my skin and I suddenly felt class-conscious, wondering if I appeared as a spoiled, highly-educated or wealthy summer resident of this Catskills town, given to the luxury of going to the gym while the laundromat workers toiled late into the night; a cavalier housekeeper given to doing her laundry hastily and without care for wrinkles.

The mopping man wore a brace around his middle such as those worn by movers or weight-lifters. He was muscular and compact, likely my age. I was startled to find him gazing intently at me while I watched him work. His eyes communicated something I did not expect; it seemed to be a recognition of kinship. It was a friendly, familiar glance.

Busted in the act of staring, I blurted out to no one in particular, "I observe the Nine Days as well but not in same way as the Satmar. Obviously...because I'm washing my clothes. But I'm also Jewish."

The laundromat lady nodded sagely. The man bowed slightly. I smiled in a goofy, self-conscious manner, lifting my laundry bin to carry it out. The man held the door for me, held me in his gaze. I felt like the princess of the laundromat.

As I was walking to the car, I caught my reflection in the laundromat window and noted that I looked like anything but a princess. Sinewy arms set off by my black tank top, black tights beneath my black shorts lengthening my legs, hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, skin darkened by the summer sun, I looked as foreign and exotic in Monroe as a Satmar Hasid, neither overtly American or Jewish, vaguely Mediterranean, extremely Manhattan; streamlined and restless, a woman of indeterminate age driven to do her laundry late at night.

Baby Doll, 2 a.m., Bungalow Night

At 2 in the morning, it is scary as all hell to walk out of the bungalow by oneself, leaving a sheltered place of warmth, walls and other humans for the yawning black velvet of the woodsy night.

I'm probably the last person to walk alone at night along the perimeter of a dense forest known to harbor bears but my Poms started barking softly, in unison, and in a spurt of energy borne of altruism and work-related panic, I jumped out of bed, slipped my feet into my Born clogs, leashed the dogs and stepped into the impenetrable darkness.

In my black polka dot baby doll nightie.

Fully believing that there was an axe murder hiding in the woods to my right, a serial rapist crouching behind the garbage cans, a family of hungry bears under my bungalow and a rabid raccoon up a tree, I tip-toed onto the grass, exhorting my dogs to pee and get it over with.

Before Cropsie could dart from the parking lot to kill me.

But Alfie and Nala were thrilled at this rare nighttime outing and took their time to sniff every blade of grass and scout out the most opportune spots to pee.

And so, I endured ten minutes of terror, shivering in my thin baby doll, darting my head from side to side in a fit of hyper-vigilance: was that a cracking branch to my left? A growl in the near distance? The unmistakable sound of breathing coming from the trees???

Before returning to the comfort of my cabin, unleashing the dogs to dive underneath my bed in search of their sleeping lair, setting up my laptop on the porch and putting up a pot of coffee to begin my work day at half past two in the morning, a Gap hoodie now thrown atop my baby doll for warmth and protection against the probing eyes of the sinister, surrounding woods.

Mortification at the Movies

Hello??

Did it occur to anyone in Hollywood that fans of Sacha Baron Cohen's edgy/outrageous humor might be coming to his latest flick with family members in tow?

Specifically... one's sweet and especially innocent 14-year-old son?

Well, innocent no more, thanks to the proliferation of penises, deluge of dildos, scenes of actual sex, heart-stopping Hitler references, gaudy gay overlay, Mideast mangling, black-baiting, tongue-burning language torture and generally perverted prank that is Bruno.

Make no mistake: I live for this stuff. The jokes and sight gags were coming fast and furious, the audience around me was nearly frenzied with hysterical laughter and I had tears streaming down my face from repeated convulsions of mirth.

The problem was balancing my enjoyment of the movie's breathtaking chutzpah with sheer mortification, for sitting to my left, my young teen was watching simulated gay oral sex, a naked dominatrix with overstuffed boobs weilding a whip and other such visual delights.

More than once, a reflexive maternal hand flew up over his eyes to block his vision...shaking, because I was shaking with hysterics.

Whether or not Bruno is a good film is up for debate. It is certainly a shockfest, one which I would see again and again. It also showcases its star's ingenuity, fearlessness and intelligence, not to mention lithe, waxed and often unclothed body.

The issue is that Bruno, and several other films like it, need a special warning to go with them, something that prepares filmgoers for the terrific squirming that will overtake them if they are seeing the movie in the company of, say, their children or -- horrors! -- their parents.

When we left the theatre on Saturday night, I noted that my shirt was sticking to my body. I had literally broken out into a sweat with worry about how this film would effect my son and equally, what he would think of the mother who sanctioned his consumption of this lurid entertainment.

It reminded me of the nearly-equally icky time I watched The Heartbreak Kid with my parents at their home. Except then, I wasn't worried that I was poisoning someone's developing mind.

But perhaps I needn't have fretted. Seated afterwards at Fine and Shapiro, the kosher deli on West 72nd Street, I asked Little Babe for his assessment.

"Funny," he declared, biting into a hamburger. "But really, really weird."

Shabbat Shalom from the Love Shack

Friday morning at the bungalow.

Little Babe rode off to camp on his bicycle.

Alfie and Nala the Pomeranians frolicked in the grass, pulling on their extra-long leashes.

Big Babe dropped an email from Thessaloniki, where he is spending Shabbat.

Middle Babe called to say she was taking the day off from work and catching a 3 pm bus to Boston.

HOBB texted a Shabbat Shalom from Maine, where he is stuck for the weekend at a cello camp...with a small group of retired, overly-serious amateur musicians in a remote locale near the Canadian border.

And I set up my laptop on the porch of the Love Shack to tackle a full day's work, with the lush forest looming before me and the promise of Shabbat whispering in my ear.

Shabbat Shalom!

Midsummer Midlife Hair Crisis

That's me on the porch of our bungalow earlier today.

It's probably not too visible between the oversized shades and American flag but those are PIGTAILS sprouting out of my head, placed there to contain the voluminous and anarchic nature of my hair, which I am seeking to grow this summer.

Call it my midsummer midlife crisis: a stab at long hair.

Since childhood, I've always been a shorthaired girl, with brief forays into Joan Jett-like shaggy overgrown do's and a few grade-school years of long straight hair and bangs, which invariably ended up being cut too short by my mother.

A layered bob has been my classic look but for some reason I was inspired to grow out my locks this spring and have therefore added several inches to my hair...both horizontally as well as vertically.

You see, my hair tends to grow sideways and even upwards.

Hence the pigtails.

So far, the hair has gotten rave reviews but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that getting it to look good takes waaaay more time than I am used to expending on grooming matters. I'm a squeeze of the eyelash curler, swab of the eyeliner, swat of the lipgloss kind of chick. I have never had my hair styled and frankly scoff at women my age who have such low regard for their time as to spend it inside a beauty parlor.

(For the record, I have no problem with regular mani-pedis and consider them essential to mental health. But hairstyling?????)

So, there it is -- my midlife crisis: my hair.

No fancy red sportscars, no dalliances with younger men, no running off to "discover" myself.

I already have a black Honda Accord, two fabulous younger men in my life and discovered myself a long time ago -- around the age of nine, to be exact -- when my mother broke the shocking news to me that I would never turn into a boy.

Though I was stuck being a girl, I vowed to become a spy and traveler, writing my adventures down.

And that is what I do, snug as a bug in a rug in my bungalow, late into the night.

Eden Invaded

Little Babe called at 9:30 to let me know that the camp bus arrived back from bowling and that he was going to sleep over at his friend Colin's house. Could I meet him right away in the parking lot with a change of clothes, some Axe deoderant, toothbrush and his i-Touch charger?

Having just arrived back in the bungalow after a day spent sprinting to and from appointments in Manhattan, I let the duffle bag fall from my shoulder and stood still for approximately 5 seconds before assembling the requested items and tossing them into a backpack. Though the last thing I wanted to do was go back out into the chilly rain, the sleepover at Colin's house also entailed Little Babe's good friend Morry and was irresistable. Three-way sleepover. YEAAAH!

In the kitchen, Alfie and Nala the Pomeranians reacclimated themselves to the bungalow from which they had been banished for several days after their friendly barking became the cause of neighborhly complaints. Stepping over them, HOBB began unpacking some of our bags and settling in for the July 4th weekend, reacclimating himself to the cabin he hadn't seen since Monday morning.

While the rain beat a tattoo on the ceiling and I readied myself to run to the car, I found myself possessed of a peculiar, territorial feeling; what was he doing in my house?

Once outside, the soggy ground spongy beneath my sneakered feet, I sought to understand the resentful sentiment that had taken root in my heart. The inner sanctum where I had spent the previous three nights in splendid, spouse-free isolation had just been invaded, my solitary Eden colonized.

I allowed myself to dwell in the moment of outrage, my bungalow heart feeling caged, obstinately resisting the necessary transition from me to we.

A Memory of Michael Jackson, Long Ago

My mother had her purse stolen out of a shopping cart at the Pathmark in Queens sometime in the fall of 1972. A friend suggested that she place an ad for it in the local Pennysaver, promising a reward. Within a day, she got a call from a teenage boy in New Hyde Park who said that he found her purse in a garbage can somewhere near his home. There was no money in it, but it seemed that all her cards were there.

My mom thanked him profusely and made arrangements to retrieve it at his home.

Worrying at the last minute that the call might be a trap, she asked me to come along. I was 12, tall and skinny, owing to my newly-discovered talent for starving myself. We drove the short distance from our home in Douglaston, arriving at the designated address, which turned out to be a few blocks away from my cousins Rena and Mordy.

The difference between the two homes was dramatic. While my cousin's modest ranch had mowed lawns in front and back and a well-maintained facade, this home - a sad wooden cottage -- looked practically abandoned. The grass grew knee-high in the front lawn. Shingles were missing from the sloping roof. A chain-fence was orange with rust. Windows were half-covered with torn or crooked shades.

My mother gripped my hand and we rang the doorbell. Within minutes, a scraggly, underfed boy greeted us. We stepped tentatively through a darkened, littered hallway and followed him down a flight of stairs. The air was musty and smelled like a cat's litterbox.

The family appeared to live in the basement, but there was no adult to be found. A tinny radio was playing. Seated around an oblong folding table sat a group of unwashed kids with my mother's purse at the front end. The most senior member -- a boy in his late teens -- presided over the gathering.

"I found this in the garbage near the playground," the boy said. It came out like "I foun this inna gahbahj neah the playgrown." He didn't smile.

The kids around the table stared hungrily at us. I felt acutely uncomfortable, like a princess visiting from a nearby kingdom, encountering commoners for the first time.

I was aware of my mother's shock. She nodded, affirming that the purse was hers.

"Thank you very much," she said.

The boy arose and walked towards us. I felt my mother stiffen. The eyes of the seated children continued to stare avidly. The boy stood before us. He handed her the purse.

"Here," he said. It came out "heah."

"Thank you," she said again, reaching into her pocket and taking out an envelope.

The boy reached out a knobby hand.

"Thanks," he said.

"Well, goodbye," my mother said. "Thank you very much. It would have been a big pain to replace my driver's license and all the cards."

The kids stared mutely.

Within a minute, we were back out on the street, practically running towards our car.

Looking back on that episode, two details stand out in vivid relief:

That my mother had been wracked with remorse afterwards, having given the kids only a $5 bill.

And that the song on the radio was a new and ubiquitous hit single -- ABC -- by the Jackson 5, whose lead singer was a tiny dynamo named Michael.