What Time Is It?

My room in Manhattan is quite spacious, as New York hotel rooms go. I'm not one of those people who complains about hotel rooms. I need a clean bathroom, a semi-comfortable bed, a desk and a chair. I'm set.

As all semi-insomniacs know, we have a perverse need to know the time. If I wake at 2:00 AM, I will try to lull myself back to sleep. If I wake at 5:00 AM, the time it will take to get back to sleep isn't worth the effort. I'll just get up.

The clock in my room is very new age and probably expensive. You can play/charge/awake to your iPod. (I didn't bring mine.) But, it's bolted to the nightstand and faces the middle of the room rather than the bed. To see the time, I have to sit up, move over and practically get out of bed.

It never occurred to me to pack Hangdog's "ding" watch -- the one that loudly announces the time. Since we inherited it, I may make it a permanent part of my packing list.

Antsy with Anticipation

Remember that childhood feeling of eagerly awaiting Christmas or your birthday? I love that feeling and I'm experiencing it today. Tomorrow is not Christmas or my birthday; it's the day I head to my favorite writing conference.

I get to go to Manhattan -- my favorite destination. I will be surrounded by interesting people in an industry I love. My head will be spinning with ideas and suggestions. I will be reminded of how much I don't know and I will be reinvigorated to learn. I'll swap notes with my friend Abby, who also attends, and we'll brainstorm with each other.

It's only a long weekend but it's expensive. I have to justify it to myself every year. When this year's agenda/registration landed in my inbox, I shared it with the Belle. I shared it with my mother. I called Abby. All agreed: You must go.

It's ripe with possibility. Maybe I'll meet an editor who will be a potential partner or an agent that shows an interest in my writing. Maybe the other writers I meet will send me referrals.

My self-imposed rule is simple. I must learn or meet someone that can:

Improve my writing, or
Enhance the bottom line of my company, or
Show me a new skill, or
Open doors.

I'm tired. I haven't packed. But, I'm giddy with anticipation.

Come On April

For various reasons, January, February and March are my least favorite months. The holidays are over and the cold grayness is not pleasant. Gloomy weather affects my mood plus, the husband goes stir crazy. He barks (at no one in particular) when it snows. He looks at his golf clubs with an adoration that is usually reserved (in normal people) for lovers and children. This is why we tend to travel as often as possible during the winter months.

This year I crossed the mental line from dislike to hate. The Belle died in January; Hangdog died in March.

I love April, although we get our fair share of rain and continued gray skies. April brings budding trees and early blooms. April brings my annual trek to a writer's conference in Manhattan.

Moods seems to improve in April. I know mine does.

Here's a dirty little secret. April brings the official beginning of the golf season. Lots of women I know groan and complain about the time their husbands spend playing golf (and/or cards.) There are no young children in this household and now there are no oldies so I am the polar opposite. During golf season, the husband is up with the sun and out the door. In the mean and nasty months, Saturday and Sunday mornings get on my nerves. He doesn't know what to do with himself. I suggest laundry or other household chores. He ignores me. He tries to practice new pieces on the piano ... over and over and over. He hovers, "What are you doing?" If he ventures into a project, I am summoned to give an opinion, fetch a hammer, etc.

Is this what retirement is like? If so, I'll pass. The Belle was extremely gracious to her husband but I also witnessed the many times that she wanted to be left alone. I still haven't decided if he was clueless or determined.

I prefer to have my own daily activities. Then during dinner or curling up at the end of the day, we get to have the interesting conversation, "How was your day?"

9/11

Today is the 6th anniversary of the 9/11/01 attacks. I can't believe it's been six years.

I love New York. I go whenever possible. I have a gut-wrenching sadness when we fly over Manhattan and the twin towers are gone.

On that terrible morning, I was serving on a golf committee so I watched the devastation on the tiny television in the ladies locker room. We didn't realize the implications when the first plane hit so we went out on the course. Thanks to cell phones, we started to receive updates about what was happening to our country.

Once I got home, I fielded numerous calls from friends and relatives wanting to make sure the husband wasn't in NY or on a plane. (Those were the days when he traveled to NY regularly.) Then, I tried to track down my numerous friends who live or work in Manhattan. The phone lines were all down and cell phones weren't working. One of my friends was in one of the World Trade Center buildings, not the towers. He witnessed people jumping to their deaths. He saw the collapse of both towers. It was at least two years before he could talk about it.

Later on that dreadful day, I sat with girlfriends and watched the coverage. Trying to understand ... trying to cope ...

I left every television in my home on for at least 5 days. 24/7.

Once they resumed air travel, the husband and I got on a plane headed to Houston. I sat on the plane, reading a newspaper article about terrorist cells. They had just discovered a huge one in Houston. I stood up and took inventory of passengers. (Yes, I was profiling.) I watched everyone who headed for the lavatories or moved toward the front of the cabin. I made notes. Big Daddy was appalled. He kept tugging at me to sit down but it didn't work.

Life is back to normal but those threats are still looming. Today, I will wallow in the memories.

I'll Take the Fake

I love Manhattan. The husband and I used to go several times a year. His job situation has changed over the years but I still make sure I get to go at least once or twice a year. I have my favorite restaurants and my favorite haunts. I love the ambiance and I love the fakes.

I know several teenage girls who have serious designer purses. ($1000 and up!) I have never owned a purse that costs that much and I never plan to. I can find the knock-off in Chinatown. If you want to spend several hundreds of dollars on sunglasses with the label, that is your right. I will buy the knock-offs. (I'm going to lose them anyway.)

My home has many silk plants. They're pretty and I can't kill them. I'll take the fake.

Thanks to my parents and the husband, I own some beautiful jewelry. I also own a lot of fakes. I have lost more earrings than I care to count so with the fakes, I don't sweat it.

Several years ago, we were all in Mexico. I'm terribly afraid of needles so I would never get a real tattoo. (Even with the needle thing, I don't think I'm a tattoo kind of person.) I got a fake one that said, "Princess," and I wore it with pride.

Here's what you can never fake: A family that loves you and the cocoon of love that comes with friendship.