Madonna and I finally have something in common

I mean, other than these rockin' bodies and countless hit singles. Of course, Madonna, being the apparent planner and PR-machine that she is, is planning her divorce (get this) a year-and-a-half in advance.

A year-and-a-half!? Seriously? I hope she writes some a song explaining all this shit, like she did when all that went down with Sean Penn and the world was like, "WHAT THE --??!!" and then heard her song and was like, "Ohhhhh, now we get it.  Now we feel you, friend." You know people will be pointing the finger at their complicated adoption of baby David, which is exactly what I am completely uninterested in hearing. I mean, do we really need the agony of another marriage gone down the drains because a kid was brought into the picture story (not that I'm bitter)? Anyway, I vote for Madonna to give us some sort of poppy, rhymey perspective on the end of her marriage instead.

Let's hope for that. And then let's hope the explanation doesn't come in the form of a children's book or with a half-assed British accent. If she has 18 months to finalize the paperwork, she clearly has plenty of opportunity to sit down at the keyboard with a yellow steno pad and hammer out a few verses, right?

I know she does all kinds of charitable work and has to choreograph the next big tour no one will talk about but, a year-and-a-half?! I cannot get over that.

Suddenly, standing nakey on a street corner to pose for a coffee table book and ending it with Warren Beatty isn't looking so crazy. Unless she's got this all worked out as a way to tighten the screws on her Guy. If that's the case, I happen to have memorized the number of another (ahem) person's certain almost-ex that she is welcome to strategize slow-dripping dissolution techniques on when she gets bored of torturing her own hubs.

Maybe this is a sign for me that I need to take up Pilates and Kaballah. Or record the dance remix of a flagging mid-90s hit that will appeal to all the adorable Project Runway-committed boys just now coming up in the clubs. Or maybe it is just the universe telling me that I should go a little blonder the next time I spend four days and a gajillion dollars getting my hair did by Silvia at the salon.

Whatever it is, I hear you, Madge. For the first time since Justify My Love, I am really, really hearing you.

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When you live with retired folk, this is the kind of shit you have to listen to

I work from home. Rather, I work from my parents' home. My parents are retired and so they have adorable weekly outings to breakfast at the local pancake and club salad place, then head off to Costco and the grocery store and if my mom is feeling saucy, the dollar store. Sometimes, they get a baked chicken wrap and 35-cent Diet Coke at Costco. Every week, though, they are home in time to see Jeopardy and finish reading the paper.

Did I mention they like to stop in wherever I am working and offer up little tidbits of news or brainstorms or show me the thousands of listings of apartments they download for me? They do.

Does that sound ungrateful? I don't mean it that way. They have also been incredibly supportive, have stepped up generously to help me raise Lil E these last six months and have opened their home to us with no pressure to stay or leave (despite what those listings might tell you). Truly, it has been a blessing.

A blessing for 24 hours minus mayyyyybe one or two interrupting moments. Today, after my dad and I laughed once, twice, maybe three times over this effed up news item, I heard them laughing about it together in the living room several more times and then calling my brother to laugh with him about it. He was doing field work out of town, but they called to yuk it up over the potty lady. I told you: retirement is good times, y'all.

Then my mom popped in politely on me while I worked. I was posting intently, she was full of fifth-grade grrrl giggles. They'd been reading about the prostitute employed by Governer Spitzer. And, no shocker, they'd been giggling about it, probably over leftover chicken bakes. Nothing's more fun that talking hookin' over a late lunch.

"Jess, I have a question about this hooker girl," my mom barely got out over her giggles.

"Yes?" I was suspicious.

"Apparently, she is an aspiring musician with a MySpace page?"

This already captured my attention because my mom barely let call waiting into the house a few years ago and still refuses to believe people need to text message, let alone Facebook or MySpace or mystery shop.

"Yes?" Again with the suspicion.

"Aspiring musician is a good goal for a hooker, right?"

Suspicions and sarcasm confirmed. I waited for the punchline. I got it in...3...2...1...

"My guess is she plays the pipes?!"

Yes, she was, in fact, laughing at her own joke as soon as it flew from her mouth. Not long after, she was laughing at my dad's contribution. She continued.

"But your dad says it's more likely the organ."

Pause. Pause. Near-impossible restraint. And then, yes, full-flown laughter.  Ohhh.

I admit, this one was funny. And sure, they do make me laugh. Sometimes. OK, lots of times. Of course, most of that is over stuff Lil E says but this time...this time, they got me.

Ohhh, the pipes. Ohhh, the organ.

Well-played, you sassy, snarky, news-pondering chicken-bakey retired parents you.

Well-played.

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H-E-double hockey sticks-P

I have a hard time asking for help.

And if you know me (even a little bit), this is not news. If you know me really well (or even more than that), this has made you roll your eyes many, many times -- at Thanksgiving dinners with a child sweaty and sound asleep in a sling on my chest when I couldn't scoop my own mashed potatoes but tried desperately to do it myself thanks very much anyway, and in college when I sobbed into the echoey stall because I couldn't wash my own hair with a cast on my broken arm until my roommate forced her way into the shower with me and told me to breathe while she shampooed and conditioned and later blow-dried and brushed my hair for me, and when I've sputtered into paralyzing panic attacks over mice in the (shiver) apartment and into humor-masked rages over jackass men and when the little unattended girl in the restaurant where I waited tables in grad school jumped up and under the tray I was holding full of Mother's Day mimosas and champagne and Old Fashioneds and sodas and hit the tray, spilling the drinks all over me and the tables around me and thank the goddesses, shards of glass narrowly missing her but not the concrete floor and I just needed someone to smile at my customers for a moment while I gasped after I cleaned it all up and before I returned to my tables soaked through with orange juice and bubbly and red wine. So yes, you all are aware. I am fiercely independent.

It has served me well often. It has moved me through and helped me rise above. It has helped me survive, persevere, buck up, pack up, walk away, come home. As often as it has helped, however, it has also hurt.

Independence doesn't have to, but often does, I've have learned through many dollars in therapy co-pays, precluded reaching out for help. Knowing when to ask for help, especially when it is hardest, is as important for me as knowing when I really can go it alone.

Slowly, surely, with practice and some wincing, I am trying to reach out. I am trying to tune in to what I do need and when it is OK to ask for it. When my friends and family say they want to be there, I am really trying to say OK rather than nod politely and note-to-self that I will never take them up on their generous offers.

So today -- and this is small and significant, which is how I like my lessons these days -- I asked a friend who loves music like I love music to please send me a mellowish and nice song. A feel-good song. A song that would speak to where I am today. A song that would help me move into tomorrow peacefully, calmly after some real turbulence in the days behind me. I asked for a Song of the Day, please, in the spirit of a little help from my friends.

And this is the song I got. How did I miss this song on the Oscars? It is so lovely, so perfect for right now, it is speaking so much to me, that I have had it on repeat for almost an hour.

And considering my last post, I love the congruity of the image of the boat. That wasn't planned. Just a little bit of that daily divinity I so adore, so appreciate and so welcome. The best part is, it came my way when I asked for a little help.

I am learning. Slowly. And tonight, I am listening.  Serenely.

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