I can blame my quest for dark gym shoes on my daughter Faith, who worries whenever I wear my black Mephisto sandals with the two-inch wedge heels. Her fear erupted when she and I were walking on the back lot of a Hollywood studio. The sidewalk was uneven, my shoe shimmied a bit, I swayed, and she grabbed me with, "Mom!"
Read MoreI was plopping eggshells and banana peels into the coffee filter -- which already was packed with the morning's grounds -- when I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Compost. Good girl." It was Tommy, who must've sped from his heavenly abode the moment he heard me banging the hardboiled egg on the counter top.
Read MoreFelix showed me the slot where I was to slide in my two quarters. Then, my seven-year-old grandson skipped away leaving me on my own at the pinball machine. I pulled out the knob near my tummy, watched a tiny silver ball shoot out, and pressed buttons on either side of the cabinet to send flippers flying.
Read MoreShe was sitting in the armchair, her legs stretched out on the footstool.
"Hi, Mom," I said, as I closed the door behind me.
She didn't speak, so I jumped right in. "You're angry, aren't you?"
She sighed and said. "I guess I should be used to it by now. It seems every chance you get -- first in your memoir, and now on stage before an audience of 100 people, mostly strangers -- you sneer at my mothering. When are you going to give it a rest?"
Read MoreUsing both hands, I slide the bathroom scale away from the wall. It is flat, silver-rimmed, angelic, as if no unpleasant news could ever emerge from its opaque surface.
After first resting my palms against the wall to steady myself, I step on the scale. I close my eyes, count to five, and then open to read the digital numbers.
One-Oh-Six
Ā
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