Green Card

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, I was stricken by a ghastly stomach bug. By 7am, I was preparing to die quietly, curled around a bottle of Pedialyte, when Mr. Berman burst into the room.

"It's your Green Card appointment! At 8am! Come on, I'll drive you!"

I scowled in his general direction, somewhat petulantly, I have to confess.

"Just can't. Sod off."

"You can -- you have to. Or you won't be able to travel next month."

I remembered that I have a business trip in April, by which time I need to have renewed my Green Card. It takes months to get an appointment. I struggled to find a suitable expletive, but ran out of energy and reverted to my father's family-friendly favorite in times of stress.

"GOD give me strength." (It's really quite effective when pronounced with venom, a perfectly acceptable substitute when a meatier alternative is not readily available or appropriate. I consider it the tofu of the swearing world.)

"It'll only take you 15 minutes. My appointment was really fast. Come on."

With this, Mr. Berman hauled me to a sitting position. I pointed out that he evidently hated me and wanted me to die. He ignored me, wisely, and proceeded to assess my clothing. Having vomited all over myself a number of times in the night, I was wearing an odd assortment of garments. He pronounced the yoga pants Green Card-worthy, wrestled my feet into flip flops, and dragged a sweater over the most offensive article, a Marks & Spencer flannel pyjama top in pink plaid, circa 1985, now encrusted with traces of vomit. Since I was gnashing my teeth in a threatening manner throughout this process, he decided against enforced tooth brushing, and dragged me out to the car.

"What about Ted?" I whimpered.

The same stomach bug had also hit my youngest son 24 hours before, and he was off school, lying prone with his head positioned over a bowl in precautionary fashion. He is not a morning person under the best of circumstances, which these decidedly were not. My husband ran back to fetch him, and emerged from the house five minutes later, bearing a limp and pasty-faced Ted, who was also wearing mismatched pyjamas, with snowboots.

"Come on," Mr. Berman said encouragingly. "Let's get it over with -- we'll have you home and back in bed soon."

I lay in the reclined passenger seat with a plastic bag hooked over my ears as we hurtled through rush-hour streets. (During this time, I reconsidered my hardcore eco stance. Plastic may be the devil's substance, but it does have its uses. You couldn't rely on a reusable hessian bag for this task.) Upon arrival at the Citizenship and Immigration Office, I lurched out of the car, and staggered towards the door.

"Why does mummy look like an old lady?" I heard my son ask, as I disappeared into the bowels of the government. It struck me that I did not look like the kind of person you'd want to be granting permanent resident status to. In panic, I wondered if those were the last words I would hear him say. What if they determined I looked infectious (which I most certainly was), or crazy (which I most certainly looked, with my pink plaid flannel, vomit-encrusted pyjama shirt dangling below my sweater) and put me back on the boat? Do they still have boats, for people like me?

Good god -- was I in danger of deportation?

Deported I was not, but the interminable line was almost the end of me. I silently cursed Mr. Berman and his 15-minute promise, and consigned all 23 people on line in front of me to burn in hell, as I stood feverishly, on trembling legs, for almost an hour, with frequent dashes to the restroom. Eventually, an official fingerprinted me (which took a while, on account of my dripping palms), photographed me (which also took a while, on account of the fact that I looked dead on every try), and approved me (and we wonder why the country is in the state it's in).

As I was leaving, I was asked to fill in a customer satisfaction survey. I refrained from complaint, given that I had just infected everyone within a 5-mile radius with what I was beginning to think must be Ebola.

My conscience is somewhat alleviated when I remember that they'll all have the last laugh.

We will live, and our stomachs will recover. But only I will have to live with an official ID for the next 10 years that is a Feverish-Looking, Dear-God-Why-Didn't-I-At-Least Apply-Blush, Exceedingly-Green Card.

Day of Rest

I love Sunday evenings. I find that those last few precious hours of the wekend set the tone for my whole week. Get it right and I retain a modicum of calm organization through Wednesday at least. Get it wrong, and my life goes to hell in a handbasket by 6am Monday morning.

This week does not look good.

Sunday started out pretty well. Realigned my disgruntled chakras at yoga. Got kids out biking and running for familial fresh air and exercise. Planned menu for the week, got groceries, and tidied bills and paperwork into a neat pile (thereby continuing the self-delusion that I am On Top Of It).

The evening continued in a similar vein -- boys persuaded into shower/hairwash/nail clipping routine with only their usual degree of recalcitrance. Older son made dinner. Wrangled boys into bed at a reasonable hour.

How did it all go so wrong?

I was contemplating a leisurely bath and glass of wine, when Mr. Berman noticed that one of our cats was missing. Worse still, we realized that we had not set eyes on her since Saturday morning. Wracked with guilt, I tried not to panic. I persuaded myself that since she was a stray we had taken in, she was used to the mean streets of New York, where god knows there is plenty of vermin for her to go at if she gets peckish.

Mr Berman reacted more productively. He wandered outside at regular intervals, calling her name, each time coming back looking more concerned. I decided to skip the bath in a show of solidarity, but forged ahead with the glass of wine. One needs sustenance in times of stress, I find.

As midnight approached, there was still no sign of the cat. Mr Berman was in a tailspin of guilt by this juncture. He pointed out, in an accusatory fashion, that since she is My cat, she responds best to My voice, so would I get My ass out of the door to help look for her please. Reluctantly, I dragged on some flip flops, and headed off into the night.

I walked around 3 square blocks in my pyjamas, calling her name and muttering angrily. My personal safety did cross my mind at one point, but I looked way too crazy for anyone to mess with.

As I neared home, I passed our neighbors' house, and called the cat's name one last time. In response, I heard a plaintive mew. I tried it again -- and again, she answered back. I'd found her...but where the hell was she?

I tore into the house, and grabbed Mr Berman. We tiptoed into our neighbors' yard, and realized that the mewing was coming from their basement, where it appeared the cat had been stuck for 2 days without food or water. We would have to ring the bell and wake them up.

At this point, I should mention that my neighbors are a lovely family, new to the neighborhood. They are most likely not used to having crazy, barely-dressed, foul-mouthed people ringing their bell at midnight. They are most certainly not used to living next door to us.

They were incredibly gracious, and showed us into their partially-renovated basement. The cat was stuck in a 2-foot high crawl space under the kitchen, so Mrs Neighbor fetched a can of tuna with which to tempt her out. 

The cat was not tempted. 

There was nothing for it -- I had to crawl in after her. It involved a fair amount of wriggling through dirt, and I ended up hanging ass-first out of the crawl space, calling "Here kitty kitty" through gritted teeth.

The cat crawled over to sniff at the tuna. I made a grab for her but missed, hurling the entire can of tuna all over Mrs Neighbor in the process. The cat followed with a yowl, embedding all 10 claws firmly into Mrs Neighbor's back. Mrs Neighbor, quite understandably, started to scream. After a mad chase around the basement, we caught the terrified animal, apologized profusely, and slunk back home, leaving Mrs Neighbor to pick the tuna out of her hair while Mr Neighbor cleaned the blood off her back.

We are awash in shame.

And this was Sunday evening. My lovely, peaceful, organized Sunday evening.

Roll on Monday. I'm ready.

Costco

Every month, we make an excursion to Costco. There is initially great excitement at the prospect (we don't get out much), and everyone eagerly piles into the car. The kids look forward to the sample tasting. Mr Berman mentally eyes the electronics and prepares to make his case for an extra 50" flatscreen TV. I contemplate which new kitchen appliances I will buy and barely use.

What we always forget is that Saturday afternoon at Costco is hell. Thousands of tortured souls who could not resist temptation, forced to spend an eternity consumed with anguish and futile dreams of escape. We remember this as soon as turn into the parking lot. The conversation is always the same.

"Looks crowded."

"Yup."

"Should have come early, right when it opens."

"Yup."

"Or midweek, after work."

"Yup."

We drive around for 15 minutes, and if we are lucky, eventually find a space without fisticuffs. Parking space sabotage is common. People cut you with steely resolve, and would run over their own children in order to secure a spot. I have a strong moral compass when it comes to parking etiquette, and these outrages have me practically frothing at the mouth. By the time I stagger out of the car, I am exhausted by the strong language and hand signs I have been forced to distribute.

It only gets worse.

The place is impossibly crowded, which enforces a sedate shuffle. I am not sedate, nor do I shuffle. I prize energy, efficiency, speed. But these virtues count for nothing in Costco. So I shuffle around with the crowd, as energetically, efficiently, and speedily as I can, practically grinding my teeth to powder in the process.

Here is our shopping list:

Supersize cheddar

Supersize yogurt

Supersize pretzels
Supersize cheerios

Supersize houmous
Supersize rice

Supersize peas

It continues, in the same vein, for 3 pages.

In addition to food, we also review this month's special offer items. Of particular interest: supersize stretch pants, $11.99. Could come in handy. I place 3 pairs in the cart.

My favorite part is the discount wine store, which we visit after check out. At this point in the proceedings, I am invariably losing the will to live, and it is all I can do to prevent myself from ripping the cork out with my teeth and downing the nearest bottle.

So why do we put ourselves through this?

It's not to save money. Any savings on food are rendered neutral by the ready availability of electronics, kitchen appliances, and supersize stretch pants.

We do it, quite simply, to save time.

A few hours of Costco torture once a month gives us precious extra time with the boys each weekend. We can stroll through the greenmarket without worrying whether we have enough cat litter. Spend a little extra time in the library without dashing off to stock up on loo roll. We could even, god forbid, sit down en famille for a civilized breakfast, thanks to our supersize pack of frozen croissants.

Counterintuitive as it might seem, that precious commodity time is now available at your local Costco store.

See you in the dairy aisle.

Face your fears

I have always tried to raise brave young men.

You cut your knee honey? You’ll live. Spilt your milk? Get over it. Afraid you’ll fail? Failure lies in not trying.

I want them to have perspective on their woes, and courage in the face of adversity. 

Of course, this requires me to lead by example. If I want them to face their fears, I have to face mine. Which is how I found myself in a mask and flippers, hyperventilating my way through a dark underground river in Mexico a few weeks ago.

My husband had already faced his fears on the trip. God bless him, he rappelled off an 85-foot platform in the rainforest. This is the man who cannot stand on a ladder without having a turn. He has many great strengths, but a head for heights is not one of them.

So when the boys thought it would be fun to swim through a cave, along a mile-long underground river, I felt forced to acquiesce.

I should point out here that I am not OK with fish. I have worked hard to overcome this phobia, and have made great strides. Bright tropical water with colorful Finding Nemo-type fish 10 feet below me I can do. Brown murky water with brown murky fish 10 inches from my face I cannot.

However, I was determined to set a good example. I snapped on my mask, donned my flippers, and kicked off in a nonchalant fashion. Fifty feet in, I put my head underwater, and immediately came back up, choking in horror. I was surrounded by catfish. And thousands upon thousands of teeny tiny black sprats. 

I clutched Mr Berman’s arm.

"I can't do it."

"Just keep moving"

"There are fish. They're all over me."

"Of course there are fish. It's a bloody river."

I paddled on in a panicky fashion, looking for a suitable exit point. Eventually I spotted a pinpoint of light in the distance, so I dragged myself onto the rocky bank, divested myself of flippers, and started to scale a trail leading upwards, checking my bathing suit obsessively for tiny black sprats.

I emerged, blinking, into the light, and forged a path towards what I hoped would be the cave exit. After a few hundred yards, a sharp piece of gravel embedded itself in my foot. I swore heartily, and stepped back into the only footwear I had available.

I waddled on in my mask and flippers, groping about in my bikini bottoms, in what I knew would become a lifelong search for leftover sprats. A group of passing travelers stared at me in disbelief. I smiled faintly and waved (with the hand that wasn't down my bikini), only to trip over a flipper. 

I staggered to my feet shouting "Backwards! I forgot to walk backwards! You should always walk backwards in flippers!" The passing travelers moved on quickly.

Heeding my own advice, I walked the remaining half mile backwards, bleeding profusely from my left knee, swearing loudly as I fumbled for sprats.

"Where the hell have you been?" yelled Mr Berman. 'We were worried."

"I faced my fears and I don't like them." I yelled back. "That's why they're called fears. I want a margarita."

Not exactly the lesson I had intended to impart, but a valuable one, nevertheless.

When courage fails, there is always tequila.

Car sick

We took a family vacation in Mexico last week. As part of the trip, we were planning to drive around to various points of interest in the Yucatan. The last time we attempted this kind of excursion in Costa Rica, there was -- naturally -- a considerable amount of drama.

We were starting to make our way back to the airport, which involved a long and winding road downhill from the Arenal volcano area. The kids were playing DS in the back seat, looking up at the scenery and grunting appreciatively whenever I pointed something out.

“Look guys! Coati mundis!”

“Hrmp.”

“Wow! The volcano is smoking!”

“Hrmp.”

“Up there! Quick! A toucan!”

“Hrmp.”

This went on for some time, until suddenly, there was an extra loud “Hrmp” from the back seat.

“Is everything OK?”

“Mummy, my tummy hurts…”

Mr Berman and I looked at each other in panic. For my youngest son Ted, this is code for “I am going to vomit, just about now…”

There was no time to react. There never is. A hose of spew came roaring from the back seat. The jaws of satan couldn’t have done a better job. We were covered.

I turned around in horror. Ted was ashen, swaying, and sobbing. “I’m going to be sick agai….nrpaaarrrrrgghhhh.”

I blinked away the carrots.

“Pull over! Pull over!”

“I can’t pull over!”

“What?”

“There is no ‘over’! It’s a (insert expletive) precipice!”

We careened around the corner, and spotted a little town in the distance. When we reached its lone store, we screeched to a halt. Mr Berman tore inside.

“Agua por favor – mucho agua!”

So far, so good. But his Spanglish was about to be put to the test.

“Kitchen rollio?”

Blank stares from the locals.

“Papier de cucina? Por vomitio?”

After much miming, Mr Berman stomped back to the car and we commenced clean up operations.

“The car still stinks. Can you go see if they have any Pine Sol?”

Cursing heartily, Mr Berman braced himself and headed back into the store. Several minutes later he emerged, sweating profusely, clutching a bottle of el bleachio. Apparently, his Spanglish had failed him, so he had been forced to mime out the scene to the entire town, who were gathering in the store to see what the commotion was about.

Of course, by this point, we were late, so late, for our flight. We drove like bats out of hellio, retching all the way from the smell. When we eventually got to the airport, we discovered that Ted’s passport had expired, so we would be unable to re-enter the US. But that’s another story.

I have learned that "relaxing" and "family vacation" just don't belong in the same sentence. You work your ass off all year to pay for adventure, and you get it, in bloody spades.

So I steeled myself for Mexico. This time, I packed my own kitchen rollio.

Karate smackdown

Last Sunday, I got up at 6am and drove my son 30 miles to watch him fight another child in front of approximately 400 people.

It was his first karate tournament.

And mine.

We were, of course, late, my GPS losing its mind somewhere in the middle of Long Island. We arrived at a gallop, sweating and swearing as usual, and found ourselves in a scene straight from Dante. There were 8 combat rings. Masses of competitors. And hundreds of parents lining the hall, seated on bleachers, hollering up a storm.

I pointed my tiny little baby (OK, OK, quite tough 8-year old) in the direction of his ring, and climbed on shaky legs to the top of the bleachers.

I managed to remain tolerably calm, until the first punch was thrown.

It took every ounce of self-control I possess not to throw myself into the ring, grab the other kid by the pants and hurl him to the mat in an unexpected Mama B Smackdown.

Instead I took a breath.

My son goes to a great karate school, run by wonderful people, who place a real emphasis on encouraging positive character development. He has to complete homework assignments about confidence, perseverence, self-control. He is fit and strong. He is not afraid. And, best of all, he gets to do really cool-looking karate moves that he practices day after day.

So I sat on my hands. Shut my mouth. And tried really, really hard not to pee my pants.

He did rather well. As he proudly clutched his trophy, he explained his strategy for success. He noticed that the other kid didn't have on a face guard, just a head guard, so he aimed straight for the nose.

"Marvellous!" I heard myself saying. "Smart move! Next time, make sure you follow through with an axe kick to the chest."

This is his sport, and he loves it. 

And while I haven't quite got the hollering bit down yet, I will be there on the bleachers, cheering him on.

P.S. For karate classes in Brooklyn, check out urbandojo.com

The comeback

It's been a rough month.

Two rounds of antibiotics, Mr B in San Francisco, early meetings, Mr B in England, long workdays, Mr B working weekends, cold weather...all fine excuses for not getting my ass out of the house for any form of exercise whatsoever.

I was inspired back into action by an impossibly kind and wildly optimistic doctor. As she checked me over, she smiled. "You have a great heart rate. Nice and slow. Are you an athlete?"

I almost kissed her.

There is no way I can pass as an athlete. I am a tired and harried 40-something who runs when she can. But if my heart has dreams of athletic glory, I'm not going to let it down.

So I gave myself a pep talk. Do you want to be someone who does things, or someone who talks about doing things? What kind of 50 do you want to be? And my balls-to-the-wall favorite, Just Do It.

Then I dug out my running tights and laid out my sneakers, so that I could spring straight into them Monday morning.

While I didn't exactly spring, I did manage to crawl in the general direction of my gear. It took me five minutes to get my running tights on -- I was literally rolling around on the floor. Good god, I've only had a month off. Loser tights just can't handle it.

Eventually I staggered to my feet, sweating and swearing, encased in lycra like an overstuffed bratwurst.

And I went out the door.

That's all you have to do. Get out the door.

Because once you're out, you're glad you run. Even when it's freezing. Even when you cut it short. Even when you suck.

Sure enough, yesterday was freezing. I cut it short. And I most certainly sucked. But 2 miles is better than no miles, for a wannabee athletic heart.

Cat pee

I am no longer distressed by the fact that I tear through life in a state of partial undress smelling of dirty laundry. But when one of my children suffers similar indignity, I am forced to question our perpetually dramatic life.

This morning, as usual, there was panic. My youngest went running out for the bus without his backpack, so Mr Berman, in hot pursuit, picked it up.

"It's wet...ugh...it stinks...Jesus (insert colorful expletive) Christ, the (repeat expletive) cat peed all over the (repeat expletive) backpack!"

Mr Berman dropped the backpack rather quickly.

I sprang into panic management mode.

"Find new backpack. Hurry. Homework out of backpack. Into new backpack. You don't have time to smell your hand. Go. Go. GO."

Mr Berman ran gagging out of the house with the replacement backpack, leaving me with the antibac wipes. I gingerly mopped the floor, and soon forgot the incident.

Until this afternoon, when I received a plaintive phone message from my son.

"Mummy, I need to tell you something. When I got to school, all my homework was wet. And my books. They were wet too. The teacher made me throw it all away. She made me wash my hands. Everything smells."

The shame is overwhelming.

We are the family that sends our children to school awash in cat urine.

There is, however, an upside.

We now have an original excuse that I can reprise as necessary. "The dog ate my homework" is so overused.

Special offer

I recently decided that my family needed a morning motivator. The early hours of every day are a highly charged affair in my household, with drama, panic, and bad language in abundance, all before most sensible people are awake.

Understanding the power of a special offer, I decided to motivate the kids to get downstairs faster with the promise of pancakes. Naturally, they leapt out of bed with alacrity the next morning, and sat eagerly awaiting their cooked breakfast at 6:30 am. What I had failed to think through was that I would have to be compos mentis enough to operate the stove at this ungodly hour. I shambled through however, and everyone left the house well fed, fully dressed, and on good terms.

Of course, the kids requested that the special offer be extended. We now renegotiate the terms every night. I have been whipping up boiled eggs, fried eggs, oatmeal with syrup and fixings, waffles with fruit and cream -- anything that will get them up on time with a smile on their face. If I brushed my hair, I could almost pass for Martha Stewart.

This sounds like a lot of effort. But it takes me less time to crack an egg and slam a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, than it does to persuade them out of bed, adjudicate breakfast disputes, and run around screaming like my ass is on fire.

I am secretly hoping that breakfast will eventually come full circle. I will be able to present Cheerios as the special offer of the day, and it will have the kids excited.

Novelty and nostalgia, all in one easy, get-it-while-you-can bowl.

Frostbite

I think I'm going to lose 3 toes.

It was a bit of a morning. Mr Berman had to leave at 5:00 am to catch a flight to San Francisco. He brought me a cup of tea, bless his heart, but it was all downhill from there.

I managed to hoist myself into a sitting position, and switched on the laptop to get a head start. Time ran away with me -- suddenly, it was 6:45 am, the kids were still asleep, and we had 30 minutes to get up and out to the bus stop.

The boys were not exactly fired up and ready to go. I did manage to get us all dressed before 7:00 am, which I consider to be something of an achievement. I shoveled vitamins down their throats in lieu of more adequate sustenance. I yelled "Come ON guys" a lot.

We left the house in a scramble, I as usual, dressed in my floor-length padded down coat, to cover the offensive array of articles I had managed to grab from the dirty laundry. I did not have time to find socks, and grabbed the nearest footwear in my size.

Flip flops.

Initially, I did not realize that it was sub-arctic -- my attention was distracted when the door fell off its hinges as I closed it. I simply could not shut the damn thing. I wrestled with it and swore heartily for a minute, then had to make a split-second decision -- miss the bus and wait in for handyman, or catch the bus and return to burgled house and murdered cats. I chose the latter, and went haring off after the boys, flip flops and floor-length padded down coat flapping in the icy breeze.

As we reached the bus stop, I realized that I could not feel my feet. I mentioned this, and the boys looked down, horrified, at my flip flops.

"You're wearing flip flops."
"I know."
"That's silly."
"I know."
"It's really cold today."
"Bloody hell. I KNOW."

The bus came, and I hobbled home. Half an hour later, 3 toes on my right foot are still white. I remember with growing concern that Scott of the Antarctic perished from a combination of starvation, exhaustion, and extreme cold. While god knows I'm no danger of starving, I panic that the other two combined are very likely to cause my demise.

Mentally fast-forward to the emotional eulogy at my funeral.

"Tragic as her untimely expiration from exhaustion and frostbite may be, at least she didn't shame her sons by wearing slippers to the bus stop."

Amen.

Lying down

I'm getting bedsores.

Have been trying to get some rest in order to get over a bad cold. But instead, I have been sitting up in bed for several hours, trying to stay on top of things. I did this on Monday too. Foolish, I know.

My arse is killing me.

Lying down now.

Just remembered something else I need to take care of. Must send comments on copy.

Done. Lying down again.

Damn. Forgot to reschedule the 12 meetings I should be in right now.

Taken care of. Lying down again.

Now the kids are coming in the front door. Is it 3:00 pm already?

They want to lie down with me. So do the cats. Multi-Species Fight Club ensues. Someone stands on my hair, cat's claw gets stuck in my arm, suddenly there is a knee in my eye.

I use reprehensible language.

Send kids down to the kitchen to eat cake. This will bite me in the ass later when they come back upstairs for Sugared-Up Fight Club.

Where's my mum? I need tucking in with a nice cup of tea and a hot water bottle.

I guess I have to accept what she knew all along.

Lying down is no longer an option.

The climb

Why, oh why, did I think it a good idea to climb 66 flights of the Rockefeller Center yesterday? Yes, it was to raise money for MS, a very worthy cause. But I did this last year, and remembered the ghastly experience in agonizing detail, so I should have known to bow out gracefully this time.

But, as is often the case, the train had left the station. I had strong-armed colleagues, appointed a team captain, and told everyone and their mother I was doing it, so do it I must.

I set my alarm for 5:45 am. Turned it off. Woke up in a panic at 6:17 am. Thought for a minute about not showing up. I could stay home and snuggle with my kids. Or at least argue with them about what's for breakfast. Decided it wasn't honorable to bail. Drove like a maniac. Met my bleary-eyed colleagues at 7:10 am -- way earlier than should be legal.

The group was in higher spirits than they had any right to be. Bets were laid. Jokes were made. And lots of photos were taken. For god's sake -- had they no mercy? I am way past the age where I can face a camera before noon, and certainly never without lipstick. I hadn't even had a cup of tea to brace me.

The siren (unnecessarily loud) went off at 7:30 am and up we climbed. And you know what? We all made it. And we enjoyed it. (Actually, make that "enjoyed" it. I enjoy a good sleep, a good wine, a good laugh. A good climb? It's just not the same kind of "enjoy".)

The athletes in the group ripped up the stairs with startling ease. The chap who hadn't worked out since college (lifts drinks I gather, but that's about it) made it up alive. I climbed and swore, climbed and swore, emerging into the sunlight after 20 minutes with a limp fist pump.

All fine achievements. But they pale in comparison with the achievements of people we passed along the way. The lady with MS climbing one slow step at a time on her walking frame. Very young kids climbing to support parents affected by the disease. Firefighters climbing with all of their gear -- yes, all of it.

It was humbling to be in their company. And I was so, so proud of my colleagues for getting out of bed to join them.

You know, something just occurred to me. They have 2 water stops on the way up. Next year, I will ask them to serve mimosas. Climb and sip, climb and sip. It will be so much more civilized.

Paranoid

I love to ski. I didn't learn until my twenties, so I go about it with the zeal of a born-again convert.

This explains why, at 5:45 am this morning, I was rousing my boys for a 15-hour odyssey from Brooklyn to Aspen, via Newark, Kansas City, and Denver.

Yes, we could have flown a little more directly. But Mr Berman was not able to join us, and I felt guilty spending more than was strictly necessary on a vacation without him.

So I found myself at Denver airport this afternoon, embarking on what I had convinced myself was an easy, breezy 150-mile jaunt through the mountains. Turns out my memory had failed me, and it was a 200-mile twisty, turny, plunge-to-your-death-in-a-blizzard kind of drive; just the kind of thing you need to ease you into a relaxing vacation.

Apparently they have had a lot of snow this year. So I was persuaded to upgrade to a larger SUV, the size of a school bus, which would 'sit me higher above the road'. I have driven this route many times, but was never seated quite high enough to appreciate that at any given moment, I was in danger of driving off a precipice. It did not improve my enjoyment.

The kids had a fine old time, playing Zombie Smash in the back seat, and exploring the decibel capacity of the rental-bus stereo. With no intention of irony, they played Black Sabbath's 'Paranoid' repeatedly, as I white-knuckled my way through the foothills of the Rockies.

There was a particularly interesting spell near Vail, when a fast, hard blizzard moved in, just as a truck driver decided not to let me pass. Icy glares were exchanged on icier roads. He'd evidently been watching reruns of Duel.

I water-planed across the road near Snowmass, towards a ravine in the dark. I asked my kids 5 minutes later -- as soon as I managed to unclench my teeth -- whether they had noticed anything. They had. Apparently I had used words that are not OK.

But we are here. I managed to prise my hands off the steering wheel, since when they have been firmly clutching a glass of cab. The boys were fabulous company, and I am looking forward to wrestling them into their ski gear at 6:30 am tomorrow. May need another glass of cab at that point; not sure tea will hit the spot.

Passenger Berman

I had to send an email. I had been trying to get to it since I staggered out of bed at 6:01am, but with a 6:45 am hotel checkout, a 7:00 am meeting time, and the laws of physics working against me, it just didn't happen.

So I found myself at LAX at 4:10 pm typing like the clappers at Wolfgang Puck's pizza emporium (don't drink the Chardonnay -- ghastly) when Winnie and Barbara, my trusty colleagues, realized we should have boarded 10 minutes ago.

"Go! Go!! GO!!! GO!!!!" I roared in panic. "Delay them! Hold the plane!! Don't let them leave without me!!!" (Increasingly feel like my life is an extended series of exclamation marks.)

For the second time this week, I delayed a plane and 327 other passengers. I ran, swearing lustily, up to the gate, trailing coats, bags, and computer cables, just as the attendant made his final announcement.

"Passenger Berman. Passenger Berman. This is your final boarding call. Please make your way IMMEDIATELY to Gate 78. Passenger Berman. This is your final chance for boarding. We all want to go now, you selfish old cow."

I will be flying again on Saturday. With my children. Had better school them in the art of No-Shame Flying, and Delaying Flights for Hysterical Mothers, fast.