Sleeping Around

One queen-sized bed, one foldout couch, one double-sized bed, one futon, and one king-sized bed. These are places where I rested my head on a recent visit to hometown Chicago. 

My initial motivation in accepting invitations from five dear ones was to save hotel fees. And, while it might have been easier to settle into just one of the proffered rooms, and not have to schlep luggage from car trunk to car trunk, each visit brought its own reward: a chance to deeply bond with my host. For despite being acquainted with these friends for years -- that ranged from three to sixty-five -- we rarely had the luxury that dozens of uninterrupted hours could bring.

Each morning, as I drank coffee that was thoughtfully prepared the night before, I'd listen for the opening of a bedroom door, the sound of slippered feet coming my way, and the familiar greeting from a bathrobed friend.

As I'd watch each enter her kitchen, pull a mug from a cabinet, and pour her hot drink, I felt as if I had been reunited with a long-lost sister. But it wasn't DNA that matched us, simply years of traveling together through life's joys and sorrows.  A trio of these friends had known me through first marriage and divorce, and all cleaved to me through my second husband's illness and death.

In the dark Evanston, Morton Grove, and Chicago mornings, we'd bring each other up-to-date on the goings on during the nearly five months since I departed from my longtime home. And even though I chat frequently with these friends, and view Facebook status reports, these early morning kitchen conversations were as precious as an heirloom.

These recent scenes were what I had been attempting to create many years ago with my daughters. When I was still living in Chicago and they would visit from Boston or Los Angeles, I would plead for them to stay at our house. After all, Tommy and I had a spare room with a queen--sized bed that was decorated with photographs and paintings of these girls and their families. I would often joke to my friends that this space was a shrine to my kids.

I had tried to explain the joy of seeing a loved one slowly drift down the stairs from the second floor to the kitchen, where I had been up for hours.  Their hair tossed like brunette haystacks, eyes still sleepy from travel and time differences, crinkly tee shirts and shorts serving as pajamas, and faces still unfolded from sleep.

While one daughter easily accepted my invitation, the other insisted on a hotel. "I'll be over first thing in the morning," she'd promise.

"It's not the same thing," I'd say into the phone, my left hand cradling cheek and chin. How could I explain that the showered, dressed, and put-together young woman who would be ringing my doorbell was not the one I had longed to envelop.

Once though, when both daughters were traveling with their children, the recalcitrant gal agreed to stay over. I can still see my grandchildren leaping from bed to air mattress, jumps that doubled my delight.

After Tommy died and I moved to my River North high rise, one of its bonuses was a fully furnished guest apartment. I was in heaven! Now, just 10 floors down from my 19th floor unit, my clan was tucked in for easy access. As soon as I'd wake, I'd check my cell phone to learn who was up, who wanted coffee, and who was available for breakfast. Although they weren't within my four walls, I could win the early morning scenes I relished.

Now that I live in Los Angeles and are about three miles away from my offspring, I will frequently hire a Lyft or Uber to take me in the 6 a.m. darkness to their house. Along with my just-awoken daughters, I now am blessed with grandchildren still wearing their own nighttime outfits, their hair adorably messed, and yawns intermixed with "Hi, Grandma."

In a few months, I'll likely venture from LA and return to Chicago to again see my left-behind dear friends. Because I was a good guest -- stripped linens and picked up an occasional restaurant check -- I assume their queen-, double, foldout, futon, and king-sized beds will welcome me. If not, could I sleep at your place? An air mattress will do, but you must promise a first-in-the-morning cup of coffee with a sisterly hug for me.

,

Woof

A 33-lb. bag of Science Diet costs $48 at the Petco on Hollywood and Bronson. I could skip that store and instead purchase a natural product recommended by the salesperson at Tailwaggers on Franklin, but that food might be more expensive.

I don't own a dog, but lately I've been haunting pet stores and imagining that I indeed have one. Not a large breed like Sasha or Buddy, the Golden Retrievers that once lived with Tommy and me, but instead, a mid-sized rescue. (Our dogs died at ages 9 and 14, their male owner at 77.)

Currently, I am renting a condo in Los Angeles, and my lease states that pets aren't allowed, so my store visits are more like fantasies. But, I have declared that at lease end, I will move to an apartment that permits dogs.

Having said that, I will foster a dog. By visiting the Adoption Fairs on occasional Saturdays at Tailwaggers, I've learned that an organization -- Dogs Without Borders -- "will supply all food, flea meds, leashes, collars, tags, and any vet needs throughout the fostering process. If you are fostering puppies, you will also be supplied with crates/pens and puppy pads. Food and care items are typically delivered with the dog and you are then resupplied at Adoption Fairs."

Doesn't that make you feel better? It did me; it reduces my skittishness at the cost of the 33-lb. bag of Science Diet and doodads that I was ogling. Also, I won't pick a puppy; it's an older dog for me. Tommy and I adopted Buddy at age 1-1/2. He was already housebroken, and I think because he was labeled an adult when we welcomed into our loving embraces, he was the sweetest, easiest dog ever.

Sasha, who was a purebred, was a bit of a handful from puppy to senior. We loved her dearly, but she did not like other dogs. And if you have such a temperamental bitch (allowed language), you know how difficult is to walk that sassy girl without her threatening to harass or bite another pooch. But, I must credit Sasha for leading me to Tommy. You see, he and I lived on the same street. It was 1996, I was divorced from my first spouse, and I was an early morning dog walker. Tommy was a fitness buff and jogged at the same hour. So every time we'd meet in the purple darkness, he would stop and pet Sasha. One thing led to another, and you know the rest of the story.

"Why do you want a dog?" my daughter, Jill, had asked when I was first pitching the idea. "You can come over and cuddle ours whenever you need a fix."

Jill's two giant Labradoodles are indeed lovable, but I'm seeking a mid-sized dog to hang out at my house; one who will welcome me with ecstatic whoops when I enter, and who will jump onto my bed at nighttime. (In my mind, there is no reason to have a dog if he/she can't be on the bed. Same with furniture. But, that's just me.)

My other daughter, Faith, said, "Do you really want the hassle? Whenever you're out, you'll have to rush home to walk the dog. Do you need that?"

I know my kids are trying to get me to slow down and think rationally -- actions completely foreign to my personality. What they don't understand is: despite my moving to Los Angeles to be closer to this family, these dear ones cannot assuage my particular loneliness.

Oh, I can book lunches with new friends every day of the week and I can visit with my concerned kin any time I desire. And, I can hug my grandchildren at will. But if you've experienced the emptiness once filled by a loving husband and a loyal, funny dog, you understand the void.

As any dog owner will tell you, potential spouses aren't the only humans one can attract with a canine at the end of your leash. Friends! At nearly every neighborhood I've lived in, there was at least one new furry friend for dog and one charming person for me. Perhaps we'll meet our duo at my next apartment building?

The only problem I can envision with my plan is the possibility of falling in love with my foster pet. What happens then to my budget? The $48 bags of Science Diet? The meds, leash, treats, vets bills that won't be funded if pooch and I skip from foster to adoption? Well, how about all of us just sitting and staying for now? Good girl. Good boy.

Game

The only sounds I could hear were the clacking of small Bakelite tiles and the calls of "crack, bam, dot" from the four women seated around the table. As I peeked over the shoulder of one of the players, who was allowing this learner to sit in, I studied the designs on the vivid squares filling the center of the table.

The tiles were imprinted with Chinese characters and symbols, and the women's exclamations came as each one discarded a tile she had picked up, or one plucked from the rack facing her.

You may recognize that I was observing the ancient game of Mah Jongg. What you may not fathom is what Elaine Soloway was doing at the table. For wasn't she the gal who swore she shunned card-, table-, and hide and seek- games? Isn't this the former Chicagoan who insisted she hadn't the patience for anything lasting longer than 30 minutes?

Moreover, isn't she the Los Angeles transplant who declared she preferred solitary, rather than group pursuits, especially those not under her control?

So what are we to make of this picture of our Elaine perched on the edge at several Mah Jongg games, her view focused on her teacher's line-up and folder outlining the possible hands.

Sit for a bit, as I pull back the curtain to this recent phenomenon when I (time to switch to first person) decided to discard all of my restrictions, including my previous snobbery about the game.

My conversion -- aptly enough -- came at a weekend retreat for the women of Temple Israel of Hollywood. That's the synagogue I attend for Saturday morning Torah study. My friend Thelma, who chauffeurs me for the weekly lessons, urged me to sign up for the retreat. "You'll get a chance to meet women of all ages and enjoy the Ojai scenery and clean air," she said.

I hesitated before agreeing, because as I have stated, I was a non-joiner; and on top of that, was not a camper. Although there were opportunities to attend summer sleepover camp during my childhood, I was a scaredy-cat. I never wanted to leave my mama; and since I was slightly pudgy and uncoordinated, I preferred for my school vacations the concrete sidewalks of Division Street or the greenery of Humboldt Park. 

Despite all that, something spurred me to sign up for the weekend retreat, which offered exercise classes, Jewish learning, hikes, and Mah Jongg. But the first entry in my journal on the morning after check-in, read: I have made a mistake. I don't belong here. Everyone knows more about Judaism than I. Where will I get my coffee when I wake before breakfast? I can't figure out the heat in this room. I wish I could leave early.

Oy, such a complainer! Even I got tired of me. Then, I said to myself: Would it kill you to get with the program? Go to beginner Mah Jongg! Instead of whining, be game.

So, I did, and as I sat at the table with women decades younger than myself, I imagined my dearly departed mother and her sisters hovering overhead. I could almost hear Min, Rose, Etta, and Molly clicking the tiles. I could listen to their conversations, gossip, and laughter. I could practically smell their perfume. I easily saw their beautiful faces -- pinup girls all of them -- and their smiles as they relished their time together.

Let's pause for a bit of history:  While Mah Jongg originated in China in the 19th century; it became part of Jewish life during World War II. In fact, 12 Jewish women who raised money at tournaments for various relief organizations formed the National Mah Jongg League. The game spread in the 1950s and 1960s to our mothers' card tables. And currently, it's popular among younger women. For example, my Ojai teachers were in their '30's and '40's.

Now, I'm not sure if I'll ever really learn the game or even play it again. But, that's not the moral of this story. It is this: sometimes you can leave your comfort zone and try something you've previously avoided. Sometimes, you can say to yourself: would it hurt you to play? Would it be a disaster to stay awake past your normal bedtime? Could you possibly enjoy being part of a group? Would it kill you to take directions from someone other than yourself?

As for my misgivings cited in my Day One journal, it turned out that I loved the Shabbat services despite not knowing the Hebrew lyrics and melodies, I joined new friends at an early morning coffee run, and the low heat setting in my room kept me toasty.

Crack, bam, dot!

The Hat

The hat cost $35, more than I had hoped to spend. But this straw Fedora that I found at a stall at The Grove had the advantage of an adjustable interior band, which could be pulled tighter, making it smaller. This feature -- devised by the Chinese manufacturer -- created a hat that would fit my teensy head.

So, I sprung for it. I had been seeking such a hat for weeks. I was worried that my constant baseball cap wearing was thinning my hair. Although a Google search denied baseball caps as the culprits, the fact that I had been wearing them daily against Los Angeles' strong sun, pointed to those canvas covers as guilty parties.

"We all lose some hair as we get older," my daughter, Faith, who has a luscious head of dark brown hair, said.

"But, you can't see it on your head," I said. "With my gray hair, my scalp shows all of the empty places."

I figured that the straw hat, with a weave that allows air to flow through, would not create the heat generated by a baseball cap. Perhaps, my disappearing shoots would magically reappear.

So although the Fedora was purchased as sort of a prescription, I soon found that it was bringing me other benefits: people were stopping me on the street, or calling out from cars with, "Hey, I like your hat!"

With each salute, I'd preen like a beauty queen, which reminded me of my husband Tommy and his Stetson. I can't remember where we bought it, but it's easy for me to recall my late husband's adoration of that hat. Normally, he was a baseball cap kind of guy, and we had upper closet shelves full of imprinted varieties to confirm that. There were dozens hawking colleges, towns, golf courses, and museums.

When we met in 1996, Tommy was already losing his hair. He often told this silly joke: I have wavy hair; it's waving me goodbye. Those in earshot would groan, but that didn't stop him from repeating it whenever he got the chance. And because I found him to be so compatible, so endearing, I'd grin, no matter the number of reruns.

After we married in 1998, and he continued to lose his hair, I urged him to shave it all off. "It's sexy," I would say. What I kept to myself was, Please stop with the comb overs.

Tommy saved his beloved Stetson for evenings out and he would pair it with a leather jacket. This combo pleased him so much, that whenever he'd don this outfit, he'd spend a few minutes sashaying in front of the open hall closet doors.

After Tommy died, and before I left the house we lived in together, I had an estate sale. "Estate" is really a misnomer. The home we shared was a modest three-bedroom, two-story, with a large back yard and front porch. I'm not sure why you need to know that; it's just that I like to resurrect that image whenever I find an opening.

Anyway, now that I've made both of us sad with that picture of lost domesticity, here's another teary tidbit: I included all of my husband's clothing in that sale, including his Stetson. I don't know why I did that; why couldn't I have held on to the Stetson? I have his ashes, his watch, his wedding ring, and his wallet. I could've added the Stetson to the mini-memorial I've set up on my nightstand. But, you're right; maybe it would've been too much.

When I leave the house now, and place my Fedora upon my evidently smaller than normal head, I don't do the cute dance Tommy used to do. But, I do admit to a bit of showing off in front of the round mirror in my entry hall.  I have to do some adjusting before my exit, for although the hat fits width-wise, it is somewhat tall, so I squish it down a bit to look just so.

Of course I wish I could have Tommy on my arm with his Stetson. We'd be an adorable pair; each hat covering up our steady hair loss. But, that's not to be, so I'll wear my straw and tip it to my guy who taught me how to stylishly wear a hat.

This Roommate Feels Familiar

Her red Van canvas shoes, size 7, are parked under the chair in the hallway. They are nestled next to my weathered Sacony running shoes, size 5. Every morning, when I wake in my Los Angeles apartment, and spy our shoes side-by-side, I feel happy. It's the feeling that originated decades ago when I recovered from anesthesia and was informed, it's a girl.

My daughter, Faith, was my firstborn, into the world 18 months before her sister, Jill. For half of the year, Faith lives in Boston, with her 12-year-old daughter, Betsy, and their extended family. This is Faith's second season writing on her sister Jill's Amazon Series, "Transparent." Instead of couch surfing like she did during Season One, she has accepted my invitation to be my roommate.

"We'll see how it goes," I had said, when upon arriving in L.A., I opted to seek a larger apartment that could accommodate the two of us, rather than a studio for just me. I was pretty confident the arrangement would work -- Faith is an easygoing sort of gal -- and that the money she would contribute to my rent would make the tab easier for me.

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Momma," she said. I should mention she is also sweetly optimistic.

I insisted Faith take the one bedroom for herself because I wake at 4 a.m. and jump into my home office. I purchased an IKEA sofa bed, which is providing me with excellent sleep. "It's my own studio," I say, when she repeats her guilt for taking the bedroom.

"I can get up, turn on lights, make coffee, write in my journal, and get on my laptop. I couldn't do that if you were on the sofa bed," I add, smug about my longtime routine.

Of course, we've each had to make compromises to oblige our lifestyles. I watch my critically acclaimed TV shows before she gets home from work. Then, I turn the remote over to her for reality shows. "The Celebrity Apprentice" and "The Real Housewives of Atlanta" and "Beverly Hills" are her favorites.

Faith turns off the living room television at 8 p.m. when it's lights out for this early bird. Often, I'll lounge on the opened sofa bed and try to watch her shows, but having Donald Trump being the last image you see before dreamland is not something I'd recommend.

I don't insist that Faith make her bed or tidy up her room before she leaves for work. It's a method I employed when she and her sister were toddlers: I just close the door. I suppose I should tell you I was a calm parent, madly in love with my two daughters. In my eyes, they could do no wrong.

I raised them without judgment because I wanted to do the opposite of my mother. Their grandmother undoubtedly loved me, but her criticism of my weight, my slouch, and other attributes that reminded her of my father, who she nagged often, wounded me.

I was also guided by a classic parenting book, "Children The Challenge" by Rudolf Dreikurs. His lessons "natural consequences" and "let the children handle their own battles" suited my style. Consequently, I never interfered if they were fussing with each other. I simply stayed out of their disagreements, and encouraged them to figure out how to reach a satisfactory conclusion.

Back to the adjustments as a roommate: Faith has to remind me, "Please close the bathroom door, Momma."

I reply, "Oh, sorry, I'm so used to living on my own." But, this is false, for when Tommy was alive; we never closed the bathroom door. In fact, I think that was one of my favorite parts about our compatible 14-year-marriage. Keep the bathroom door open to continue conversations. For comfort, dispense of my bra when in the house. Leave on the hall table the baseball cap that covered his balding dome.

Actually, in many ways Faith reminds me of the pleasure and ease of living with Tommy. There's the heart bounce when the front door opens and a familiar voice announces, "I'm home," and their appreciation of my simple dinners. Tommy would gladly eat anything I cooked; my daughter is grateful for the Gelson's-prepared food that awaits her at day's end.

These comparisons bring up another reminder: Tommy's size 9 running shoes would sit at the bottom of the stairs in our Chicago house. That's where I would perch, too, to remove my 5's. Two pair of shoes nestled side-by-side; what could be sweeter, or so familiar.