But Hope Is Alive

Thank God for Barack Obama, because besides fixing the economy, healing the sick, stopping global warming, and establishing world peace all on January 21st (which he will), I am counting on him to FIND MY HEAD. Because it's gone.


If only it were in Australia with the rest of Marat Safin's body...but alas.

I'm here in Connecticut buried in snow and dog hair. (I carry my vision & hearing impaired dog around these days. Have I mentioned this? She's SIXTY POUNDS. But after her terrible fall down the stairs on Christmas night, a fall punctuated by a most horrible, soul-piercing yelp - Ho Ho! - I carry her. Upstairs and downstairs. Outside and inside. I carry her everywhere and anywhere she might need to go.)

I found a mouse in my bedroom. Actually, my cat found the mouse, and I woke up one night to find the cat fumbling at something that turned out to be a mouse. In my bedroom. Unfortunately for me, I had just finished reading The Tale of Despereaux to my son and could only see the mouse as a Noble, Valiant Creature. (I know! Where is my head?!) It took a few hours, but I managed to capture the beady-eyed rodent inside a green felt Leprechaun hat I had lying around my bedroom (Yeah, I know). With mouse in hat, I sashayed coatless across my snow-covered backyard before releasing it into the wild. I might even have uttered a soft, "Be safe, little mouse."

Everyone around me is falling down. They faint in locker room showers, slip on black ice, or trip over their shoes. Luckily, they all manage to land on their feet, as fate would have it, but everyone else (and by everyone else I mean ME) ends up feeling dazed and bruised. Ouch.

"Remember Dr. Atkins," my mother is known to repeat, recalling the renowned diet doctor who slipped on black ice and, despite his healthy-sized frame, died of head trauma. How could I not remember Dr. Atkins?

And that is why I refuse to rush. In theory, of course. In actuality, I rush from dawn to dusk. I rush over black ice in heels and despite my two left feet. I rush my blind and deaf and feeble dog out the door each morning as I rush my kids to the bus stop and myself to work - and especially, of course, on days with BEFORE SCHOOL ACTIVITIES (the bane of my existence - well, along with sanctimommies).

I don't have time for either.

But regardless, I navigate through both, all the while wishing I could simply Hit and Run.

That's how my friend Lisa talks about the game of tennis: hitting and running. Running and hitting. You run around, and you hit. The more running and hitting, the less rushing around and losing your head.

It's that simple.

Isn't it, Barack? Isn't it that simple?

Marat? What do think?

[The following to be read with a Russian accent]

"I'm not fighting with myself. Oh, my God. That's how I am. You know, the story of the hippo? The hippo comes to the monkey and said, listen, I'm not a hippo. So, he paint himself like a zebra. He said but he's still a hippo. He said but look at you, you're painted like a zebra but you are a hippo. So then he goes, you know, like I want be a little parrot. So, he put the colours on him and he comes to the monkey and said but, sorry, you are a hippo. So, in the end, you know, he comes and said I'm happy to be a hippo. This is who I am. So, I have to be who I am and he's happy being a hippo." After 1st round defeat to Kiefer, Toronto Master Series 2004

Um, OK then.

Barack? I need you, man.