In My Next Life: The Trials and Tribulations of Skinny Legs

BY DAVID NICHOLS

Lately I’ve been checking out other guys quite a bit. Don’t get me wrong. Things are fine between N. and me. It’s not that I’m contemplating…a lifestyle change. I’m just interested in how my physique compares to the average man on the street. Specifically, I’m concerned about my legs.

Actually, I’m not concerned about my legs. They get me where I want to go, which is basically from my house to Ventura Boulevard and back. But N. and My Beautiful Grown Daughter find them worrisome. “They’re like cute little sticks,” N. tells me. “Yeah, you could be a supermodel,” My Beautiful Grown Daughter chimes in. Great. I house her, feed her, clothe her, educate her for sixteen years and now she’s assailing my body parts. “My legs are perfectly fine,” I say. “They’re good looking. Better than most people’s.” N. turns to MBGD, ignoring my protests. She sighs. “He also thinks he’s five-foot ten.”

I knew this was coming. “I didn’t say I am five-foot ten. I said I used to be five-foot ten. Now I’m five-foot seven. People shrink as they get older.” “Honey, you’re five-foot six. I measured you, remember?” It’s true. She did. The Boy and I each have a pencil mark on the wall behind her office door. They’re nearly the same height, but I think he was standing on tip-toe. “You were never five-foot ten, my love,” she says soothingly. She sounds like Auntie Em assuring Dorothy that her visit to Oz was all a dream. “I was five-foot ten,” I insist. “It was before I ever knew you.” “It must’ve been before you ever knew me too,” says My Beautiful Grown Daughter. I start to feel like I’ve been worn down another couple of inches just during this conversation.

Understand, all this discussion about my pins, as the ’40’s wisecrackers used to call them, comes from genuine love and concern. Over the course of my late wife’s illness I lost a fair amount of weight due to stress. It’s not a method I’d recommend, even in a get-scrawny-fast-as-you-can culture like ours. I understand pole dancing works pretty well, and I’m sure it’s more fun to watch. Anyway, by the time the lovely N. came along I was definitely a fixer-upper and one of her first priorities was to put twenty pounds on me—hopefully in the right areas. Now, thanks to her delicious organic cooking and my natural indolence, the renovation’s more than half done. In fact, I’d venture to say the belly portion of the project is complete. But there’s still work to be done.

The conversation between N. and MBGD turns to another tale of the tape. “I measured his thigh,” N. tells her. “It’s smaller than mine.” MBGD shakes her head sympathetically. Personally, I don’t see a problem. N. has a beautiful figure and if there’s a discrepancy between her measurements and mine I say “Vive la difference!” But, as is often the case, there’s an unwritten lady-law I know nothing about. “Your boyfriend’s not supposed to have smaller thighs than you do,” N. tells me. My Beautiful Grown Daughter nods in agreement. “It’s depressing,” she explains. How she’d know that is beyond me. When her Handsome Folksinger Boyfriend isn’t writing catchy tunes with intelligent, sensitive lyrics he’s at the gym, lifting stupefying amounts of metal. His thighs look like they should be in the display case at Honeybaked. It occurs to me that I may have to start interacting with L.A. Fitness more than the one time a month when I send them my membership fee. But I don’t want to rush into anything. For a man with my apparently delicate constitution it could be dangerous.

This whole issue has taken on some additional urgency as the departure date for our vacation in France draws near. It seems inevitable that at some point I’ll be wearing shorts and, given how concerned the French are with aesthetics, it’s possible my exposed gams might stir up trouble. Still, I saw a glimmer of hope one night when we were watching Househunters International on HGTV. The show’s become a favorite of ours. Watching couples from one country shop for houses in a foreign land you come to realize that the phrase “They want how much for this?!” is universal. It really brings us all together in a warm, fuzzy, “We are the world and we’re broke” kind of way. In this particular episode a British couple is looking for a home on the Costa Del Sol. Nice for them, but the important thing is the male househunter is about my size and age and he’s wearing shorts. True, he’s British, not American, and he’s traipsing around Spain, not France, but hey—close enough. “Look at that guy,” I say to N. “His legs are no bigger than mine and nobody’s looking twice.” “Honey,” she says, “his legs are bigger than yours because he’s much taller than you.” “He’s not that much taller than me. He’s like…five-ten.” She glances up from her home decorating magazine. She likes to thumb through them while we watch the show. If we ever do buy a house in France she’ll be ready. “He’s way taller than five-ten,” she says. “You know you’re not a good estimator.”

She’s got me there. A few months ago she was coming with me to see MBGD’s Handsome Folksinger Boyfriend at a club in Hollywood. Knowing I’d been there before, she asked me how big it was. I told her the place probably held about three or four hundred people. Turns out their posted legal capacity’s on the shy side of two hundred. Since then nobody in the family’s willing to trust my guess about the size of anything. I don’t really care. It’s not like I’m planning to run for fire marshal or anything. Still, I’m not ready to give up. I draw N.’s attention to Brit-In-Shorts again. “Maybe he’s not really as big as he looks,” I suggest. “The television camera does that, you know.” “Honey, your legs are still skinnier than his. And TV makes you look heavier. Not taller.” “Hey, they’re shooting in Europe,” I say. “Maybe it works differently over there.” Too late. She’s gone back to planning her dream bathroom. That’s it. I’m going to have to go to the gym.

I manage to remember where the place is and present myself at the front desk. I’m hoping my membership doesn’t work like insurance, where you pay on it for years and then they raise your rates the first time you actually use it. If it does the girl behind the counter doesn’t mention it. She blows the dust off my keychain tag and checks me in. “Have a good workout,” she says. I figure if I can manage to walk out under my own power later that’ll qualify as a good workout. I head to the locker room and change into the gym clothes N. bought me to replace my Clinton-era running shorts. (Not that I ever ran anywhere during the Clinton era.) I sit down at one of the machines located next to a wall-sized mirror, wondering whether all this is really necessary. Then I catch a glimpse of myself from an unfamiliar angle. Suddenly, there’s no denying it. My legs really do have a certain stick-like appearance. I look like an Olsen twin with a five-day stubble. It’s not good. I look up at CNN on the overhead television and decide I’d better take a cue from the beleaguered BP engineers and start pumping as fast as I can.

That night N. and I are sitting on the couch watching the NBA playoffs. “So,” I tell her, “I went to the gym today and it turns out you’re right. I do have skinny legs.” “See?” she says. “I’m glad you admit it. Now you can start to put some meat on those bones.” We’re watching what will turn out to be the Lakers’ final game against Oklahoma City. The smell of victory is in the air and a raft of celebrity fans have turned out to savor it. The camera picks out Tom Cruise and Jeffrey Katzenberg sitting together. “Look at that,” I say. “Two of the shortest men in Hollywood, side by side.” The shot changes to a close-up of David Spade in the stands. “Wow,” I say. “He’s short too.” N. smiles, teasing me. “Maybe the Lakers are doing a short-guys-in-show-business promotion. You should be there, honey.” Cut to Danny DeVito. “Alright, now I’m upset,” I say. “They really are doing short guys in show business. I’m short. I’m in show business. Where was my invitation?” Then it hits me. “Wait a minute. If it’s short guy night and I wasn’t invited, that can only mean one thing.” “What’s that?” she asks. “I really am five-foot ten.” “That must be it.” She puts her arm through mine and moves closer to me. “Skinny Legs,” she whispers.

David Nichols is a TV writer/producer who has worked on such shows as “Caroline In The City”, “Grace Under Fire”, and “Evening Shade.” Until his legs fatten up he’s available for print and runway modeling.  No nudity — for the sake of everyone involved.

In My Next Life: A Norman Rockwell twist at Easter

BY DAVID NICHOLS

You have to admit the Easter story is a darn good one. I’m not talking about the one where a giant rabbit goes all over the world dropping off baskets full of eggs and green plastic grass. Frankly that story doesn’t even make sense. Rabbits don’t lay eggs. And I don’t care how big a bunny we’re dealing with. He’s not going to make it across seven continents in a single night by hopping. All I can figure is he has a corporate jet made out of chocolate.

No, the story I’m talking about is the one where a great, good soul is taken captive by those who are threatened by his message. Then they put him to death in an attempt to end things the way they want them to end. What makes the story so powerful and inspiring, of course, is that the hero ultimately comes back and ends things the way he wants them to end. Whether you subscribe to any religion or not, the idea of being re-born, of starting over in order to finish your own story your own way, is worth celebrating in whatever fashion one chooses. Which is how I ended up at the Sunset Marquis Hotel at 11:30 on Easter morning enjoying a vodka and orange juice.

Before N. and The Boy and I took up residence together the two of them lived in a house with a lovely, flat yard. N. had waved her gardener’s wand over the place, which meant there were plenty of leafy green plants everywhere. It was the perfect place to have an Easter egg hunt, so that’s what they did every year. Our backyard here, on the other hand, is mostly vertical. Swiss mountain goats could have a fine time looking for hidden candy up there. And, honestly, so could 11-year-old boys. But their mothers, who tend to worry about things like fractured tibias and third-degree abrasions, find it less than ideal terrain, so a nice brunch seemed like the solution. Some things are expected to remain the same, however.

“Will the bunny still bring me a basket?” The Boy asks. “Why wouldn’t he?” N. replies. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m too old.” It’s a tough town. The kid’s barely old enough to climb the hill on his own and he’s already worried about being over it. I jump in, trying to head off a discussion of whether he should have some work done in order to look nine again. “You’ll be fine,” I tell him. “My Beautiful Grown Daughter got a basket till she was fifteen.” This seems to reassure him and it has the added benefit of being true. The agreement my late wife and I made with MBGD was that as long as she believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy they’d continue to show up. Eventually, of course, she ran out of teeth. And when Santa started bringing silk bra and panty sets as stocking stuffers my teeth started to hurt. But it worked fine for a long time.

In fact, it’s not quite over even now. Cleaning out a closet a week or two earlier I found MBGD’s old Easter basket. It’s a fairly girly affair with baby chicks parading around in pastel hues. It’s certainly nothing The Boy would be caught dead with, so I figure I might as well give it to her when she meets us for brunch. Her car registration still comes to me and I’ve recently paid it, so I put the license plate sticker in the basket, thinking that’s a pretty decent present. But old parenting habits die hard. I just can’t bring myself to give my child an Easter basket with nothing in it except an envelope from the DMV. So down I go to the corner of Laurel Canyon and Ventura to pick up car magazines for The Boy and candy for My Beautiful Grown Daughter. Coming out of CVS I run into the mom of one of The Boy’s friends, on a basket-filling mission of her own. She rolls her eyes. “How many more years do I have to do this?” she asks. I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m buying Peeps and a chocolate bunny for someone who has her own cubicle on the tenth floor of an office building in Hollywood.

Next morning The Boy’s fears about aging out of Easter are allayed when he discovers his basket overflowing with goodies and Lamborghini pin-ups. As he sorts through his loot we flip through the Sunday paper where N. spots an ad for an open house in Glendale. “Honey, isn’t this in your old neighborhood?” she asks. I check the address. It’s easy walking distance from the house I lived in for fifteen years. “It looks really interesting,” she says. “Maybe we should go check it out this afternoon.” The Boy overhears us. He has several surprisingly mature interests and one of them is architecture. He’s usually up for an open house and when he learns we’ll be going by the place where MBGD grew up his curiosity is piqued. “I want to see that,” he says. It sounds like he’s talking about some historical site – an ancient Roman battlefield perhaps. This fits right in with his astonishment over the fact that there was no Internet when I was his age, “back in the olden days.” I’m sure he’s under the impression Matthew Brady took my driver’s license photo.

Still, it’s a beautiful spring day and N., The Boy, his friend who’s come with us, and I are all in high spirits when we meet My Beautiful Grown Daughter (MBGD) at the Sunset Marquis. I give her the Easter basket with the chocolate bunny and the license plate sticker. She laughs and tells me she’s got a basket for The Boy with exactly the same rabbit. Pretty soon he’ll need the vehicle registration too. Joni Mitchell’s line from “The Circle Game” crosses my mind. “Cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town.” N. and MBGD sip mimosas while we survey the vast buffet and plan our attack. Later, while the adults linger over egg pie, roast lamb, fruit, and croissants, The Boy and his friend conduct military maneuvers in the lush gardens. N. mentions that we’re going out to Glendale afterwards. “I want to come,” says MBGD. But first there’s the matter of dessert.

The three of us ooh and ahh over miniature crème brulées and various tarts, but when our young soldiers emerge from the bushes there’s only one thing they’re interested in. The chocolate fountain. It’s a gooey, gurgling geyser of dark delight, surrounded by anything you can possibly imagine dipping in chocolate. N., My Beautiful Grown Daughter, and I make our selections and go back to our table. The Boy and his friend remain, transfixed in grateful wonder at a universe that offers up such rapturous possibilities. A while later they re-join us, with tell-tale brown circles around their mouths. “We just stood there and ate everything,” The Boy says. “We had our mouths under it,” his friend adds. “But we had to move because a lot of people were waiting behind us.” It seems like a good moment to pay the bill and begin our Easter procession to Glendale.

As it happens the open house we came to see isn’t open after all, so our little band of pilgrims moves east a few blocks to the site of My Beautiful Grown Daughter’s childhood. The place looks pretty much the way we left it. The trees and shrubs that were newly planted a decade and a half ago are well-established and flourishing now. N. can’t resist needling me about my notorious lack of interest in yard work. She points to an azalea in full bloom. “I know those didn’t look like that when you were here,” she says. “Hey,” I tell her, “those wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me.” “You mean because you paid somebody to plant them,” she says. “That counts,” I say, ignoring the look on her face that clearly says it doesn’t.

We stand in the street, respectfully staying off the grass that belongs to somebody else now. My Beautiful Grown Daughter points out to The Boy and his friend where her room was. They listen politely, but she might as well be Margaret Truman giving a tour of the White House for all it has to do with them. A lot of our old neighbors have moved on as well and we start telling their stories as we point out their houses. There’s where the incredibly old lady lived who owned all the land the Galleria was built on. Rich as she was, the kitchen remained in its original 1935 state till the day she died. Next door is where three little boys used to play catch with their Dad in the front yard. Now one of them is a pitcher in the Angels organization. Here’s where a quiet guy lived with his wife and their little dog until all three of them were discovered buried in the desert. Turns out he was an accountant for a mob business and was cooking the books. Before them the actor Vic Tayback from “Alice” lived there. All fine and good, but life exists in the present tense. Unable to resist any longer, the junior members of our party have begun rolling around joyously on the lawn where My Beautiful Grown Daughter and her friends used to play not so long ago. It’s nice to see again, but it’s time to go.

As we get into our cars, headed back to the houses where we live now, I think about the rather remarkable circumstances that have led all of us to be here on this corner, happy together on a sunny Easter afternoon. Re-births and miracles take on lots of forms. Some pretty dramatic, others less so. But they’re all important to the people living through them. And it occurs to me that even though ours may not be The Greatest Story Ever Told, it is ours. It’s ours and we’re writing it the way we want to. Which in some ways is almost as cool as a chocolate fountain.

In My Next Life: Old Life Meet New Life

BY DAVID NICHOLS

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” says My Beautiful Grown Daughter, referring to Delaney and me. “When the two of them get together it’s like…” Her voice takes on a searching quality, as if she’s just returned from studying some remote Himalayan tribe and is trying to explain the behavior she’s observed to a group of wide-eyed undergrads. Ultimately words fail her and she trails off. Her Handsome Folksinger Boyfriend comes to the rescue. “They’re like some old-time comedy team,” he says. “They crack each other up, but they’re not really funny. Sort of like those guys who talk about cars on NPR.” The Boy’s expression turns pensive as he takes in this information. He considers my solo attempts at humor questionable at best. I suspect the prospect of having to endure two middle-aged jokers has him considering whether now’s the time to actually run away from home.

I’ve been blessed with an abundance of great friendships in my life, but Delaney has known me longer than anyone I still see on a regular basis. We met when we were 14. Since then we’ve seen each other through the gamut of high school romances, college road-trips, twenties career angst, marriages, births, deaths, and unfortunate personal grooming decisions. In other words, this guy knows me well enough to be dangerous. I know it and N. knows it. “I’ll bet he can tell a lot of stories,” she says with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “He’s as old as I am,” I say. “He’s senile. And anything he does remember is a lie.” She gives me the enigmatic little half-smile she brings out whenever she knows she has the upper hand. “We’ll see,” she says.

But before we can see we have to actually have Delaney on hand, which turns out to be a bit of a challenge. Delaney’s a savvy traveler and has arranged for his flight to take a southerly route, hoping to avoid any winter weather delays. However, he’s neglected to factor in global warming and gets stalled by a foot of snow in Dallas. In Dallas! He gets as far as Phoenix before time and spare airplanes run out and he’s forced to spend the night. At last, a day late, Delaney does indeed turn up at the Burbank airport. Unfortunately, his suitcase does not. The baggage people put out an APB and promise to deliver the luggage to his hotel as soon as it arrives. At the hotel the desk clerk promises to send it on to the room as soon as the airline drops it off. With that settled, it’s time for the moment of truth.

I’m guessing we all know one of those “love her/hate him” couples, but certainly none of us wants to be part of one. We want our friends to like our Significant Other and vice versa. It’s an important form of validation, especially when you’re starting out in a new relationship. Falling in love sometimes feels like a benign form of temporary insanity. You need your friends to reassure you that you haven’t, in fact, lost your mind. Or that if you have, you’ve done so with good cause.

We come into the house and N. and Delaney express their mutual relief that he finally made it here.

Delaney notices two paintings that hang prominently in our living room. “I really like those,” he says. He points to one next to the fireplace. “Especially that one.” Without knowing it he’s gotten off to a good start. “Who’s the artist?” he asks. N. smiles modestly. “I am.” The painting is a large canvas featuring three earthy but vividly colored horizontal stripes. Written across the bottom in bold, black letters is the word “hola.”  To me it represents the essence of N.’s spirit: vibrant, forthright, and ready to welcome life. Anybody who gets that painting gets N. and Delaney gets it. “You’re obviously a very talented woman,” he says. “So what’re you doing with a cretin like him?” N. laughs. And so it begins.

Delaney and I start trading the insults and aspersions that make up 90 percent of our conversation and I have to admit we do sort of sound like the “Car Talk” guys, but without the Boston accents. Sitting in the kitchen, having a snack, I pick up my glass with my pinky finger extended. I always do. I don’t know why. I just do and N. and The Boy love to rib me about it. “You’re so posh,” they tell me. Now N. has a chance to investigate further. “Has he always done that?” she asks Delaney. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “He’s always been dainty.” N’s delighted. “Dainty! That’s exactly it! Honey, you’re dainty.” Just what I need. A guy to fly 1500 miles through two days of blizzards to give my girlfriend a new phrase to tease me with.

By Friday evening the errant luggage has yet to appear, so I take Delaney to Banana Republic down on Ventura to buy a pair of pants. “I’ve got spare underwear,” he tells me. “But I packed a couple of flasks of some pretty good rye I wanted you to taste.” He may think I’m dainty but he knows what I like. Now I’m really rooting for that suitcase to show up.

Later, we go to dinner at one of our favorite spots in Hollywood. N. and I have been there three or four times the past year. The food’s delicious, the service is sophisticated but friendly, and every time we’ve gone we’ve had more than one really interesting A-list spotting. Tonight, with our out-of-town guest we see…nobody. You know how it goes. You have houseguests hoping to go home with an exciting L.A. story. You send them back empty-handed and the next day Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel walk their dogs past your house. So we talk amongst ourselves. A long-suffering Detroit Tigers fan, Delaney mentions that they may be about to pick up Johnny Damon from the Yankees. N.’s right on it. “I think the deal closed today,” she says.

Saturday and still no suitcase. Meanwhile, somewhere along the way I’ve lost my glasses and I’m forced to resort to an old pair for backup. They’re wire rims, and completely bent out of shape. The only word to describe how they sit on my face is “cattywhompus”. In order to see through them I have to squint constantly. Needless to say, this provides ample fodder for Delaney, N., and The Boy. It’s pointed out that I look like a very amateurish drawing of Mr. Magoo. The three of them just stare at me and giggle. It’s nice to see them bonding like this. Or it would be, if I could actually see them.

On Sunday N. plans to make her legendary shrimp tacos. My Beautiful Grown Daughter and her Handsome Folksinger Boyfriend can’t come for dinner, but they want to see Delaney before he leaves so they come with us to the Latin Supermarket to pick up ingredients. As the six of us wander the aisles we look a little like one of those big, extended Latin families you see out shopping together, even though only one and a half of us has the proper ethnic qualifications. Still, the HFB is inspired to order some food to go. He opts for the bluntly but accurately translated “Beef Guts Burrito.” This affords Delaney and me the chance to aim some of the hilarity he loves so much in his direction.

Back home, Delaney has high praise for the shrimp tacos. He announces that he could happily move to California and spend the rest of his life sitting at our kitchen counter watching N. cook and eating the results. The Boy and I inform him that all of those positions are filled. The evening ends. Delaney’s leaving early the next day, so he, N., and The Boy say their farewells with hugs, kisses, and solemn handshakes.

I drive him back to his hotel where, it turns out, his luggage has been in hiding for 24 hours. All I can figure is the desk clerk gets some kind of kickback from Banana Republic. Back in his room we finally sample the rye, which, as promised, is quite tasty.

“Sorry your trip turned into kind of a pain,” I say.

“Hey, it was 18 degrees in Detroit today. And I’m really glad I got to meet N. and The Boy.”

“Yeah?”

“She won my heart when she knew all about the Johnny Damon thing.”

“And baseball’s not even her game.”

He lifts his glass. “You’re doing okay.”

In the morning I drop him off at the airport. We embrace with the required amount of male backslapping. Then he trundles off, headed back to the frigid Midwest where we were boys together. Watching him, I’m reminded of the lyrics Paul Simon added to “The Boxer” for his Central Park reunion with Art Garfunkel: “After changes upon changes we are more or less the same/after changes we are more or less the same.”

Old life, meet my next life. Say hola.

David Nichols is a TV writer/producer who has worked on such shows as “Caroline In The City”, “Grace Under Fire”, and “Evening Shade.”

In My Next Life: Living the real difference of boys and girls

BY DAVID NICHOLS

Boys and girls are different. I don’t know how else to put it. I think there’s some French phrase that expresses the idea much more lyrically, and after N. and The Boy and I make our planned trip to Paris this summer I might be able to tell you what it is. But for now plain English will have to do. So let me tell you what I mean.

When My Beautiful Grown Daughter was eleven my living room was strewn with demi-sized petticoats, velveteen riding helmets, high-button shoes, and sundry paraphernalia, all belonging to the large population of American Girls who shared our house. The American Girls, in case you’re blissfully unaware, are a line of dolls designed to typify little girls from various periods of American history. Felicity has a front seat at the Revolution. Kit comes up with clever ways to survive the Great Depression. Molly does her bit to help win World War Two. And for only slightly more than the cost of The Enola Gay you can purchase Molly’s bed, chifferobe, and school desk, just like I did.

Now, a decade later, the eleven-year-old in my house is male and the living room looks like a terrorist’s arsenal. Thanks to the ingenuity of the Airsoft corporation, makers of fine replica firearms, there’s an AK-47 on the sofa. An automatic pistol graces the coffee table. There’s a revolver handily located next to the video game controller in case anyone’s foolish enough to try interrupting the digital destruction derby that is Modern Warfare II. And there’s not much chance we’ll run out of ammunition. Our floors are littered with more pellets than the rabbit cage in a petting zoo. But just to be safe we also have an assortment of sharpened sticks and pointed…things…stashed around to take care of any eye-poking or throat-slashing that needs to be done. There’s also a six-pack of Diet Coke that can easily be turned into a bomb. Trust me. I’ve seen it done.

“Are they all like this?” N. asks. It’s a good question. Whenever The Boy’s friends come to visit there’s always enough discussion over rice milk and quesadillas about the most efficient way of snapping a guy’s neck to give a mother pause. I’ll admit I wondered the same thing when The Boy first moved in. Are they all like this? I tried to recall what kind of weaponry My Beautiful Grown Daughter kept on hand at that age. The best I could come up with was a plastic baseball bat left over from an extremely fleeting curiosity about T-ball. Then the Great Truth hit me. Boys and girls are different. I realized I shouldn’t be trying to remember what MBGD was like at eleven. I should be trying to remember what I was like.

Suddenly it all began to emerge from the primordial mists of my youth. I could actually feel the satisfying click as the shoulder stock and silencer locked into place on my plastic 007 Walther PPK. (There’s one the Airsoft folks should take a crack at.) I recalled hours spent in the dark, watching Goldfinger yet again, trying to memorize every brutally graceful chop and thrust of Sean Connery’s deadly choreography. I could see the look of mystified despair on my mother’s face as I insisted on prowling around the bushes in our backyard, wearing a vinyl shoulder holster under my Sunday school suit jacket. One thing I’d learned watching The Man From U.N.C.L.E. that she apparently hadn’t was that it wasn’t enough to just kill bad guys. You also had to look coolly elegant while doing it. At that point a size 12 worsted blend from the boys’ department at J.C. Penney was as close to coolly elegant as I could get. Reassured by memories of my own gun-and-karate-fueled fantasies, I began to peer a couple of years farther along Memory Lane and came up with some recollections I thought might put N.’s mind at rest. “Don’t worry, honey,” I said. “This whole fighting and military thing will pass before you know it. Then it’ll all be about girls.” She gave me a look that clearly indicated this wasn’t the comforting thought I’d hoped it would be.

And that’s how I ended up back on campus at Campbell Hall, My Beautiful Grown Daughter’s alma mater, balancing a paper plate full of cheese and crackers on my knee, engaged once again in that never-ending process known as Parent Education. Honestly, I’d almost stopped reading the CH newsletters that pop up in the mail periodically. It’s a lovely school, but even the youngest siblings of MBGD’s classmates have graduated by now. Favorite faculty members appear under the headline “Campbell Hall Bids Farewell To…” with bittersweet regularity. And if I ran into any of the teachers hired to replace them I’d probably say something like “Why are you wandering the halls, young man? Get back to class.” But when the notice appeared for Dr. Gary Groch’s Parent Ed session it sounded eminently relevant.

Dr. Groch specializes in working with fathers, but I know from past experience that a fair number of moms tend to show up too, so N. comes along and it’s a good thing. The Good Doctor makes some brief opening remarks then asks the assembled dads if anyone wants to share a thought or concern or question. Of course we don’t. We’re guys. The only thing we like to share with each other is a six-pack. (Remember that whole “boys are different from girls” thing? Well, it just keeps going.) N. nudges me, jostling my cheese and crackers. “Go ahead,” she whispers. Not really wanting to open with the whole armaments issue I start by explaining our overall situation. “I have a grown daughter. Now I’m in a new relationship and we have an eleven-year-old boy. If anybody has any thoughts on the differences between….” And we’re off.

“You can expect a lot of destruction around your house,” Dr. Groch says. He tells us he keeps a vise on his desk and that tween boys who visit his office invariably delight in crushing Matchbox cars by the dozen. Clearly this guy knows his stuff. Last summer one of The Boy’s remote control trucks gave up the ghost. The adults among us were about to consign it to the recycling bin when The Boy intervened. Sure enough, he managed to wring another hour’s entertainment out of the thing by demolishing the chassis with a hammer. Dr. Groch goes on to explain that all this is part of a boy’s need to gain a sense of power in his life and that we should give him room to do it. It even turns out I’ve stumbled into doing the right thing. “Think back to how you felt when you were eleven,” Dr. Groch suggests. I confirm that I’ve been doing that, although I leave out the part about crawling around the bushes in my suit.

The discussion moves on and by the end of the evening two things are clear. One is that boys and girls are indeed different. (Apparently girls don’t have a vise vice.) The other is the closest thing to a reassuring answer as we’re likely to get to N.’s original question. And that answer is: Yes. They are all that way, so you don’t need to worry quite so much. And the bonus answer is: if yours isn’t that way, well…you probably don’t need to worry quite so much either. On our way out we peruse a selection of child development books and choose one specifically about boys. When we get home The Boy asks what it is. “An owner’s manual,” I tell him. He shakes his head the way he does when I say this stuff and gets on with the work of being eleven.

There is one thing that preteen boys and girls both do, however, and there’s no way to stop them. They grow up. When My Beautiful Grown Daughter was small she had a stuffed dog named Georgie who slept next to her every night for years. One night I tucked the two of them in as usual. But on that particular night she hugged Georgie around the neck as tightly as I’ve ever seen anybody hug anything. It was as if he were a sponge that held her entire childhood and she was determined to squeeze him dry. Then, without warning, she flung him almost violently across the room into a corner, where he stayed for some months. Eventually Georgie gained a place of honor on the bookshelf. But that was his last night in the bed.

Now we have Bearie, a honey-colored cub with a missing tail. Bearie often sits on the couch with us, watching TV in the evening. A few nights ago at bedtime The Boy picked him up and started downstairs. Then he turned back and grabbed his AK-47. “Are you going to protect Bearie?” I asked. He grinned a little sheepishly. “Yeah.” Bearie’s flight from the bed to the corner is coming. And, given current circumstances, he may be brought down by a surface-to-air missile along the way. But I’m not worried about him. They’re tough characters, these ones who get our boys and girls through childhood. They survive. And so, I suppose, shall we.

David Nichols is a TV writer/producer who has worked on such shows as “Caroline In The City”, “Grace Under Fire”, and “Evening Shade.”

In My Next Life: Cleaning house, facing rats and other homeowner ills

BY DAVID NICHOLS

As it turns out, 2009 was the Saddam Hussein of calendar years. I don’t know anybody who was sorry to see it go. In fact, if there was footage on YouTube of last year being blindfolded and hung I suspect it’d rank right up there with the skateboarding cat or whatever’s popular today.

And just like a wounded animal saves its most vicious attack for the end, ’09 went out with a bang— or at least tried to. I’m thinking, of course, of the attempted underpants bombing on Christmas day. Every time I have to pad through Burbank Airport while my sneakers get X-rayed I curse that moron who tried to set fire to his shoes and started the whole business. Now God only knows what we’ll have to take off and throw into those grey plastic tubs. I take enough flak in my own bedroom about the state of my briefs. I’m not looking forward to additional commentary from armed security personnel. But 2009 left a trail of small disasters closer to home as well.

The seeds were sown when My Loyal Housekeeper of 20 Years asked to take off three weeks to spend Christmas with her family in Guatemala. I say she “asked” because she always requests time off in the nicest way possible. But we both knew what my answer would be. She occupies a very powerful position in our household and I’ve always thought it wise to give her whatever she wants. If the appearance of my underwear is questionable now, I hate to think what it would look like if she ever got mad while she was doing the laundry.

After getting “permission” from me to take three weeks off, she spoke separately to N. about having one of her friends fill in while she was away. Not having been there, I can only assume they spoke Spanish, as they like to do. Whether the subject of my underwear came up, I can’t say. All I know is that somehow something got lost in translation. N. thought we were talking about only a one-week absence and said we could get by on our own. By the time the misunderstanding was discovered My Loyal Housekeeper’s friend had taken another job. Now we were faced with nearly a month during which N. would be working, Christmas shopping, cooking for holiday parties, decorating, wrapping gifts, and all the rest. Meanwhile The Boy would be off from school and he and I would be busy doing…well, not cleaning the house. That’s the point. Clearly a substitute housekeeper would really come in handy. N. took it in stride. She called the woman who cleaned for her when she was single and made arrangements for her to come on the next three Thursdays. Problem solved. Or so we thought. But the Old Year had a few final, annoying stings left in its tail.

I was upstairs at my desk, going over some very important status updates on Facebook when I suddenly heard screams and shouting coming from downstairs. “There’s a dead rat in the basement!” The Boy told me. His voice carried the same note of thrilled excitement boys have used to convey news about gross dead animals since the days of Tom Sawyer and beyond. Sure enough, there it was, caught in a trap just inside the basement door. N. had made the discovery and the shock of it had rendered her temporarily inarticulate. But the way she was squealing and flapping her hands sent an unmistakable message. I needed to get the thing out of there now.

A lot of our thinking about gender roles has changed over the past few decades. But when it’s time to dispose of a dead rat there’s still absolutely no question whose job it is. And having been a homeowner for more years than I care to recall, I’m depressingly familiar with rodent removal procedures. I grabbed a pair of kitchen tongs I keep for precisely that purpose and carried the critter to the trash, bolstered by the thought that I was accumulating some fairly major “Man of the House” cred. In a typical year that would’ve been the end of that. But not in 2009.

The next morning N. informs me that none of the burners on the stove are working. Previous owners equipped our kitchen with some rather eccentric British-made appliances and I’ve found only one company in the Valley that services them. I call and they promise to send someone within a couple of hours. During that couple of hours, however, we discover that the furnace isn’t working either. And there’s no hot water. When the appliance repair guy comes he charges a mere forty-five dollars to confirm our suspicions. “The gas is off,” he says. “I don’t turn on gas.” He leaves, wishing us a happy new year. I bite my tongue.

Then I call the gas company. They ask if it’s an emergency. Now, I tend to think in global terms and compared to, say, the situation in Darfur, this really isn’t an emergency, so I say no. They tell me somebody will be out in the next eight hours. N. tends to think closer to home, where it’s currently freezing and The Boy can’t take a shower. She calls back and tells them it is an emergency. Ten minutes later there’s a gas company guy at the door.

We go to the basement to look at the gas meter. Turns out an empty box has slipped and bumped into the earthquake detector on the meter, which then automatically shut off the gas. “Something must’ve knocked over that box,” the gas guy says. I think of my flattened furry friend in the trashcan. The gift that keeps on giving. The gas guy lets me know I can save sixty-three dollars if I re-light the water heater myself, rather than having him do it. I’ve tried reading the instructions they give you on that sticker. The only parts I understood were the illustrations of the tank catching fire, exploding, and knocking over the little stick-figure homeowner who did something wrong. I decide it would be sixty-three bucks well spent to keep that from happening. And any “Man of the House” credits I built up by getting rid of the rat have long since expired. No point blowing the place up trying to get them back.

Pretty soon we’re literally cooking with gas again. And we have hot water. Which is a good thing, since N. and I have a lot of cleaning to do. “But wait,” you may be thinking. “I thought the Substitute Housekeeper was supposed to take care of that.” Funny, we thought so too. Here’s how that went….

Thursday Number One: N. hangs around the house all morning, waiting for The Substitute to arrive. Finally, around noon, N. gives her a call. “Oh, I thought you meant next Thursday.” The Substitute says. She promises to come the next week. N. reminds her of the bus route to our house. We spend the day cleaning.

Thursday Number Two: N. hangs around the house all morning, waiting for The Substitute to arrive. Finally, around noon, N. gives her a call. “Oh, I had a dentist’s appointment,” The Substitute says. She promises to come the next week. N. reminds her of the bus route to our house. We spend the day cleaning.

Wednesday Night Before Thursday Number Three: The Substitute calls. I answer. She confirms that she’s supposed to come in the morning. “You live near Coldwater Canyon, right?” she asks.

“We live near Laurel Canyon.”

“Oh, I know. Right across from Universal Studios.”

“No, we’re farther west than that.”

“Oh. Could you text me the directions?”

The thought of texting any message longer than “I’m waiting at the bar” gives me chest pains. N., an inveterate Blackberrier, sends her detailed instructions.

Thursday Number Three: N. hangs around the house all morning waiting for The Substitute to arrive. I go run errands. My phone rings. It’s N., only slightly less agitated than when she found the rat. “She’s in Encino!!” she wails. We…well, you know.

Finally, the day before New Year’s Eve, My Loyal Housekeeper of Twenty Years returns, right on schedule. But she’s grumpier than we’ve ever seen her. “I’m sick,” she tells me. “You don’t need to stay if you don’t feel well,” I say. She shrugs. “I’m responsible.” At the end of the day I give her a bonus and we wish each other happy new year, as we have many times before.

The next night N., The Boy, and I celebrate New Year’s Eve at The Wine Bistro, near our house. That is, west of Universal, east of Coldwater. It’s a great evening. N. dances with J.B., the owner, who’s as good a dancer as he is a host. She dances with me— clearly a case of year-end charitable giving. And then, with only minimal cajoling, The Boy dances with her in front of an entire restaurant full of adults. “That,” she tells him, “made it my best new year’s ever.” My Beautiful Grown Daughter sends me a text at midnight. Fortunately texting back “Happy New Year. I love you too” is within my capabilities.

And since 2010 gave 2009 the boot, the only animal we’ve found in our house is a ladybug. That’s supposed to be lucky. Which is good, because I don’t have a pair of tongs tiny enough to carry it outside. Somehow, I think this year is gonna be okay.

David Nichols is a TV writer/producer who has worked on such shows as “Caroline In The City”, “Grace Under Fire”, and “Evening Shade.”  He’s currently making a”mid-life” career change and joining ‘Merry Maids.’

In My Next Life: Re-Inventing Christmas Traditions

BY DAVID NICHOLS

Christmas will be different, and thank God.  Over the years my late wife, My Beautiful Grown Daughter, and I developed several holiday traditions, as most families do.  They served us well, and the first year that the two of us were on our own it seemed important to observe them as best we could.  In the end, though, the whole process sort of underlined our loss and we didn’t need that.  Circumstances last year also dictated that I celebrate separately from N. and The Boy.  None of it felt quite right and all of us vowed that this year we’d shake things up a little.  And we have.

Difference Number One is that for the first time in both our lives My Beautiful Grown Daughter will be spending Christmas away from me.  This fall she let me know that it’d been several years since her Handsome Folksinger Boyfriend had been able to visit his family for the holidays.  If it was possible, she said, they’d like to go back east this year.  Her Handsome Folksinger Boyfriend is a good guy.  Not only does he treat my daughter well, but he also indulges my propensity for playing guitar and singing old Van Morrison tunes on Christmas Day.  Every year he strums along dutifully, but I suspect the conversation at their place might’ve gone something like this:

HFBF: Honey, I love you, but I don’t think I can stand one more Christmas listening to your old man destroy “Brown Eyed Girl.”  Isn’t there anything we can do?

MBGD: I know how you feel.  I’ll come up with something.

And so she did.  Those of you who have adult children will know that the phrase “I’d like to do it if possible” translates as “I’d like to do it if you’ll help pay for it.”  Since it’s nearly impossible to buy clothes for either of them, a pair of plane tickets seemed like an easy gift solution.  So I’m sending my only natural-born child away on Christmas.  The whole idea makes me feel like some stern Old Testament patriarch, but she asked for it.  And at least she didn’t insist I stop singing “Brown Eyed Girl.”

Then there’s the tree.  It’s the first one N. and The Boy and I have put up together and we all wanted it to be just right.  Even transporting it home needed to be done properly.  In past years, for various reasons, I’ve picked out a tree then had it delivered and carried up the three flights of stairs to the living room.  I tipped the guys who brought it in generously and Christmas was underway.  It was good for them and good for my back, but it turns out I’d been missing out on some of the True Meaning of Christmas.

“You are not having a tree delivered this year.” N. tells me.  “We’re going to tie it on the roof of the car and bring it up ourselves.  That’s part of the fun.”  She sounds suspiciously like my dentist when he says, “This won’t hurt.”  But we’ve all agreed to do things differently this year, so we pile into N.’s station wagon, determined to bring it back with a pine-covered top.

Our first stop is the Armstrong Nursery Center on Magnolia.  N. does a significant amount of business there, so I’m halfway expecting them to carry her from the parking lot in a sedan chair, but I guess they were busy that day.  We inspect the Noble firs carefully.  N. and I settle on one that looks fine, but The Boy assures us we can do better.  So we continue our quest.  And sure enough, he’s right.

The next lot features a hybrid breed that suits our taste even better, and we find one that’s trimmed into a Christmas-card-perfect shape.  The only problem is that the guy running the place is…well, how can I describe him while maintaining the spirit of the season?  He’s a complete jerk.  He’s berating his employees, being rude to customers, and generally casting a grumpy pall over what should be a cheery outing.  All that’s missing is Dick Cheney on a bullhorn telling the kids Santa’s sleigh is a threat to America’s air defenses.  Still, it’s a great tree so I overcome my reluctance to give this guy any money and onto the roof of the car it goes.

Afterwards, we go for hot dogs at The Dugout at Ventura and Tyrone.  This gets my vote for Best New Holiday Tradition.  There, comforted by our Dodger Dog sandwiches and the voice of Vin Scully, we decide that maybe what we witnessed was the beginning of a classic Christmas story.  We imagine our Tree-Lot Scrooge being visited by three ghosts— at least one of whom will hopefully be a seasonal worker just trying to do his best with the English he’s got.  We choose to believe Ebeneezer Evergreen will be a new man by Christmas morning.  But we’re not planning to go back and check.

At home, the three of us wrestle our tree up the stairs.  It fights valiantly against coming through the door.  I suspect it knows that once we get it inside we plan to dress it up funny.  But in the end we prevail and once it’s placed perfectly in the corner I have to admit the struggle really was kind of fun.

Now, apparently it’s an unusual thing for a man my age to still have a Christmas ornament he’s hung on the tree since he was three years old, but I do.  There’s nothing spectacular about it at all.  It’s just a kind of satellite-shaped thing I took a liking to back in the ’50s and it’s been on my Christmas tree ever since.  So even though this year is about starting afresh, it somehow seems appropriate to put it out one more time.  N. and I have bought a number of new, modern-looking decorations which, thanks to her discerning eye, fit the style of our house quite nicely.  I’ve bought The Boy a couple of robot ornaments to mark the occasion of our first tree and he seems to genuinely like them. This is a joy and relief to me.  Eleven-year-olds aren’t like adults.  You can’t buy them off with a couple of plane tickets.

I leave N. and The Boy to carry on decorating and head for the basement to dig out my Yuletide Sputnik.  By the time I come back with it they’re almost done.  After marveling at the fact that I’ve traipsed around the country with this barely-sparkling gee-gaw for half a century they suggest a likely-looking spot to hang it.  I put it on the tree and then we all notice something a little weird.  It looks…just right.  N.’s been telling me how mid-century designs are quite stylish right now.  So here I am, a mid-century guy with his mid-century ornament in his mid-century house, surrounded by loved ones who both have better taste than I, and somehow it’s all come together.  N. says, “I’ll bet it’s been in its box all these years thinking ‘Someday I’ll find the perfect place.’”  “Yeah,” I say.  “I know the feeling.”

Holiday traditions evolve over the years.  Some live out their natural course, then fall away and are replaced by others.  But the truly fundamental ones we can trace back to their very origins.  Like a woman, and a man, and a child traveling together through some rough weather, but arriving finally in a safe, warm place and looking ahead with love and hope toward what the new year will bring.  And as for My Beautiful Grown Daughter, well….  She’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.

Happy Holidays to one and all!

David Nichols is a TV writer/producer who has worked on such shows as “Caroline In The City”, “Grace Under Fire”, and “Evening Shade.” He was kicked in the head by a reindeer during a childhood visit to Santa. This explains his use of words like “gee-gaw.”

In My Next Life: “The Test” for over 50 (you know the one)

BY DAVID NICHOLS

I used to be pretty good.  I went to our family doctor for a physical every year.  He’d take some blood, then poke and prod me while we both complained about the insurance companies.  A couple of weeks later he’d call me and say, “Everything’s great.  Keep doing whatever you’re doing.”  What I was doing was eating red meat, drinking Scotch, and smoking cigars, so it wasn’t a difficult regimen to maintain.  Then he discovered things weren’t so great with my now-late wife.  His attention and mine turned to monitoring her health and my own became a non-issue.

Now, several years later, it’s a new life and time to start paying attention again.  N., The Boy, and My Beautiful Grown Daughter maintain a sprightly pace and I’m expected to keep up.  So I go back to my doctor.  He takes some blood, pokes and prods me while we both complain about the insurance companies and then…he says it.  “Now that you’re over fifty it’d be a good idea for you to have….” Well, I won’t use the word because I don’t want to frighten any male readers.  I’ll just call it “The Test” and say it’s roughly equivalent to the mammograms women are subjected to, except it’s much worse because it’s happening to us.

My doctor refers me to a specialist who turns out to be a guy about my age.  That’s good.  Just as many women prefer a female gynecologist, I figure this guy will be sensitive to my concerns and handle the situation with discretion and respect.  “This the first time you’ve ever been to a butt doctor?” he asks.  So much for discretion and respect.  Still, I guess if you’re going to specialize in that particular field you’d better have a sense of humor.  He goes on to explain in the same scientific yet cozy, reassuring manner that before The Test itself I’ll have to drink a gallon of some thoroughly nasty-tasting stuff.  “Then, while I’m looking around we’ll give you some really cool drugs.  You’ll feel like you’ve had a few drinks so you’ll need somebody to drive you home.  The whole thing should take about an hour.”

Now, I’ve had enough experience with hospitals to know the only thing you can actually do there in an hour is finish reading a six-month old copy of U.S. News and World Report while waiting to be called for an appointment that was supposed to take place ninety minutes ago.  But this guy’s the expert so I pass along the info to N., who arranges her schedule for T-Day accordingly.

The day before The Test I report to CVS to pick up the notorious elixir.  The pharmacist hands me a jug about the size and shape of a gasoline can and instructs me to mix the powder in it with water, then drink eight ounces of it every fifteen minutes till it’s gone.  “It tastes pretty bad,” she adds with a perky smile.

Back home, I take my first slug of the stuff.  It more than lives up to its reputation.  I check to make sure they didn’t in fact give me a gasoline can by mistake.  No such luck.  N. has explained to The Boy what I’m doing and why.  He finds the whole thing fascinating and highly entertaining.  “Does it taste really bad?” he asks, hopefully.  Not wanting to traumatize him into avoiding The Test later in his life, I say,  “It’s not that bad.  Kind of like greasy salt water.”  He looks at me dubiously.  I realize I’ve just implied I don’t mind drinking greasy salt water and that he’s adding that to his long mental list of my eccentricities.  “Actually, it’s pretty awful,” I confess.  That seems to cheer him up.

Later, My Beautiful Grown Daughter stops by.  She’s unaware of what’s going on, so The Boy eagerly fills her in.  “He has to drink laxative and they’re gonna stick a tube up his butt!”  My Beautiful Grown Daughter immediately expresses her concern for my well-being.  “Eeww!” she says.  “Why do you have to have that test?” The Boy asks.  Before I can deliver my instructive answer about the importance of preventive medicine My Beautiful Grown Daughter chimes in.  “Because he’s old.”  The Boy agrees.  “Yeah, you’re old.”  They then proceed to regale each other with a series of appropriately inappropriate sound effects.  An interesting phenomenon occurs whenever the two of them get together.  My Beautiful Grown Daughter sheds a decade and merges with The Boy to form a single uber-adolescent presence.  It’s astonishing to behold.  Unless you’re me, in which case it’s just a pain in the neck.

Next morning I arrive at the hospital already cranky from having not eaten for eighteen hours.  A nurse brings me into a consulting room to take my medical history.  It’s the same room a doctor brought me into to deliver some very bad news about my late wife.  Not an auspicious beginning.  And it goes downhill from there.  A second nurse pops into the waiting room to inform us the doctor’s running an hour late and there’s another patient ahead of me.  They take N.’s cell phone number and say they’ll call her when she needs to come back – probably in about three hours.  This isn’t what she’s planned for, but she squeezes my hand, gives me a kiss, and wishes me good luck.

While I’m waiting around in my backless gown, a heated discussion breaks out among several nurses regarding who’s responsible for what under some new work rules.  A supervisor arrives, suspends two of them for “being disruptive,” and sends them home.  The others grumble that their shift is now understaffed.  Perfect.  I’m about to have a Very Delicate Procedure overseen by a shorthanded gang of angry RNs.

Finally, a doctor arrives and begins to examine me.  This would be progress except he’s not my doctor.  And he’s examining a part of me that I’m pretty certain isn’t involved in The Test.  “I’m not sure I’m your patient,” I say.  His real patient is the guy one gurney over.  He’s had major surgery and now there are complications.  He needs help way more than I do, so I’m hoping his doctor notices he’s half my age and African-American.  It’s a good way to tell us apart.

At last the big moment arrives, as does my actual doctor.  Somehow they’ve rounded up enough nurses to roll me where I need to go, and after a couple more well-rehearsed butt jokes we’re underway.  This part, at least, is as advertised.  Whatever they’re dripping into my bloodstream is making me happier than I’ve been in two days.  So much so that when my digestive system shows up on a monitor in living color I find it the most interesting thing I’ve seen on television since The Sopranos.

Next thing I know the doctor’s waking me up in the recovery room.  “Didn’t find a thing,” he says.  “Keep doing whatever you’re doing and I’ll see you in ten years.”  And that’s that.  A nurse tells me they’re having some trouble finding N., but they’ll keep looking while I get dressed.  Meanwhile, it’s time for the surgery patient who’s not me to go home too.  There’s no one to drive him so he asks the nurse to call a taxi.  I head for the dressing room and find N. standing outside.  Turns out she’d been there all along.  It just took her a minute to realize that when they were calling for “Mrs. Nichols” they were looking for her, what with that not being her name and all.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

“He said everything’s great.  I should just keep doing what I’m doing.”

“Like drinking Scotch and smoking cigars?”

“Pretty much.”

She gives me a beautiful, indulgent smile.  “Go put some clothes on.”

And as I do it occurs to me that not everyone here will be leaving with a clean bill of health and permission to keep doing what they’re doing.  Not everyone will be driving home with somebody who’s rearranged her entire day in order to be there.  Not everyone will have children to distract them with good-natured needling when they have to take their medicine.  And when Thanksgiving rolls around a few days later, not everyone will have such an easy time making a list  of things to be grateful for.

David Nichols is a TV writer/producer who has worked on such shows as “Caroline In The City”, “Grace Under Fire”, and “Evening Shade.” He has never used the word “butt” so frequently in any of his previous writing and promises never to do so again.

In My Next Life: Showering like a Swan and the Identity Learning Curve

BY DAVID NICHOLS

Ten years ago, when my Beautiful Grown Daughter was in elementary school it was called “Grandparents Day.” Pretty straightforward. Lots of respectably graying men and women trooped onto campus to sample muffins, orange juice, and math classes. For the school it was a chance to show off and maybe shake a few donation dollars out of some respectably graying trust funds. For us, the parents, it was a chance to show off and prove to our parents that we hadn’t completely mucked up our lives and were managing to provide a decent education for our progeny.

In the past decade, however, schools have wised up a bit. They’ve come to realize that in these days of blended, improvised, and geographically scattered families not every kid can summon up a bona fide grandparent on command. So now it’s called “Intergenerational Day” and The Boy has asked me to attend in my capacity as a “Special Friend.” I’m proud and happy to be invited, but a little uncertain as to what “Special Friend” actually means in our case. I’m crazy about him and his mom, the lovely N. We share a riotous, curious, and often glorious daily existence. But I’m not his grandparent. I’m not legally a step-parent. So what the heck am I? Then it hits me. I’m a source of amusement.

I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty ordinary guy. But I’m discovering that I possess a number of personal quirks that The Boy and his mom find endlessly fascinating and hilarious. (My Beautiful Grown Daughter has been helpful in pointing out some of her own favorites.) If it sounds like I’m bragging about my comedic abilities, I’m not. I swear I’m not trying to crack them up when I pick up a forkful of food from my plate and then hold it there for a minute or two while I finish making a conversational point. But every time it happens the sputtering and giggling goes on until I finally give up and just eat the damn spaghetti. Similarly, it seems the way I juggle my keys, wallet, glasses, and checkbook when I leave the house is a routine Charlie Chaplin would’ve been proud of.

And then there’s the showering. I have a method of rinsing off my feet by standing on one leg while bending and extending the other under the spray. Then I stand on my other leg and repeat the process. To me it’s an efficient, sensible technique for getting rid of the suds. But N. finds it fall-down funny. When she demonstrates it for The Boy she looks like a demented stork and the two of them wind up red-faced and gasping. So it occurs to me that while everyone else’s Intergenerational Day nametag may read “Grandfather” or “Uncle,” mine’s likely to say “Goofy Guy Who Does Ridiculous Things In The Shower.” But before I can show up and find out, there’s another Intergenerational Day of sorts to attend.

The last time my Beautiful Grown Daughter and my Niece In Oregon were together at a wedding was when their great-grandmother was remarried. I picked my niece up and danced her around the way you do with toddlers. Meanwhile the other guests fussed over my daughter, who was still in arms. Now my Niece In Oregon is the one getting married and my Beautiful Grown Daughter is a bridesmaid. So N. and I take a trip to Portland where she’ll be meeting most of my late wife’s family for the first time. My own parents have been gone for years, so introducing N. to my mother-in-law is as close to taking a girl home to mom as I’m going to get. I’m not worried. I know N. will be her usual charming self and my mother-in-law has been more than gracious in letting me know how pleased she is that I’m getting on with my life. Nevertheless, this seems like another of those happy but not-quite-defined relationships. Since I’m not married anymore is my mother-in-law still my mother-in-law? Or has she moved into the category of Special Friend? And does it matter?

This time around there’s no need for me to pick anyone up in order to dance. In their all-grown-up heels my niece and daughter are both taller than me. And they both have dates. So I inflict my own particular style of “dancing” on the long-suffering N. She moves gracefully and sinuously to the music while I shuffle around in a circle and shift my weight from side to side. Occasionally I get lucky and do this nearly on the beat. And then I catch a glimpse of my mother-in-law watching us all. Her two grand-daughters, her new grandson-in-law, the Special Friend who used to be married to her daughter, and the woman who now shares his life. Her eyes are moist but she’s smiling broadly. It’s about as intergenerational a moment as you’ll find, and it’s a good one for all of us.

So here I am, finally on the Valley Village campus at The Country School. As it turns out I’m allowed to make my own nametag, so my concerns in that department are alleviated. Everything’s pretty much as I remember from the old days. The juice, the muffins, the friendly pitch for funds. The only change I notice is that this time all the guests who look like me are, well, grandparents. Luckily The Boy comes to fetch me before I can dwell on this and off we go on our classroom trek.

The art teacher, a chipper young woman with an impressive array of tattoos, has put up a blank sheet of paper with the headline “I Love You Because….” She encourages us to pick up a marker and complete the sentence on our way out. I write my comment and The Boy adds his, but before I can read it we’re escorted away. In the lab, the Mad Science Teacher shows us how to set fire to a penny. I’m thinking if The Boy really wants to see money burn he should come to Armstrong’s Garden Center with his mom and me, but I suppose this is more fun.

And then, in the Social Studies classroom, it happens. The teacher asks each student to explain their relationship to their Special Friend. The Boy and I look at each other. It’s the moment of truth. We have to come up with a definition. I got nothin’. Then, in a tone that implies the answer is the most obvious thing in the world, The Boy says: “I live with him.” Perfect. There’s something Zen-like in the simple way it says so much. Still, just so nobody gets the wrong idea, I add: “His mother lives with us too.”

While The Boy runs to get his backpack I stop to check out the “I Love You Because…” poster. Someone did write “you make me laugh.” But it wasn’t him. Instead he wrote “you teach me and take care of me.” My eyes fill and I smile from ear-to-ear. I can tell it’s the same expression I saw on my mother-in-law’s face.

It’s pretty cool, the way these generations just keep coming. It’s as if the Universe is giving us one chance after another to get it right. As The Boy and I head home I find myself looking forward to the day I can dance at his wedding. And when I do, I hope he laughs.

David Nichols is a TV writer and producer who has worked on such shows as “Caroline In The City”, “Grace Under Fire”, and “Evening Shade.” Having mastered The Demented Swan, he is now looking for other wild-life to imitate in the shower.

In My Next Life: A saga about a tuxedo, getting dressed and the right detergent

BY DAVID NICHOLS

Pioneer environmentalist and noted cranky-boots Henry David Thoreau once said “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”  Now I don’t know that he was addressing himself to middle-aged widowers who’ve dared to start a new life with a style-conscious dynamo (or dynama – whatever the feminine version is), but he sure could’ve been.

 It started with the tuxedo.  A few months after the lovely N. inexplicably took me on as a restoration project, we were invited to a black tie charity dinner.  It was the first major event we’d be attending as a couple and N. wanted to look her best.  I wasn’t worried about her but she was worried about me.  Apparently a guy sporting a tux purchased during the first Clinton administration isn’t exactly the glamour accessory today’s chic young woman wants dangling from her arm.  So suddenly I’m at Fashion Square trying on monkey suits that cost more than a decent used car.

Understand I’m from the Midwest, which means the whole idea of owning a tuxedo in the first place makes me feel vaguely guilty and presumptuous.  I’m worried people will think I’m just waiting around, expecting somebody to give me an award.  Nevertheless, N. gently guides me toward a couple of options from Paul Smith, a very cool English designer I hadn’t encountered before.  I try one of them on and secretly suspect it makes me look rather dashing.  I decide to share the secret.

“This makes me look kind of like James Bond, don’t you think?”  N. nods in agreement.  “Absolutely.” she says.  It’s the same tone of voice parents use to assure a three-year-old that the dish towel cape around his neck makes him look exactly like Batman, but I choose to believe her anyway.  So the clerk rings up my black silk Toyota-on-a-hanger and off we go.  Naively, I assumed that was that in the wardrobe update department.  The laughter you may be hearing about now is Old Man Thoreau chortling away up there in the Great Cranberry Bog in the Sky.

I’ve mentioned before in this space that my late wife was in the fashion business.  But any knowledge I have in that area is secondhand and strictly theoretical.  When it comes to actually figuring out what to put on in the morning I only know as much as the next guy.  And unfortunately it turns out the next guy is a clueless moron.  Consequently the revolution in my closet that began with the Great Tuxedo Expedition of ’09 was followed by the terrifying Purge of the Pants and ended with the bloody Battle of the Elderly Shirts.  Resistance was futile.  Yes, I tried the “That was very fashionable when I bought it” defense.  But when your opponent responds by launching the devastating “I remember, I was in ninth grade” missile, it’s all over.  Just sign the treaty and go quietly into exile.

N. and I have this part of our lives down to a smooth routine now.  I get dressed.  She looks at me with an indulgent smile and shakes her head.  “Honey…no.”  I get dressed again.  She gives me the once-over.  “Hmm.  Getting there.”  I start the fine-tuning process and generally can be on my way in less than 45 minutes.

The final stage in my Re-education has to do with how all the clothes that have received the Seal of Approval are cared for.  Shortly after N. and I started dating, The Boy announced to his mother that whenever I came to call their whole house smelled like Tide and fabric softener.  This was not intended as a compliment.  After explaining the environmental virtues of the organic laundry products his Mom used, he looked me in the eye and gave me the most sober piece of advice I’ve ever received from an eleven year old.  “You need to go natural, man.”

After we combined our households the Tide went out permanently and the fabric softener was right behind. N. and my loyal housekeeper of twenty-some years enjoy speaking Spanish together and apparently the detergent decision was made during one of those conversations.  Sadly my own understanding of that beautiful language is confined to “abierto,” “cerrado,” and “Casa Vega,” so a lot goes on that I can’t really follow.  I do know there’s a fair amount of discussion regarding my appearance, dietary habits, and vast array of eccentricities. They say Spanish is the loving tongue. But when the two of them get together and look in my direction Spanish is definitely the laughing tongue.

 Anyway, here I am, thoroughly entangled in an enterprise that requires new clothes.  But it seems to me it’s a fine and encouraging thing to have people in your life who actually care what you look like when you walk out the door. Thoreau can be skeptical if he wants but I’m pretty grateful.  So this is where he and I have to part company.  But don’t worry.  I’ll make it up to him.  From here on out I intend to go natural, man.

David Nichols is a TV writer and producer who has worked on such shows as “Caroline In The City”, “Grace Under Fire”, and “Evening Shade”. When he’s not waiting around for someone to give him an award he can be found buying ECOver laundry detergent, fabric softener, and other natural man products at Whole Foods on Riverside Drive. They are abierto most of the time.

In My Next Life

BY DAVID NICHOLS

Football season started again last week, but this year it’s a little different for me.  This year I actually care that football season started again last week.  It’s a new experience.

You know that expression “In my next life.”?  Well, mine started recently and I’m still learning how to operate it.   In my old life football didn’t matter.  In this one it does.  A lot.

Ok, let me explain.  I promise I’ll move through this quickly, especially the part that’s kind of sad.  Three years ago, after twenty-five years of marriage, my wife was diagnosed with incurable breast cancer. The game was lost before it started.  A while later she passed away as gracefully as anyone ever has, leaving me with a grown daughter whom I treasure and a lot of great memories.  That was my last life.  Then, a while later, my next life arrived.  It was delivered by a beautiful, vibrant, creative, passionate whirlwind of a woman I’ll call N. who, to my astonishment, agreed to become my girlfriend.  (And no – there’s not a more mature-sounding phrase to describe this kind of relationship.  Trust me, we’ve scoured every thesaurus known to man.)  Anyway, that’s how I came to find myself in Rocco’s Tavern on a Sunday morning, yelling at a bank of flat-screen televisions.

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that I don’t like football.  I just never paid much attention to it.  Over the years various wins, losses, injuries, and firearms possession charges kind of scrolled across the lower edge of my consciousness like the CNN crawl until it was time to go to somebody’s Super Bowl party.  I ate the snacks and critiqued the commercials, but I certainly never thought of anybody as “my team”.  N., on the other hand….

I mentioned she’s passionate, right?  Well, there’s one particular NFL team she’s passionate about like, say…the Arabs and Israelis are passionate about the West Bank.  I won’t identify this particular team because I’m new here and don’t want to alienate anybody.  I’ll simply say they’re named after an iconic symbol of the Old West, John Wayne portrayed a bunch of them during his career, and from August to January they are the Big Bang of My Girl’s universe.

So you can imagine the gnashing of teeth and rending of garments (not to mention plain, old-fashioned cussing) that went on when it was discovered that this particular team’s opening game was nowhere to be found on our cable system.  Once the gnashing and cussing subsided there were a couple of quick phone calls.  One to the local Fox affiliate to alert them to the fact they were showing the wrong game followed by one to Rocco’s to ascertain that they were showing the correct game.  They were, and with that N. and her eleven-year-old son (an equally rabid, er, devoted fan of unsaid team) were out the door.  I promised to join them later and sat down to enjoy my tea and the Sunday papers.

In my last life I was married to a woman who worked in the fashion industry.  So I was reading a summary of Fashion Week in the New York Times with some interest when a couple of thoughts occurred to me.  One was that some people might find it unnatural for a fifty-five year old American male to be drinking tea and reading about ruched silk while his girlfriend and her son were at a sports bar watching football.  Somebody might even try to pass a Constitutional amendment against it. (The Defense of ESPN Act, perhaps?)  My other thought was that I was actually curious about what was happening in the game.  Curious enough that I tossed Marc Jacobs and Vera Wang aside and headed for the corner of Whitsett and Ventura.

Rocco’s on a football Sunday is truly a fan’s Mecca and the pilgrims were packed shoulder to shoulder, including my two roomies.  The Boy informed me with solemn concern that there were people there who’d been drinking “beer and whiskey and alcohol” since ten o’clock in the morning.  N. informed me that God’s Team was ahead, but “not by enough.”  Having gotten the update, I settled in with my cranberry juice.  The Boy tucked into his second pizza of the day and N. went back to cheering enthusiastically.  (“Enthusiastically” as in “Honey, you might want to quiet down a little.  I think you’re disturbing the gang of drunken longshoremen at the next table.”)

As the second half progressed I found myself shouting, holding my breath, and pumping my fist along with everybody else and I began to realize I was being given something I never had before.  Suddenly, after all these years, I had a team.  N. cared and The Boy cared, so I cared.  It was fun.  And I never saw it coming.

So there we are, N. and I curled up in front of late-night TV.  She picks up the paper I’d been looking at earlier.

“What did they call that big fashion thing they did in New York this week?” she asks.

At last.  Something I can talk about with some authority.  “It was called Fashion’s Night Out.  And look at this picture of Isabel Toledo wearing – “.

She puts her hand on my arm.  “Tell me in a minute, honey.  They’re about to re-cap the game.”

The end of another day in my next life and it’s been a good one.  Our team won.

David Nichols is a TV writer/producer who has worked on such shows as “Caroline In The City”, “Grace Under Fire”, and “Evening Shade.” A resident of Studio City, he can step on most of his life’s work by walking down the Ventura Boulevard Walk of Fame.