Prayer for the Child Who Has Moved to New York City

I'm kind of a half-assed Christian, I'll admit. I usually wait to get into deep and meaningful conversations with the big Creator and Mr. Jesus when I'm on a really turbulent aircraft. Living in a part of the country where there's a lot of fire and brimstone, finger pointing, hating, smugness, judgment, damnation and very narrow interpretations of things has caused me to not care much that I don't attend church on a regular basis. My disdain for most organized religions (an oxymoron, if you ask me) has pushed me into developing my own little personal church that I carry around with myself. So much for that "where two or more are gathered" passage. Anyway, the Church of Tracy does have routine prayers and rituals. Here is one I enjoy daily.

Dear God,

Please let Kate travel swiftly and safely on the subway each day. Keep her from falling into that electrifed pit just inches from her feet when she overconfidently stands past that yellow line the MTA painted for a reason. Please guide the crazy smelly people who are panhandling for money for crack and booze to get nicer lives so that my daughter won't have to pretend she is listening to her iPod or doesn't speak English. Guide them away from her sweet young face and let them not realize she is traveling alone. Let the streets she travels daily be smooth and free from ankle-cracking potholes, puddles, ear-shattering noises, dog poop and cat-calling construction workers who whistle and shout things to her in Spanish and Italian. Help Kate remember to wear her baggy raincoat over her clingy audition dresses so that said catcalls are kept to a minimum. Help her to find the right subway stop so she doesn't have to call upon her acting skills to appear brave when the walk to the museum turns out to five blocks through Crack Alley. Let the GPS system in her iPhone not fail her and may she always get a strong signal. Thanks ever so much!

Your faithful-in-her-own-way devotee,
Tracy

Warming trend

Earlier this week, I leaned down to turn off the electric heated seats in my car. Guess what? They weren't on.

And you know the little cans of compressed air people keep near their keyboards to blow off dust and dog hair and sesame seeds that fall off their bagels? They work great on sweaty, flushed fifty-year-old faces. Several times a day, I grab that can and blast away the effects of my broken down, midlife thermostat, my hair lifting and flying behind me like a Scavullo model.

Check me out, Paris Hilton. I'm HOT!