September 23, 2002

Today is the day to leave the first base coach alone. It's the third base coach you want.

There are two things that I love in this world: Not having to write my diary entries and Brooke Weinstein. That's it. Everyody and everything else who was under the impression that I loved you, too, you can step down, now.

Brooke regales us today with a bit of nonfiction about my mother. But Brooke has so many other tales to share with you, but she claims to be too busy with things like 'work,' her 'pet snakes,' and 'sweat lodges.' If any of you are interested in hearing more about what Brooke has to say, I encourage you to email her and tell her that you want more Brooke.

Oh, and by the way, the "Peg" in question in this story has never appeared on, nor read Zulkey.com before, as far as I know, so you can all breathe a sigh of relief...for now.

Zulkey.com Diarist: Brooke Weinstein

Claire was telling me about her friend, let's call her "Peg," who had slept over the previous weekend. Claire had left the house earlier, probably to do something constructive like go to work or to the gym, and left Peg sleeping. When Claire returned home that evening, the glow of a good sweat or a good day's work upon her brow, her mother asked her if Peg had been in a rush that morning. Many of you know Mrs. Zulkey from her contributions to this very website, and those of you who do know that she does not say things lightly.

"Why do you ask?" Claire asked, already beginning to worry.

"Oh, no reason," her mother replied.

"Mom." Claire knew that trouble was in the air.

"It's just that Peg didn't make her bed this morning, that's all." And with that Claire knew, as I knew when she told me the story, that just like that, Peg was "out." Far from being concerned about Peg, I immediately began to think back to my week-long trip to Chicago during our senior year at Georgetown. Had I made my bed each or even any of
the several days I stayed with the Zulkeys?

Did Claire's mother hate me? I was consumed with the thought. I suspected that my position with the formidable Mrs. Zulkey was precarious at best. There were many things about me that I knew bothered her. Why did I spend every holiday away from Georgetown at the New Age Health Spa in Neversink NY instead of home with my family? Why did I make Claire drive several hours to see our Greek literature
professor's frog show? Claire had said that her mother had, on more than one occassion, expressed a desire to "yell at me."

Yet I had always retained hope that I was OK with Mrs. Zulkey. She doubtless wanted to yell at me for my own good, afterall. And she did give me a great vegetarian cookbook for our graduation last year. It was, in fact, a better cookbook than she gave Liz, who I knew she
liked. Odds seemed to be in my favor...until I heard this story.

Because the fact is that I think about making my bed each and every day. I think about it insofar as the outcome is, at least 90% of the time, not to make it. Usually my reasoning, which is varied in its logical soundness and relevancy, includes some form of the following statements: 1) If I make my bed than I clearly have to be productive all day, which includes something vigorous like going running. Or 2)
If I don't make my bed than I can go back to bed after breakfast and read a trashy magazine.

However, when thinking about this as a guest my good upbringing usually prevails and I make my bed. Unless, that is, I am feeling at all self- destructive in which case I will pointedly not make my bed to spite myself, my good upbringing, and the world in general.

I thought back to that weekend, more than a year ago. I remembered on my first night at the Zulkeys' getting the e-mail from the only man who ever broke my heart saying that he was getting married. I remembered crying through Blue Man Group. I remembered crying on her kitchen
floor afterwards. I remembered drinking all of the wine in their refrigerator plus the stiff drinks Claire was, helpfully, pushing my way. I remembered being a miserable shell of a human being the entire week I was there. Odds were not in my favor, and I expressed this concern to Claire.

So a few days ago Claire casually asked her mother, "Did Brooke happen to make her bed when she stayed here last year? Just curious..."

"Yes, she did." her mother replied. And with that I was saved. I was still "in" with Mrs. Zulkey, or at least had the chance to be. For those of you who have had the pleasure of meeting Claire's mom, you understand what a big deal that is. When Claire told me that tonight I was palpably relieved but, in retrospect, not altogether surprised. Afterall, I always manage to pull through somehow, to keep my
metaphorical head above water when it really matters.

Now, to celebrate, I am going to crawl into my unmade bed which, in order to uncomplicate my daily dilemma, doesn't even have any sheets on it at all! But just so you know, in the immortal words of Claire Zulkey herself, "If the President were coming, I would make my bed."