Journey2fifty

The Journey Continues ...

2015-08-13T20:52:00.001-04:00

Another Birthday... apparently 50 was really just the beginning of the “Journey.” The road after 50 has been quieter, more self-discovery than that year of self-promotion. It's been 3 years since we talked (well I did the talking and you did the listening) and for some reason the occasion of my 53rd birthday compelled me to write a short "where is she now edition." This is not a jump back into the blogosphere... More like an “I'm still here and I sort of miss this” thing.

53 is such an odd birthday... No fanfare, nothing notable; like somehow we have to wait until 55 for it to matter again. On the flip side, you can quietly slip into the next year without much attention (except in the Facebook world where every birthday counts and the number rarely matters). It’s strange that as much as we may tell ourselves that the messages on our “wall” don’t matter, each one really does make me smile. I’m sure I’ve missed a few of yours this year and I’m sorry if I did. I’ve been more of a Facebook observer for a while now... keeping up with you while staying under the radar. I’ve been a little disconnected in my non-virtual world too. I think I needed a little time out;maybe we all need one sometimes. It wasn’t intentional. Busy weeks turn into months, long days that leave no time or energy to pick up the phone or make plans. And just when we think that the calm is approaching, life throws us a curveball and we head for cover again.

I started to enjoy the quiet. Solitude is different than loneliness. I watched less and less TV and almost never picked up the phone at night. I admit I still played plenty of Candy Crush but it’s almost meditative for me. Really, those silly candies dropping and exploding and my brain is almost Zen-like empty. Winter arrived. I have always had a tendency to hibernate, this one was no exception. Cold and dark and snowy are less and less appealing as I head deeper into the 50’s. Too young to retire to warm climates and no kids to build snowmen and make hot chocolate for. The sheer joy of watching the morning news for a snow day no longer exists. Walking the dog is an adventure of please hurry up its freezing out here and don’t poop there I have to get knee deep to pick it up. I needed to snap out of it in a big way. I thought about writing again then, during the journey to 50 it was the writing that saved me and connected me. Sending all (well most) of my thoughts out to the universe kept them from banging around in my head. But this time it was different, I felt like I didn’t have anything to say.

So I made a different plan. I focused on things to look forward to. We signed a lease for a summer beach house... July at the shore was dream that I could visualize. I booked tickets for all 5 of us to celebrate my mama Nona’s 100th birthday in Boca. I spent a few perfect days in the sand in the Dominican Republic. This was good; I was heading towards life not hiding from it. But I hit a bump in the road, one of those damn potholes of reality that grab us when we are least expecting it. Everything is fine, the details don’t matter, I just hug all the people I love a little tighter these days. Enough said.

Spring arrived; another birthday was in view, time to get back on track. I needed to be outside, to stay busy, so I started walking again (I’d been spending most of my sweaty time in the basement on the elliptical). It started silly enough with an App that counted my steps, 10,000 a day – roughly 5 miles. I got a little obsessive (that can happen) and wouldn’t sleep until I got them all in. It felt good, and then I thought it could feel better. What if walking could be running, what if I could I run a 5K before my 53rd birthday? Mind you in my first 52 years I ran upstairs, I ran errands, I ran to the store (in each case the word “ran” was just an expression not an actual measure of pace). So I bought new sneakers and used last year’s birthday gift card to Lulu lemon for the right gear (the appropriate clothes are an inspirational part of any plan). And I downloaded another App – Couch to 5K – or C25K to be cooler. The first few weeks I ran back and forth on my street, first at 90 second intervals, then 2 minutes, and if you think that’s easy for a non-runner it was torturous and I thought I was in good shape. It got less awful and maybe I secretly started to look forward to it. I bought more stuff, a running belt to hold my phone, new headphones that stayed in place, running sunglasses (The Ray Bans weren’t cutting it). I was starting to feel like an actual runner. I treated myself to the non-free version of Spotify (if my kids can have it then why can’t I) and I learned what playlists kept me moving. I started to believe that this was possible. I moved from just my street to the whole neighborhood, to the reservoir trails... holy cr*p I was really doing this. The App was supposed to take me fully off the couch in 8 weeks but I was an unexpected overachiever and crossed the finish line early in living color.Literally, it was a color run, with the help of a 20 something friend who let me keep up with her the whole way. It felt amazing, no other word to describe it.

I spent July at the beach. Got to run a lot of miles along the coastline and spent some really special time with family. That little cottage was like my own Field of Dreams... if you rent it they will come. It gets harder and harder to make those times happen and this was everything, and more, that I needed it to be. Every dark winter day faded away with the tide. There is magic in that salty air.

Fast forward, it’s my birthday once again. 53 is fine. A quieter birthday makes sense after a quieter year. Let’s hope the one ahead brings more accomplishments and fewer stumbling blocks. I thank you for all the birthday wishes and for listening again after all this time. Xoxo

F Fifty

2012-09-25T14:54:00.002-04:00

F FIFTY

Well, here I am roughly 6 weeks post the big day and I’m finally feeling like I'm ready to put closure to this journey – or at least the written part of it. I wasn’t sure that this was going to happen and honestly even as I type I have no idea whether this post will ever get to you. So for the moment I’m going to keep writing for myself and see if it becomes something I want to share.

The other day, on a perfect fall walk the title of this final chapter came to me. Of course the expected F word was the first one that came to mind, but there are so many more that could fill in the blank. For starters, I am Finally fifty, or for some of those who followed my August activities, I am Finally done with fifty. I could also say that I am Forgetting fifty, enough with this seemingly pointless journey to nowhere. Or maybe, I am once in for all, Facing 50. Either way, pick your favorite, the result is the same. It was a good run, I learned a lot and now it’s time to move on to the next adventure.

I was explaining this blog to someone new today and shared with her that what started out as a an outlet for me to express my creativity and exercise my mental muscles turned into something that I was totally unprepared for. The early days of writing were frenetic; I could hardly sleep with the excitement of what I would write about the next day and spend the rest of the day finding stolen moments to regurgitate my thoughts. I’d write and read and re-write until it sounded like me; the me I wanted you to know. Some days were the honest thoughts that went through my head and others maybe had a little more spin on the truth than was necessary; not sure who I was trying to convince, me or you. As the months went on the anticipation turned to anxiety. I would close my eyes at night and stress over what the next day’s post would be – did you want funny or sad or reflective or that magical combination of all three. What began as a quirky project to mark my midlife passage evolved into something that felt pressured or expected - both counterproductive to the original plan. Looking back it was a good barometer of my life; the silent gaps as memorable to me as the verbose months. When I do find the need to go back and revisit old posts they still make me laugh and cry. I don’t think I’d change a word even if given the chance to edit or add a postscript. It is interesting to discover that as much as things change there is comfort in their sameness. Last year’s Brisket Blog could have been repeated verbatim last week. I will still cry on the anniversaries of all the losses that have shaped my life, still get cranky at the DMV and still get annoyed when Jeffrey uses “nice” as an adjective for my appearance. I can also say with complete certainty that there will be unexpected moments of joy and fear and laughter, and I look forward to both the continuity and the chaos of the days ahead. There are plenty of other stories I wish I had taken the time to tell and others I am thankful I kept to myself. I am still motivated to write, these words flowing easily and happily to the page. I hope that someday I’ll come back in a new way with maybe with a new perspective.

It is sort of fitting that I’m writing this final post on the eve of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement for the Jewish people. Tomorrow I will stand in temple before g-d (my new birthday shoes will be put to the test each time the Rabbi proclaims “let us rise”) and silently reflect on this past year. I will ask for forgiveness for my sins and hope to be sealed into the book of life for the year ahead. I will have plenty to think about and plenty to ask for forgiveness for – but I will also have a clear heart that my intention is never to hurt or do wrong. I am not perfect, certainly a work in progress for all my years ahead. But in the grand scheme of things my virtues outweigh my sins, and at the end of each day I am the only one who has to believe in that truth.

This Journey to 50 has been quite a trip but I am ready for it to end. I had an interesting discussion with my son about life as a rollercoaster the other day. His metaphor boiled down to always being scared at the beginning, afraid to start, but once buckled in and cruising through the ups and downs it ends up being pretty exciting. No one is ever afraid at the end of a ride – they may not want to ever do it again, but they survived and more often than not the reality was far less painful than the expectation. If nothing else you can be proud that you did it. Finishing something is always more rewarding than never starting, and quitting in the middle isn’t an option on a rollercoaster and often equally as dangerous in real life. He’s a smart kid whose wise words gave me the courage to write this final post. I was scared to end this or frightened I wouldn’t know what to say or how to say it. So I did what he taught me to do, I stopped making excuses and just started. Now that I’m done I’ll share that my knees are a little wobbly and although I may not to want to ride this particular ride again, I’ll keep trying new ones because life without the highs and lows isn’t really living. At 50 I have no clue where the roads ahead will take me. My father only had 11 more birthdays and my grandmother has celebrated another 47 and counting. I have no control on the quantity, but improving the quality is possible. At 50, I hope I've learned to stop counting my years and focus instead on making my years count.

Thank you for listening and laughing and loving me (or not) – it was a great ride…. Jill

Dog Day Afternoon

2012-06-20T20:09:00.004-04:00

It's official, it's gonna be a Dog Day Afternoon. I’ve been holding my breath (no worries, not literally) for the past few days, anxiously waiting to see if our references checked out and we'd get the go ahead for canine adoption. I am being only mildly sarcastic; this was a much more rigorous process than you would think.

The house has been a little lonely without a dog, not to mention that I never realized what an excellent job Boola did at cleaning the crumbs off the kitchen floor. This family needed a new four-legged resident, and as a group we decided to forgo the breeder this time around and adopt a rescue dog. It seemed like the right thing to do. Even staring my empty nest in the face I am not the least bit tempted to raise another child (many assumed this was a possibility), but adopt a dog, that I can do. Jeffrey started the research; I narrowed the criteria (no Pit-bulls, no German Shepherds, no Rottweilers), he added his own restrictions (nothing that would fit in a pocketbook or could be picked up with one hand). That still left us thousands of dogs to choose from; really mind-boggling how many pets are living in shelters.

Our first stop was the Humane Society, very nice people but a limited selection of dogs (after applying the ruled out varieties). I did have my eye on one sweet pup, but he was visiting with another family and although I tried to mentally convince him through the playroom window that we would be a better choice, they had first dibs and I don’t do second fiddle. As it happens, they did let us spend a little time with my first crush and he was apparently shy with men and seemed to have attachment issues … neither one a good fit for us, so we moved on. The nice shelter lady took pity on me or was just tired of my questions and referred us to a private non-profit shelter closer to home. She even let us search their available pets and called ahead to make us an appointment (and potentially warn them about the needy mom and her teenage sons who tried in vain to mute her). Off we went to the fancy shelter, solely run by a philanthropic animal loving family, busily dog-viewing on my iPad in the car to select potential contenders. Like Match.com for pets, we read their profiles, their likes and dislikes, their personality quirks, and ruled them in or out. And then, like magic, I was smitten with the bio of Roberson, a Boxer/Mastiff mix, “Roberson is a big cuddlebug mush of a dog. He has a soft muzzle and big floppy ears. Roberson loves to go for long walks on our woodland trails.” Roby, you had me at Woof! Further investigation revealed that he was 3-years-old and had arrived here from the South, a mature southern gentlemen, be still my 49-year-old heart. Before the car was in park I knew this was my dog, now I just had to go through the motions and convince everyone else. Little did I know that I would have to be selected, as if any dog or shelter wouldn’t be thrilled that I had chosen them. Nevertheless, I put on my best compassionate face to establish my suitability as a prospective adoptive mom. Before a single dog could be introduced we were interviewed about our family (who lives home, how many hours do we work, what is our neighborhood like), our expectations for a new pet (did we expect him to play for hours or take long runs) - I was getting nervous; what were the right answers? We’re a flexible family. We can change. After conditional approval we looked through the dossiers and selected potential candidates (Yes, I still knew it would be Roberson, but I didn’t want to show my hand just yet). Some were immediately dismissed as incompatible for our household (Fine, I didn’t want them anyway) and then the speed dating began. One at a time they came out to meet us, accompanied by more than one excited puddle of pee (they couldn’t help it, who wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the idea of coming home with us?) Coco was beautiful, but knocked me down at the first hug (David still regrets not capturing that moment for You Tube), Gypsy was sweet but a recent pregnancy had left her with some low hanging reminders of her nursing days and frankly, it felt a bit inappropriate, especially for the boys. And then came Roberson, my intended. Out he came, man’s best friend, not jumpy or nervous, confident and cuddly at the same time. He gravitated first to the boys, the staff lets us know that he relates better to men. I assured them that this was not an issue; I do too. He is playful and calm, no biting even with the four of us clamoring for his attention. He listens when David tells him to sit and lie down (apparently David has been hiding his dog whisperer skills) and we bond while the staff continues their secret evaluation of our family. We pass level one and get to take him outside for a walk. As soon as we are out the door Roby shows his man-swagger and lifts his leg to mark every tree in our path. It’s all good, I’m used to the Boola squat, but I like the macho peeing as long as my leg does not get mistaken for a low branch. Everyone is happy; we walk in rhythm on the leash, no aggressive pulling or veering off to explore. I have some long walks planned for my new companion; I needed to make sure that he was a suitable partner. Roby keeps a good pace, just right for me, with an attitude that says “don’t mess with me” but a face that tells a different story. I know immediately that he’ll keep me safe on any walk, day or night, and would gladly scare away the boogeyman if I were alone in the house. My choice has been confirmed, now we have to take him home.

Alas it was not that simple. Step three, references must be checked, and vets must be called. There is even the possibility of a home visit (do I have to cover the outlets again and lock up the cabinet under the sink?). I am not really worried, who would say anything that would make us unsuitable? There is a certain appreciation for the care in which this organization takes to make a proper placement and they could not have been sweeter or more assuring. This is a no kill shelter, meaning for every dog they place there is room for one more to be rescued. Their hearts are in the right place. They aren’t rushing to get the dogs out the door; they are making sure that they go through the right ones. A noble cause for sure.

Over the last few days we visited Roby one more time, even on Father’s Day the staff stayed late so we could enjoy another walk and some time outside. They called and chatted with both of my listed references and my veterinarian. They did a more thorough background check than most places of employment and all to make sure that Roby would be happy and cared for. As an added level of concern each adoptive family must agree to come back for 6 weeks of obedience and social training, provided free of charge by them. They also welcome their pets back for grooming and boarding, could it get more perfect than this? Last night at 9 pm I got the call on my cell (yes this staff works after hours) to let me know that Roby would love to come home with us, we had their blessing.

Like expectant parents we rushed out to buy a crate and other supplies and rearranged our work and social schedules to make sure that he wouldn’t be alone for the next few days. I am sure that there will be some sleepless nights and some accidents ahead but he’s not a newborn so it should pass sooner rather than later. I’m looking forward to our first walk together; I’ll let him lift his leg as often as he wants. A man has to do what a man has to do. David is ready to assume the role of daytime watchmen while he continues his search for post-collegiate employment (hint, hint …preferably NYC and in the media world, excellent resume and references). Andrew sadly left for the summer this morning before Roby came home, they will have to bond at a later date. Scott has virtually approved of our new family member and we will have a Facetime introduction later today.Jeffrey can’t wait for his man dog and will happily share the responsibility of listening for strange noises in the middle of the night that wake me up and need immediate attention. All in all, this whole process was both an educational and a feel-good experience. On a side note, if you remember from a previous post I had originally chosen another name for my next dog, and the shelter did give us the go ahead for a new name, but somehow it doesn’t seem right, so Roberson or Roby for short(pronounced Row-Bee) it is. And with a boy dog I’m back to being the lone lady of the house, but that usually works in my favor too. In 46 minutes I’m going to claim my man, let the Roby-tales begin…

Post Script: All joking aside, The Simon Foundation in Bloomfield, CT (thesimonfoundation.org) is an amazing place with a staff of caring professionals that are committed to finding good homes for good dogs (and cats). Check them out if you or anyone you know is looking for a new pet.

My Magic Sneakers

2012-06-19T08:58:00.000-04:00

I bought magic sneakers. I will reveal their secret powers a little later on, but as usual you have to suffer through some back story. I'm sure you've seen those T-shirts with a smiley face and the Life is Good! slogan. They always annoyed me. Then last week I saw a Facebook post proclaiming "that those T- shirt people got it right" (shout out to JS?), and it got me thinking that maybe they did, life is pretty good. Granted, it has been sort of a gimme the last few days, perfect weather and generally low life-stress at the moment. Nevertheless, on one of my recent extra-long walks I spent some time pondering the famous T-shirt mantra. I have been doing a lot of mental whining lately (I spared you most of it) and decided what if they were right, maybe I should start to focus on the "Good." I’m not being Pollyanna, and who knows, next week Life might be Sh*t, but for the moment I’m going to do my best to see the positive. I would also assume that, for most people I know, the balance sheet of life would weigh fairly heavily in the affirmative. There will always be a few that seem happier or have more stuff or less baggage, but we live in a pretty small bubble around here and I would guess that just outside of it, our lives are looking pretty rosy.

If I had to explain my current euphoria I would have to say that I have started to take stock in the little things. The stuff that maybe I've been taking for granted or what generally gets pushed to the bottom of the life pile underneath the bills and the laundry and deciding what to cook for dinner. I think I had a "moment" (I won't say an Aha moment, too Oprah) on the aforementioned "extra-long walk." It was a perfectly warm day with clear blue skies and low humidity (the humidity factor is key for me). I took my usual route, up and down the steep hills of my neighborhood, in and out of the cul-de-sacs of green lawns and flowers in full bloom. I had my head phones on, a perfect walking playlist (if I'm not careful I start dance-walking and singing out loud) and my new sneakers. It was revolutionary. When I started this walking thing a few months back I never invested in proper footwear. I have been known to fully wardrobe myself for a new hobby (golf was an expensive one) and then just as I rip the tags off and the return period has ended, I have moved on to a new endeavor. Thus, I already had sneakers and sweatpants, so walking seemed to be a non-investment sport. As the walks became longer the blisters seemed to be a part of the package; I did feel as if maybe they were the battle scars of an athlete. Of all the labels I have been given in my lifetime, athlete has never been one of them, so I put Band-Aids on my injured heels with pride and continued walking. Then on a recent outlet trip I visited the Nike store and there in front of me were walking sneakers, cute ones in black with hot pink trim, and I thought maybe I should give them a try. It was instant Foot nirvana, my instep resting one a gel bed and my heels in a seemingly abrasion-free zone. Worst case scenario, they'd look good and I'd buy more Band-Aids. But no, the first walk was liberating, I could have gone another 5 miles. Apparently there is a reason people buy "real" sneakers, and the "fashion sneaker" category is just that, as in not meant for anything more than looking good. Anyway, back on my inaugural sneaker walk, it occurred to me that these adorable $59.99 Nikes made all of me happy, not just my battered feet. Instead of thinking about how painful the last mile home would be and how fast I could kick off my shoes at the front door, I just enjoyed the scenery and the music. I nodded hello to the other walkers, the gardeners, the cable guys (why is there always a Comcast truck parked somewhere on my route), and waved to the cars with familiar faces. Headphones give you license to not stop and say Hi, no one ever thinks you are being rude, it's a sweaty free pass. That's where it all began. What other little obstacles had been preventing me from enjoying the view? Maybe I had to stop putting bandages on the issues and just take steps to fix them or ignore them. So I promised myself to give it a shot, or at least try not to focus on the bruises that take away the pleasure of the journey. Just like Dorothy (I never miss a chance to make a Wizard of Oz reference), the power was in the shoes, I just had to discover it on my own.

My first few days out of the happiness gate were better than expected. It was Father's Day weekend which is usually kind of a downer for me, but Jeffrey is a father, an amazing one, and he deserves to be celebrated. We didn't have a plan, a few activities in mind, but figured we'd just go with the flow and enjoy a quiet family weekend (minus one family member, Scott did his best, but couldn't get home). Friday night was our usual dinner out with Andrew, a great Thai meal and an especially chatty son. Saturday morning Jeffrey and I enjoyed coffee and the paper while the boys slept, and discussed the day ahead. Watching me once again fight with my temperamental repaired iPad, he suggested a trip to the Apple store for a new one. I reminded him that it was Father's Day weekend, the presents weren't supposed to be for me (not that there was anything wrapped and hiding in the closet for him either, we are not big present people). In classic Jeffrey style he responded that the only present he wanted was to make me happy, and I would never want to disappoint him, so I guess I had to get a new iPad. But, it can't be all about me, and I knew just the thing to share the love. It was time for a new dog. I knew that he wouldn't push it until I was ready, but this seemed the perfect day to start the process. There was already a plan in place for Jeffrey and the boys to visit the animal shelter, but without me joining them (which I hadn't planned on doing) it was just window shopping. And so it was decided, the four of us would go get an iPad and then we'd go look for a new dog. We spent the day shopping, for technology and puppies, in and out of the car, laughing with and at each other and it was perfect. For a little while it seemed like I found the elusive "pause" button and life was stuck in one of those magical family moments. We got home well after dinner time with my new iPad (can’t you tell the ease with which I am typing), it's snappy orange case and a potential new doggie. I don't want to waste what I'm sure will be a furry blog, so I will save that story for later in the week.

Sunday, Father's Day, had a pre-planned father-son golf outing. Nothing fancy, just the three of them at a local course sharing one set of clubs and some man bonding. Apparently cell phones were left in the car (on purpose) which may be the best Father's Day gift of all. I used the alone time to buy a card at Walgreens, digging through the unloved cards, literally thrown in a rolling cart for the last-minute wives and children (no joke, see the photo on my Facebook page) and made a quick visit to my father. I wasn't planning on it, but got in the car after the card purchase and that's where I ended up. I also arranged a post-golf visit with our prospective new puppy so later that afternoon we all loaded in the car again for a walk and some playtime with Roby (I hope didn't just jinx it by mentioning his name). Back on the road, we headed to a favorite dinner spot down towards the shore, roasted clams and corn on the cob charred in the husk and dripping with butter (you're salivating, I know). We had a cooler packed with margaritas and beer and water bottles for Andrew, our under-age potential designated driver. An unexpected meeting with best friends at the restaurant led to combined tables and contraband. On a side note, wouldn't you know that a diner at the next table was wearing one of "the" T-shirts, its happy face slogan staring me in the face the whole night; an obvious cosmic poke. Lots of eating and even more laughing, ice cream for dessert and a night cap at their house on the beach, another perfect day. Joy once again found in the simple and the unexpected. Only thing preventing 100% satisfaction was Scott not being with us, but he made his presence known with a bottle of Jeffrey's favorite Bombay Sapphire Gin, hand delivered by David. If I had tried to orchestrate the perfect Father's Day weekend it would have paled in comparison to this one.

It's now 10:54 pm on Monday and Life is still feeling pretty Good! I don't need the T-shirt (and although I learned the lesson, truthfully they still annoy me). I've got happy feet, a new attitude and my magic sneakers; together they'll lead the way.

A Mall Tale

2012-06-14T21:03:00.000-04:00

I took the day off today. I have the next 16 days to sneak in another 5 days or so of vacation time or I’ll lose it, so I decided to celebrate the first day of sunshine in what seems like forever by taking a “staycation” day. Andrew also had a free day pre-finals and needed a few things before he leaves for his summer as a camp counselor next week. He requested a trip to the mall (can’t study all day) and well, that is an offer I would never refuse. As a mother of 3 sons, there has not been an abundance of "can we go to the mall" cries in my house. More likely to hear "Do we have to go the mall...?" Practically blasphemy in my world, the mall is a happy place; how did I give life to these non-believers? To be honest I've been spending less time at the mall in recent years, perhaps due to double college tuitions or the ease of on-line shopping. Lately each visit is more for a necessity or just a pleasant way to waste a few hours. Virtual shopping doesn't give me nearly as much joy, I need to touch and try on and see how I feel in a potential purchase. Web shopping has its own rush when I click "add to cart" but I like to leave it there for a while and see if I'm still fixated on it later. I put items on a “mental hold” and sometimes just the thought of a purchase is enough, no shipping required. When I do complete a transaction, less often than you would think, it's a bit of a letdown, knowing I have to wait for delivery. I'm an immediate gratification kind of gal, "I want it now", like Veruca Salt (Willy Wonka reference). When the UPS packages arrive I am faced with the moment of truth, still love it or what was I thinking. Then, the choice, can't wait to wear it or crap, I have to go to the post office to return it. The mall eliminates the waiting and return postage; "yes" you're coming home to my closet or "no" back to the rack. Occasional buyer’s remorse does require that some of the chosen ones never get a wearing, but a return always offers the hope for something better. I know what you're thinking, and I am a little obsessed, but acknowledgment is power and I can and do shop with control. I can't always tell a waiter to skip the bread basket (and almost never do) but I can leave the mall empty handed and log-off jcrew.com with a full cart of pretend purchases.

My mall love began at an early age. Back in 1974, I was 12 year old, when WestFarms Mall entered my world. Almost every Saturday my parents would drop me off with my friends, $20, store credit cards and a parental note allowing purchasing power. Something tells me none of the above would work for today’s teenage girls. I remember in the early years we’d anxiously wait to see what new stores would open, pushing each other into the temporary white construction facades if someone got too close. We’d try on clothes that our parents would never let us buy and make-up and jewelry that we’d never wear. Lunch was at Kathy John’s, a restaurant and pseudo old-fashioned candy store with big wooden barrels filled with penny candy. At some point we’d use the pay phone and call a parent to come get us. With any luck I’d come home with something new; who remembers Huck-a-poo shirts or Sasson jeans? It went on like that for the a few years until my mall weekends ended abruptly with a shoplifting incident at JC Penney, that after that day, was never spoken about again. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I was so traumatized by my capture by mall security guards, my winter coat pockets filled with Bonne Belle lip smackers, and ushered to the JC Penney security office that from that moment on I have been a law abiding citizen (at least when it comes to petty theft). I had money and the credit cards with me, but when the cool girls invite you to hang out with them at the mall, the five-finger discount seemed a fairly harmless way to fit in. Obviously my first venture into the dark underbelly of the “bad girls” did not end well for the 4’10” goody-two-shoes who was also the Student Council president. My parents were called, I was sent home in shame with a warning that I was not to enter JC Penney until I was 18. I kid you not, I never did (and in truth, it was no great sacrifice in my pursuit of fashion). Sadly, I do have to admit that there were moments in my adult life where I did have to cross the JCP threshold and each time I took a nervous breath wondering if somewhere in the deep recesses of the security offices was a tattered black and white photo from my early years of crime. Would the now seasoned mall cop of my youth recognize me and search my baby bag for potential stolen goods? Happily I have escaped any further brush with the law and the reputation shattering listing in the local police log. At some point I felt it necessary to share this unfortunate chapter with my teenage children, a parental moment of “scared straight”, saving this generation from a life of crime. I am actually imagining my mother reading this blog thinking, I can’t believe she told this story. Sorry Mom, dirty laundry has been aired, I think most people know I turned out OK and the transgressions of my pre-teen years are no reflection on your parenting skills.

Today’s trip to the mall was far less eventful, as they usually are with boys. We had 4 items on the list and that is exactly what we bought. No impulse purchases, all accomplished in less than an hour and back in the car. Not even the offer of an Aunt Annie’s pretzel or visit to Game Stop could entice him to hang out even a second longer than necessary. Although my sons think that I am forever pining for a daughter to enjoy “malldom” with me, they are sadly misinformed. Yes, a mother/daughter shopping trip sounds fun and I do still enjoy plenty of them with my mom (wish she still paid and hung up the discarded clothes in the fitting room) but I have come to realize that there is only enough purchasing power in my wallet for one mall lover. For a mother that can’t say no, even to the limited desires of sons, a daughter would surely have made us the best dressed family in the homeless shelter (I share that line with RW, we both realized this early on when nearly maxing out the credit cards with clothing for infant sons). My boys have simple needs, granted they have excellent taste (hello, who is their mother) and as long as it fits, doesn’t itch and isn’t even remotely metrosexual, we’re good. I know that someday I will be the best mother-in-law a girl could hope for. I tested it out with a few potential choices, and have been an excellent pretend MIL, generous, non-judgmental and fashionably informed. I also have a stellar reputation as a shopping companion; nothing makes me happier than helping others spend their money and make superior wardrobe decisions, all done with complete honesty and plenty of laughs. I have references if you don’t believe me, I make shopping fun.

My family used to joke that shopping was my hobby, and maybe that’s just a little bit true, but I’m not ashamed anymore. As defined by Webster, a hobby is an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation. Guess that shoe fits, put it on my debit card and I’ll take it home. See you at the mall.

The Home Stretch

2012-06-13T22:24:00.001-04:00

Here I am, exactly 2 months to the day of my fiftieth birthday, so I figured maybe I would check in and say "Hi." I guess this is the proverbial "home stretch." Funny thing, I always thought that was a baseball term, relating to the run from third base to home plate, wrong (of all my limited sports knowledge, baseball is the lowest on the list). Upon further review, the term specifically refers to the final portion of a race track, from the last turn to the finish line. Informally it has come to mean the final stages of an undertaking, one web definition even explaining it as the last part of something, like a journey or a project. Guess I'm approaching the final turn, in the home stretch to 50.

I set out last August 13th to share this year daily and publicly, and although I abandoned ship many times along the way, I have come to realize my absences were a necessary part of the process. I've been writing in my head all along, but those entries were just for me. Silent discussions that would have mostly bored you or exposed parts of myself that I've decided are better left unsaid. The last few months have been more introspective than usual, probably too much alone time than is good for me, and more than likely temporarily disconnected me from the people who I love and who love me most. Granted the almost nightly hour long walks were good for my body, but maybe not as good for my family. They helped me sleep better but left more laundry in the basket than the drawers. I enjoyed almost all of those walks with Boola, something I didn't do the first 12 years of her life, and hopefully a happy memory she took with her when we said goodbye a few weeks ago. I didn't blog about the end of her life, my 13 year old golden retriever, whose death hit me so much harder than I could have imagined. I am not a dog person, in comparison to my friends who really love their dogs like children. I didn't grow up that way; my childhood dogs (Muffin and Bridget) always seemed to be part of the package of suburban life, but never really a part of the family. I have no memory of them coming into or leaving my life. They were just there and then not; I can't explain it any other way. Boola came into our life shortly after my Dad died (thus her name, Boola, a nod to his beloved Yale, and a little inside joke because he was the original non-dog lover) and although I still can't say that I loved her like a child, she was a member of the family for the hardest years of my life. The sadness in losing her was undoubtedly wrapped up in all we had been through while she was here; letting go of those memories a bit and acknowledging how much had changed in the 13 years she was around. I was 36 years old when we she arrived and the day we said goodbye was a heart-wrenching, slow motion replay of all she had witnessed in her lifetime. Her presence was practically the only constant of those years, everything else in a seemingly relentless flux. Enough said about that for now, can't go down that road again. We are still sorting out what our next four-legged friend will be; we have agreed on a large breed, preferably short-haired (still finding tumbleweeds of long blonde hair ) and an activity level more suited to our soon to be empty nester lifestyle. I think I'll go for a boy dog this time, and already picked a name, Eli, continuing the slightly irreverent “Yalie” reference for my father. My friends and family are relieved that I have retreated from my bull mastiff fascination (especially the Cane Corso variety) and that I have vetoed Jeffrey's desire for a German shepherd or a Rottweiler. I'm sure we'll make a decision before I turn 50, so stay tuned....

In the months since we last spoke David graduated from college, a perfect weekend with family and friends that ended with Mother’s Day with all 3 boys and my mom; couldn’t have asked for more. So what precipitated this blog, other than my noticing that today is the 13^th of June and 60 short days from THE day? I’ve covered lots of topics in the last 10 months, some funny (hopefully) and some serious, and some inspired by my children. It got to be a little inside joke in our house, something happens and I get the “is that gonna be in the blog?” query. For a while most stories found their way to the page, but countless others did not. Andrew felt a bit slighted that David’s wisdom teeth were blog-worthy and his own extraction just two weeks later did not warrant a post. Sorry Andrew, but I just wasn’t feeling the need to share the second time around. Andrew had his solo blog moment at the DMV and many honorable mentions along the way. But today, he inspired me and humbled me.

I arrived home from work and noticed a typed paper casually sitting on top of his backpack. It was obviously graded; I could see the teacher comments in the margins. I was also pretty sure that he did not leave it there intentionally for me to pick up and read, but I’m a mom so that’s what I did. Let me back track a bit and let you know that this is not a child that requires any prodding to do his homework and he has barely given me an instant of angst in his entire academic life. I rarely get to see his work anymore and most of it is well beyond my skill level anyway. I did spend many nights in the past year correcting his practice SAT tests (yes, he did them nightly and yes, it was worth the effort) and although I was only required to correct his answer sheet I was pretty amazed by his nearly perfect responses. On more than one occasion I secretly wondered if he was taking a peek at the back of the book, but I knew better. Back to the paper … Of course I flip immediately to the last page to see the grade (come on, you would too) and see the A++, along with some pretty heady comments from a notoriously grade stingy Professor (he does have a PhD) of 21^st Century Literature. I knew that he was a good writer (he is my son, and his skill set is enhanced with much better grammar), but what could have inspired this glowing praise? And then I sat down and read it, twice, maybe three times, partially because I was trying to absorb every word and partially because I kept tearing up. It wasn’t sad, actually clever and funny at times. I cried because it suddenly occurred to me that this paper wasn’t written by my baby. It was the work of my 16 year old son, who somehow in the blink of an eye became a young man with a mind and an intellect that took my breath away. Somewhere in between the countless hours of PS3 and Facebook and ESPN he really learned a few things. Don’t get me wrong, I knew he was smart and a good student and all the stuff we see on the surface, but this was more, this was understanding and reason and maturity. When Andrew got home from work I told him how amazing it was and he beamed with pride, “Mom, Dr. Shivers does not give A++’s. “Well Andrew, I guess he thought you deserved it, maybe he just never got a paper like that before.”. His response “Is this going to be a blog post?" For Andrew, I came back to the keyboard. There are always the predictable moments of parental pride, but this one caught me off guard. How did I not know that this was inside of him and when did he get so much smarter than me? I guess that’s what we all hope for with our children, taller and smarter. Now we’re three for three in both categories. Apparently, my work is done.

I have to say this was kind of fun, the words flowing pretty freely tonight. Not sure when you’ll hear from me again, but I’m going to make an effort to chronicle these last 60 days on a more consistent basis. There are still a few stories that I didn’t share along the way and I do miss the daily rush of a post. I hope some of you are still out there as I enter the last turn, 50 is starting to feel pretty good.

A Time for Wisdom

2012-04-02T07:22:00.001-04:00

Seems like lately a long plane ride is my only opportunity for blog writing (my last entry was on the way home from Boca in February). It could also be that without a travel companion to talk to, you are my only available audience, and a girl who likes to talk is lost without someone to listen to her. Either way, we've got the next 12 hours or so together, I'll attempt to make it worth your while. It's about 8 pm in Phoenix, Arizona and I am waiting semi-patiently to board an 11:15 red-eye flight home, without any delays that should be roughly 9:30 tomorrow morning. At the moment I am sitting at the bar at an airport Mexican restaurant having a cold Blue Moon and a lousy soft taco. Unfortunately this was the only spot in the terminal that gave me a quiet place to sit for 2 hours and not have to write on my lap. If you haven't already learned why I'm here from my Facebook page, this trip was neither business or pleasure, but it turned out to be a good deal of the latter..

This journey was about wisdom tooth extraction, 4 of them, that my University of Arizona son has been complaining about for weeks. To be perfectly honest, they've been giving him trouble since Thanksgiving, but he didn't force the issue of removal, so neither did I. He held it together for the last week with antibiotics, oxycodone, numerous phone calls home, little sleep, and almost no eating (hurt too much). When your college son voluntarily takes himself to the dentist, you know he's hurting. It became abundantly clear to me on Wednesday evening (courtesy of some guidance from his older brother and a few sleepless hours) that he was not going to make it through graduation day with his wisdom teeth. Thursday morning I kicked into warrior-mother mode and did what had to be done. Before noon I had booked a consult at a Tucson oral surgeon and a hotel room for me and the patient to recover (All accomplished while getting my hair colored - necessary multi-tasking). I had to hold off on the plane ticket until they confirmed a surgery date and time. That confirmation came at 3 pm with surgery scheduled for 8 am the next day (Friday). Good news, he would be feeling better soon, Bad news, there was one remaining flight from Hartford to Tucson at 4:55 pm (I wasn't risking Boston or New York for their 7pm options). I throw what is closest to me (top of the clean laundry basket) in a carry-on bag and go for it. I "OJ" it through the airport (referencing the old TV commercial, not the murder), booked a rental car en route and added Thursday night to my hotel reservation. I'm at the gate with 20 minutes to spare and manage to snag a bulk head seat on a very enjoyable southwest flight to chicago. I relish the extra hour I get back on central time and enjoy a burger and a beer (don't think I had a chance to eat all day) before boarding the last leg to Tucson. Another bulk head seat does not make-up for the freak electrical storm that lights the night sky and I am more than grateful for the wi-fi that allows me to text and Facebook with night owl friends who keep me calm and steady through the turbulence. The layover beer (or two) provide just enough relaxation to let me close my eyes for an hour or so. I land safely at 9:05 pm to a perfect 75 degree evening in Tucson (another 2 hours back in my day- time change is key to this whole equation).I Pick up my rental car, forgot the portable GPS, no worries, I have an app for that (WAZE, get it now if you can). 30 minutes later I am happily in my comfortable Marriott bed (note to self: time to buy a new bed at home) and set the iPhone alarm and a wake up call for 6 am. I am up and ready at 4:30 am anyway, my body had apparently not taken note of the 3-hour time change. I make coffee in the room, check-in at home, drink coffee in the lobby, read the paper, walk outside, and finally pick up David at 7:20. I haven't seen him since January. So happy to see his face, so sad that he looks nervous and thin. It's an easy 20 minute drive to the office and he declares he's ready to deal with whatever lies ahead just to stop the pain (mother guilt in full bloom, how did I let him suffer for so long?) .

We move quickly from reception to extraction; the heart monitor visibly displays his nerves as they prep him. My children are not a fan of anything involving a needle (a valuable fear preventing them from ever being IV drug users or getting tattoos), and their mother is no better. I can barely look when they touch his forearm, and focus instead on his face and keeping my tears to my self. Sense of humor intact, he interrogates the doctor to confirm that no one is immune to the sedative and that he will definitely be asleep. He is out before the answer and I am told it's time for mom to leave. I help myself to a single kiss on his forehead before I go. Whatever comfort it provided to him can't possibly compare to the instantaneous swelling of my heart. More than likely he doesn't remember, but it will forever remind me that children, no matter how old, sometimes still need some mothering. If there is such a thing in reverse, I need that too.

Brave mommy waited till she walked to a bench in the parking lot (why sit in a waiting room when turquoise skies and mountain views were available outside) to let the tears flow and make a silent wish to whoever is listening that he come through safe and sound. Melodramatic I know for wisdom tooth removal, but hey, my father didn't call me Sarah Bernhardt for nothing ( google it). Less than 30 minutes later the nurse walks outside to get me ( that would never happen at home; year-round sun makes people nicer, I'm convinced) and of course I think there is a problem; why else would she come and get me? But no, he's all done and doing fine. My heart rate and breathing return to normal and I go inside to claim my slightly loopy child, cheeks full of gauze. "Root" of all pain gone, not a single stitch required.

From that moment forward this was a pleasure trip. Not a person did I meet who didn't overwhelm me with kindness. Each and every staff member at the oral surgeons office (beginning long before I got here on the phone), the girl at the CVS pharmacy who filled 3 prescriptions in record time using only an iPhone image of my insurance card. The hotel manager and all the guests who heard or overheard my story along the way and never missed an opportunity to ask me how my son was doing when we passed in the lobby or by the pool. Sandy, the waitress at the hotel restaurant who kept my breakfast check open till David made it downstairs and sweetly encouraged him to eat his scrambled eggs. His beautiful girlfriend who's hotel visit made him smile the way a mother can't. And of course all the facebook posts, phone calls and text messages from friends and family that kept everything in perspective, made me laugh, and cursed my unfortunate hours sunning by the pool. Drama aside, I won't complain about nursing him back to health poolside (he was upstairs sleeping and I was only a text away) . I checked on him hourly and brought him soft food. He wanted me to be happy, so why would I disappoint him and sit by his bedside when I could be a mere nine floors below on a lounge chair. It didn't hurt that he didn't swell, complain, or get out of bed much for the first 24 hours. The two days that followed were an easy routine of sleeping, eating, medicating, icing, movie watching and talking (when he was awake enough to participate in the conversation). Despite the reason, we had a perfectly relaxing weekend. Not sure when I'll get another chance to have his undivided attention for 72 hours. I know that he was happy I was there and I wasn't driving him crazy, what more could I ask for? By Saturday he was well on his way to 100% and even spent a few hours with me at the pool. We walked to campus for a dinner outside of the hotel room. Sitting outside enjoying Tucson's spectacular warm evening sun was a welcome change of venue from the room that we had not let housekeeping enter for the duration of our stay. The main drag was busy with young tan undergrads all sporting some sort of U of A apparel. If I had to do college again, I'd do it in a place like this, no doubt about it. Not at this age of course, I'd have to be 18 again too. I'm not sure there could ever be a bad hair day out here, what kind of impact would that have had on my college experience?

We started a conversation at dinner that flowed from religion to movies to this semesters classes and continued long after we were back in the dark hotel room, illuminated only by the light of our computers and unnecessary television. By 8 pm we were in our beds talking about what happens next in his life, scripts and story lines he's kicking around ( same professional dreams he's had all along, but suddenly more refined and realistic ) . He answers all my questions with the confidence of an adult who knows exactly what he wants and the drive to pursue it, and he listens intently to my suggestions and commentary. We talk about his friends, the 10 boys (sorry, men) who share 2 adjacent houses off- campus. They have been his Arizona family for 4 years and one of the most important things he will take with him after graduation. Strange but true, but I leave him in good hands with this crew. They have certainly seen him at his worst and love him for his best; they are the kind of friends that you hope your children pick up along the way. I fall asleep long before him, happy knowing that he's ready for whatever comes next. I needed to be here to get him through this little obstacle, but he's not a little boy anymore. Apparently he didn't need the wisdom in those 4 teeth. As in my own college experience, he has learned as much (maybe more) outside the classroom as in it. Proud mother, another son successfully launching into the world.

In retrospect, I gained a little wisdom too this weekend. I learned to trust my gut (mothers intuition is usually right), and that geography and logistics can't stop a mother who needs to get to her kid. I learned that I can survive for 3 days with a carry-on bag, no accessories or cosmetics, 2 pairs of pants, a few shirts, flip-flops, sneakers, a toothbrush and a bathing suit - everything else is available at CVS ( I never said all the knowledge was earth shattering). And most importantly, as my empty nest rapidly approaches, I learned that there will always be times when my children need me, even when they say they don't.
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Post-Script (s)

Still waiting to board at 10:30 pm, but now I'm sitting on the floor next to a cement pole charging my iStuff. It took me almost 20 minutes to find a single available outlet which I am now using to alternately charge the phone and the pad. I should have enough juice at this point to make it through the first leg, especially if I attempt any sleep. I have an hour or so layover in Charlotte, NC hopefully giving me a chance to recharge for the remainder, use a non-airplane restroom and post this blog. I'll keep you updated from the air..courtesy of go-go in flight wi-fi.

Currently somewhere above 10,000 feet. No clue what time zone I'm in. My watch says 5:15 (kept it on CT time for the duration), my iPad says 2:15 and my phone says 4:15. Help, should I be tired or getting ready to wake up? If I'm calculating correctly, and that's a huge "if" , I've been flying for 4 hours. I've had my eyes closed for maybe an hour, not really sleep - maybe a meditative trance, and haven't made a single trip to the restroom. I'm at 39and 17% power on my iPad and phone, respectively, if we don't land soon I could be forced to power down before I'm ready. I'm sure my seat mates would be more than pleased as I am not being very respectful of the "night flight dark cabin mode." Hey, It's not a rule, simply a courtesy, and I've got blogging to do. Just to clarify, I do not have the overhead light on, that would be a bit much, even for me. Actually, I'm feeling like this is a good place to wrap it up. My eyelids are feeling a bit heavy and the current spot in my music library would be good fall asleep tunes. Thanks for keeping me company along the way, hope we talk again soon.

Because I'm sure you would want to know....at just about the moment I previously signed off, the stewardess voice announced our decent into Charlotte and the cabin lights were lit. So much for the last minute shut eye. I have since travelled half-way through the airport to my next departure terminal, and faced the moment of truth at Starbucks, caffeine or no caffeine. I went Venti full-power. The next flight is too short for a full sleep and my brain says morning = coffee. I'm back sitting on the airport floor, 2 outlets all to myself, and ready to post.

Im Really Here ...

2012-02-08T17:23:00.001-05:00

So who knew that after weeks (well over a month) of silence, my blog voice would resurface via inspiration from the Real Housewives of Orange County. Last night, while putting far too many clothes in my Boca bound suitcase, the mostly blonde ladies from the West Coast made their season 7 debut. As I had hoped, the original franchise and my personal favorite (although at times New York and New Jersey have temporarily stolen my allegiance), the opener did not disappoint. I did catch the ten-minute teaser last week so I was fully up to speed on the life and times of the ladies who are anything but "real." And although he won't admit it, Jeffrey also enjoyed some quality television between intermittent snores. By the time the juicy upcoming tidbits rolled, my bag was zipped and I was already writing this blog in my head. Unfortunately, that also meant that sleep was mostly an exercise in futility; I should have skipped the tossing and turning and spent the night writing. But no, I sleep-blogged for hours and jotted down what I could remember over my morning coffee. So here I sit, in a Starbucks in New Jersey (work delivery and a flight out of Newark to Boca later today), tapping away on my reborn iPad (did I mention that my first iLove recently returned to my appreciative fingers with un-shattered glass and is responding beautifully to my touch ). I'm not sure how long I will sit here, I am very happy at the moment, oblivious to my fellow free wi-fi users, and confident that I will not be disturbed by any familiar faces. I am sure that I could find some good shopping nearby, but I am headed to a 4-day full-on South Florida spendathon and am already dangerously close to my Jet Blue luggage weight limit. On a side note, on my way to my current location I drove by the exit for Franklin Lakes, home to the Jersey Housewives. I was tempted to venture off and explore their reality and maybe even visit Kim D. at the Posh Boutique. I decided against it for many reasons, not the least of which was that nothing in my aforementioned luggage has any sort of bling or fur adornments and, more than likely, their target customer is not wearing a North Face and Pumas.

Before I veer too far off course, as you may vaguely remember I have a tendency to run-on incessantly on semi-related tangents, let me get back to Orange County. Last nights episode brought us up to speed on the oh-so-relatable lives of Vicki, Tamra, Gretchen, Alexis, Peggy ("friend of housewives - FOH) and two new additions, Heather and another FOH, Sarah. Extensions and implants apparently have more staying power than most friendships or marriages in their gated world, but I'm not tuning in for what's in my own backyard, so keep up the cat fights and I'll keep watching. I should probably warn you at this point that, if you haven't figured it out already, this is not going to be an emotional blog. All that deep thought may have been what drove me into seclusion, so for now get ready for snarky instead of sentimental; it's so much more Jill anyway. Back to the boobies and the blondes, and I have nothing against either, but really, there has to be a point where they look in the mirror and say "maybe this isn't a good look." There is not a garment in any of their massive walk-in closets that doesn't expose an unnatural (and generally unflattering) amount of cleavage. Now I will admit, and this will not be a surprise to most of you, that I am not shy about décolletage. My own "girls" (god-given, I feel the need to add) have been known to have a prominent place in my wardrobe, but not on a daily basis and not quite so obviously as the housewives who use them as some sort of silicone "statement" necklace. Maybe I'm a little jealous that at 49 perky requires underwire, but their enhancements are not bringing them much good luck, especially in the love department. Vicki, who incidentally should maybe look for self-improvement in other areas, has found new love while in the process of divorcing poor Don. Her "love tank" (as she so eloquently describes her libido) is now being filled by a southern gentlemen, the inspiration for her Cajun party last night. If she was canoodling with a Jewish guy would her party have had a deli theme? Tamra, also entangled in a bitter divorce battle with Simon, is still bathing with the "could be gay" Eddie and touting her 5-hour sexcapades. Not that I want to doubt the virility of either party, but I will. I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume some embellishment. Regardless of my being just slightly older than her published 43 years, and Jeffrey not being Latin, 37 or questionably homosexual, if we had a 5-hour sexual encounter I would more than likely end up a widow with a bad back and a limp. Or worse yet, Jeffrey would be the winning Jewish lottery ticket, the bereaved widower who killed his wife with 5 hours of sex. Single girls, and some married ones, would rush to warm his lonely heart and my side of the bed. Not happening on my watch, I'll keep an eye on the clock and make sure we steer clear of the 5 hour mark. If any of my "in the neighborhood of 50" year old friends want to share their endurance success stories, send me an email and I can call you a liar off -line. As far as my friends born in the 70's (and yes I have many who enjoy my jaded company), you barely have five minutes of alone time, so don't even bother to tell me otherwise. Just to clarify for all ages, this cannot be a cumulative total for a month (still probably being generous) or include vacation sex. I have no way of confirming or negating Tamra's claim, although she is probably not far from releasing some sort of you tube video, which of course, will be a compilation. One final note on this topic, most people I know, and I would guess most of the ones I don't, would prefer 5 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Enough said, back to the housewives. Gretchen, in my opinion the only actual beauty in the bunch, is still with the much-maligned, child-support dodger, Slade. He is by far the best looking of the orange county squeezes, and uses it to his advantage to bed the cream of the under 40 crop (remember Jo De La Rosa), but even his good head of hair can't compensate for his lack of any other redeeming qualities. If I were Gretchen, there's a a stretch, I'd take my wide-barrel curling iron (which she should give a rest) and cattle-prod him right out of my life. She could do better, even old and sickly, Jeff was a better choice. Not sure that was a real love match either, but I won't judge, he's dead and that wouldn't be fair. Alexis doesn't inspire much commentary, but I will say that her Alexis Couture fashion line and her husband Jim are equally as revolting. FOH Peggy claims to be 41-years old, and although I can't dispute it, with all that work , I still somehow think she looks older than me. I may be in denial , but humor me, this is my blog. Newcomer Heather (finally a brunette), former actress and wife of plastic surgeon to the rich and wannabe famous (I somehow recognize him from the only reality show to offend the masses, The Swan) is so far a little pretentious. She is touted to have "real money" and be from the East Coast, my research has also revealed that she is Jewish (the hair was a clue) was raised in Westchester and graduated from Syracuse in 1990. Someone I know has to know her, fess up. The other new girl, Sarah, has barely shown her stripes, so no opinion here yet.

Well, my latte is cold and almost empty and I've been sitting here for almost 3 hours, hope it was worth it. My kids have often joked about what a Real Housewives of West Hartford would be like, and sadly I always respond that although it may be the most "real" it would also be the most boring (although DC was a huge snore). I'm pretty sure all of America would not be captivated watching me (or any of my counterparts) navigate the 5-mile bubble of my life; from home to the JCC, off to the Big Y, quick stop at the Crown Market, head to the Mall, manicure, pedicure, Marshall's, Target, back to the Big Y (always forget something) and home again. An occasional fundraiser or shiva call might add some cultural interest. I am generationally stuck between the Bar Mitzvah years and the wedding circuit, so there won't be many opportunities to see the WeHa ladies drink too many appletinis, dance on speakers and flirt with Evan the adorable DJ, but it would be the best drama my suburban comrades could present. Don't hold your breath for the premier. As I venture to Boca it occurs to me that it could serve as a proper venue for a housewives crew, but in reality it's just New York with better weather, white cars and more frizzy hair.

Well, I have had a perfectly lovely day trashing the ladies who will undoubtedly entertain me for the coming weeks. Stay tuned for what I suspect will be an equally sharp-tongued tribute to all things Boca. Thank you housewives for nudging my journey out of hibernation.. This was fun.

My 3 Sons

2011-12-22T22:08:00.000-05:00

Yesterday while I was digging through old photos (and I mean that literally, album placement ended after roughly David's first birthday and the last 8 years or so are digital - everything in between is dumped in plastic tubs), I fell in love with my sons all over again. Not that I don't love them every other day, this was more about them as a trio, a band of brothers. The photographs and their bond began the moment Andrew was born. From the very first image of Scott and David sitting in the orange vinyl chair at Hartford Hospital holding their newborn baby brother (of course the one picture I can't find), these pictures tell the story of their childhood. The older brothers, only 19 months apart, were already a twosome, but even with the 5 years between them, they became three, who became one. In the early years they watched over Andrews crib, played on the floor with his toys , read him stories, taught him to crawl and walk and talk. It was always a team effort, no rivalry for his attention, no jealousy for mine. He glowed in their presence, as he still does to this day, and they smothered him (sometimes literally) with love and attention. As the years went by, he started to catch up, and the big brothers became friends. He followed and copied their every move; If his brothers were doing homework, Andrew sat at the kitchen table with his own "work" (which had its own payoff in the years ahead). He was building Legos and playing with action figures while most of his nursery classmates were still focused on blocks and coloring. They never fought, a scream every now and then if Andrew broke a Lego creation or the leg of a power ranger, but mostly hours on end happily together in the basement. I never had a great need to schedule the all-important "play date”, they had very little desire to be with anyone but each other. Up until maybe 5 or 6 years ago, there was always some configuration of a shared bedroom, by choice not necessity. Scott and David started out together, and when Scott requested his own room at roughly 13, David chose to share with Andrew rather than go solo. At some point thereafter, David moved into his own room and Andrew got his own too by default. Every vacation the threesome gets their own room; Andrew gets the rollaway bed even though he is now the tallest; some things are still decided by seniority. On a side note, the same rule applies for any road trip requiring all 3 to be in the back seat, Andrew gets the "bitch" seat (the middle), a few grumbles lately, but he accepts his placement with love. Looking through the years of photos I am struck by how obvious their birth order was, besides who was taller or had braces, Scott always assumed the older brother stance, with David and Andrew finding their places around him. I never had to tell them to pose, if I wanted a "brother" shot it just came naturally. You always knew who was the oldest and who was the baby, and now so many snapshots later, it is getting harder and harder to decipher. Height is out as a determining factor; it was a glorious moment when Andrews mark on the wall surpassed all the others. A milestone we had threatened his brothers with for many years, but when it finally happened last year they had to accept the cruel reality that genetics had dealt them. Boys will be boys, and height notwithstanding, Scott has assured Andrew that he could still "kick his ass" if need be (none of us are worried that will ever happen). And as I previously mentioned age rules over height in any situation regarding seating, sleeping, and shower order.

From my vantage point, starting back when they held Andrews hands as he took his first steps to watching 3 teenagers wander a block ahead of me deep in conversation on a New York City street or hearing them screaming at the PS 3 or a football game, there is nothing that can compare to those images or those sounds. There is an energy between them that is palpable; a rhythm that only they understand. Sometimes I get as close as possible without entering their space just to watch and listen. I have no idea how this magic was created; sure we always wanted them to love and support each other, but who knows how it's all going to turn out. We certainly practiced what we preached with our own siblings, but our family histories were different. Jeffrey’s relationship with his twin brother was obviously unique, and my boys were always keenly aware of their special bond. I have 2 brothers, who I love with my whole heart, but I was a bit of a solo act growing up. There was not a lot of bonding over Barbie’s or boy talk. The 8 year age difference between my older and younger brothers, with me in the middle, wasn't as conducive to the same kind of sibling relationship as my boys. I can't imagine either of my brothers hiding my report card from my parents, or me asking them to, as has happened in this house one too many times. It's those moments that you don't know if you should be mad that they lied to you or proud that they did right by their brother, in most cases it's a little bit of both. Only on one occasion when David enlisted Andrew to cover for him when he was supposed to be babysitting (we were out of town and due home late) and instead went to a friend’s house. Through multiple phone calls Andrew assured us that David was in the bathroom with a stomach ache and he would have him call when he got out. I'm guessing that the plan was to contact David to make the required call; not well thought out, as I would have known it wasn't from the house phone. The mission was aborted when Andrew finally cracked under pressure and admitted David had gone AWOL. I was not pleased, to say the least, but I was almost as upset that Andrew felt like he let his brother down. I would never ask that any of them to divulge information unless someone's health or safety was in question. In the few situations where I was concerned that might be the case I knew that each of them understood the difference between loyalty and responsibility. Even when they join forces to make fun of me, which happens frequently, I'm still happy they're on the same team and I accept defeat willingly. If Jeffrey defects to their side I get a little cranky, four against one is less fun, especially when you're the only girl. It's bad enough that I have fallen into more toilets without a seat than I care to remember. Luckily Jeffrey figured out a while back that only he has to get in bed with me at the end of the day and the boys are forgiven much more readily.

As hard as it has been for me to watch each of them leave my nest to venture out into the world alone, I know that the bond of brothers will travel with them wherever they go. When they are all under my roof there is nothing better, but knowing that they are as deeply connected under separate roofs is a close second. There is no greater gift I could have given them than each other, and to know that they know that is every parents dream. My 3 sons, my 3 greatest accomplishments, my every wish come true.

A Hanukah Story

2011-12-21T17:52:00.000-05:00

It's 6:15 am on Wednesday morning and out of nowhere I woke up with the urge to write again. Could it be my own Hanukah miracle from the universe? Assuming that must be the reason, I will also assume that, in keeping with the holiday mood, you are happy to see me because it's been such a long time and we really should do this more often. As my gift to you, I will not bore you with a laundry list of explanations or excuses about where I have been or what has been occupying my thoughts; been there, done that, doesn't matter. Bottom line, I'm in my bed, in the dark, tapping happily away on my shattered iPad (a casualty of my trip, currently held together with a screen protector), and I miss you. My Hanukah wish is that I get through this one, as opposed to the half-written entries I previously gave up on, and that when I wake up tomorrow my fingers once again find their way back to the keyboard.

So it's Hanukah and I have to say it’s kind of a quiet one. Not that it's ever been a giant fanfare or wannabe Christmas in this house, but without little kids around, it is a little lacking in the fun department. I think there are certain holidays, religious and secular, that go through "off-decades." For purposes of this blog I will stick with the Hanukah example, but think about Halloween, Purim (maybe a stretch), or I would guess, Easter. As a little kid every holiday is exciting; presents, days off from school, seeing the cousins you never otherwise see, good food, staying up late and all the grown-ups are in a pretty good mood (I figured out later that alcohol might have had something to do with that). Let's say that this feeling stays with you through middle school. At some point shortly thereafter, when you get a little wiser and a little more sullen, the glow begins to dim. The present thing is clearly defined in advance, you know what you want and, to avoid potential holiday meltdown, mom and dad usually wrap it up as a "faux surprise" and deliver it at the appropriate time. Can't say I haven't been guilty of the same as a parent, but it does sort of suck the Happy out of Hanukah. As a parent, the best present I ever received was the look on their faces when I actually managed to surprise them with something unexpected; that sparkle, that smile, couldn’t be bought or wrapped. It’s the hardest thing to do; to think of something that allows that little boy grin to escape from deep beneath the Axe body spray, but when it does it's worth every penny or hoop you jumped through to make it happen. As young parents there's nothing better than snapping on that "My First Hanukah" bib (insert your own holiday choice), watching babies gum down their first latke and tearing open box after box of Fisher-Price joy. The toddler through elementary school years are the most fun for the kids and the most anxiety filled for the parents. Wish lists are long and painfully checked off by nervous parents who don't want to disappoint; nothing worse than having your kid come home to tell you that so-and-so got the one "it" toy that you could not get your hands on, that some more industrious or ingenious parent managed to find. In my case it helped that my mother-in-law (Nana P) was willing to risk bodily harm and financial ruin to make sure that she put a bow on exactly what they had dutifully marked in the giant Toys R Us catalog. I let her be the holiday hero and picked up the slack with the back-up gifts. I'm happy when they're happy and she generally stuck with the ground rules that noisy toys and messy craft projects stayed at her house. During the high school and college years we shifted to the one special gift theme, phones, iPods etc., or a family gift of a vacation or high-end sporting event. I remember announcing the first venture in this direction with a surprise trip to Mexico. Dinner was taco night (a big treat for my boys in its own right), little sombreros on the table, gift wrapped sunscreen and ultimately, the presentation of plane tickets and resort brochures. The giving was the gift for me and the memories from that trip lasted much longer than anything I have ever purchased at the Apple store. The tradition continued with Caribbean cruises and Celtics games, depending on the cash flow and the year (more specifically which ones included Bar Mitzvahs or college tuitions). I don't think anyone missed my feeble attempt at wrapping (for more years than I am willing to admit the superheroes and ninja turtles were presented night after night directly from the bag to their hands, I required eyes to be closed for excitement). I saved a good deal of money and time on wrapping supplies and still managed to create memories and stories that they tell to this day. We always lit the menorah, argued about who got to hold the shamash (the lead candle) and light the other candles, ate latkes and played dreidel games for foil-wrapped coins of surprisingly tasteless chocolate.

This year was unusually quiet, only 4 of us home. Suddenly the new reality that Scott has begun his next chapter, the one that doesn't include "winter break," was very apparent. Andrew reported to me that many of the parents who picked up their kids from the after school program that he works at 2 afternoons a week, arrived with little Hanukah surprises for their kids. I was a little jealous thinking that they were all headed home to hot latkes and grandparents and piles of presents, but I guess it's their turn for now. Someday in the coming years I'll get to be super grandma who finds all the cool toys and makes the best latkes, but at the moment our menorah flickers in a much quieter house. Last night I got to hold the shamash with no objections, we sang the blessings, and the colorful wax trickled down on top of the pink and purple and blue drips from years past (I like the waxy history, only scrape when necessary). The blue and white Hanukah cookies were a big hit (store bought, but didn't matter) and when I closed my eyes all 5 of us were there and giant Lego boxes were ripped open and assembled cross-legged on the floor for hours on end. With my eyes wide open, Andrew was overjoyed if not overly surprised with his Celtics/Knicks tickets for Christmas Day at Madison Square Garden (my own fault for spilling the beans to a friend on the phone within earshot of his room). He offered in return the elusive little boy smile, a giant hug with both arms (doesn't always come that way) and a kiss, priceless (and the ticket$ were not). David and Scott had less defined gifts; a few things they wanted or needed that we would not have otherwise been so generous with, were offered without argument. Their gift to us was genuine affection and appreciation and a hug and kiss from David (Scott was excused for geographical reasons). Jeffrey and I have never been much into the gift-giving thing, our happiness comes directly from theirs. Every now and then a present happens, but neither of us seem to need or want for anything that comes in a pretty package, and I always feel a bit guilty wishing for anything more than what life has already given me.

In that spirit I'm going to say goodbye for now, grateful that the words flowed so easily this morning. I have already been given the greatest gift of your friendship; your laughter at my sometimes inappropriate sense of humor, your support when I am sad or lonely, your cheers for my accomplishments and your forgiveness for my less than successful moments. If you're new to my journey (thinking about my new JCCA Israel trip family), feel free to wander back to where it all began on August 13th to understand why I'm here and what it's all about. The entries that followed, almost daily until early fall and some better than others, will tell you all you want to know and perhaps lots of stuff you don't. 8 months left in my slow approach to 50, hard to believe I've only been at this for 4 months, and I can't wait to see what is around the next corner. What I'm starting to realize is that the finish line may in fact be the starting gate, and that may be the best gift of all.

Just Like Me

2011-12-02T10:50:00.001-05:00

If it'sThursday, I must be on my way to Tel Aviv. The last few days have been challenging for me, both physically and emotionally. I had no real expectations for Poland, although the vision in my head was grey and a little sad. For the most part I can't say I was very far off. There were a few shining moments, but mostly I felt empty. I'm sure the cold of winter had something to do with it; the few moments of bright sunshine made Warsaw only slightly more attractive. What I love most about traveling is exploring the hidden streets, the local culture, the personality of a city. To be fair, this was not a vacation and I was not expecting to have "tourist" moments, but we covered a lot of ground and I simply could not grasp a "life" vibe in any of the towns we visited. I was being shown by JCCA what they could offer JCC's and my job was to explore our vision for future Mandell JCC travelers. We found some gems in the JCC of Krakow (and I got a cool T-shirt too), and found the city as a whole both an interesting snapshot of pre-war Poland and a sneak peek of a newly emerging Jewish community. A night out in a local pub offered great local food and a look at Krakow through the local lens. We rebelled a bit from the group, who were repeating at a local kosher spot, to explore on a more personal level. Maybe not the most professionally appropriate, but we want to make sure that we find the best every destination has to offer. Great leaders have to choose their own path sometimes, or in this case, their own dinner. I can't think of another "must do" from a travel perspective, but with Poland in the rear view mirror, I now understand that this leg of the journey had a different missive. We were not here to visit Poland, we were here to "remember" Poland. As I admitted to the group in our "confessional" session, I am a little embarrassed about how little I knew and thankful I am that I work with and for people who provide me with experiences like this to grow and learn. There was no judgement from the group of much more informed professionals; only a chance to share their knowledge and their personal stories.

As I shared with the group, I am the third generation of my family to have an American childhood. I know through my fathers interest in his family's genealogy that we had roots in a now non-existent Polish shtetl of Tarnipole, but I did not grow up with any family stories of the Holocaust. I am certain that had he lived long enough to have access to today's technology he would have unearthed all the branches of our family tree and explored Poland first hand for evidence of our history. I learned what I was taught in Hebrew school, but it was much more factual than personal. There were no sad stories in my Jewish narrative, only joy and family and tradition, and I'm not sorry about that. My sons were raised the same way, I could only offer them what had been given to me, and again, I'm not sorry their Jewish story is a happy one too. They have all spent much more time in Israel than I have (5+ weeks each, their 16-year old summer) and more than likely, they know more as young men than I do as their approaching 50 year old mother. That makes me both ashamed and proud.

So where does that leave me today, after 4 days in Poland, almost 14 hours a day, spent trying to grasp what generations of my fellow Jews (and the majority of my colleagues) have felt and understood their whole lives. I didn't cry the same tears in the Warsaw Ghetto or Majdenek, I didn't feel the same hatred for the Polish people (and don't want to share that sentiment, too much energy to hate, and aren't we trying to end hatred of a people), and although I was anxious about our visit to Auschwitz, I wasn't emotional. I think it's going to take me some time to process what I've seen and how it made feel. Of all the horror that Auschwitz revealed to me today, there was a moment , completely unexpected, when I felt the presence of a kindred spirit; these were my relatives, this could be my story. Superficial as it may seem, it started with shoes. Piles and piles of shoes, taken upon arrival along with all other personal belongings. There were stylish espadrilles, elegant camel pumps, even a navy blue pair with a little white anchor. These women; these Jewish wives and mothers and daughters, were just like me. They had happy lives in beautiful cities like Lublin and Krakow or West Hartford. They gave their children a joyous Jewish childhood, and they had closets filled with clothing and shoes, Just like me. I can't imagine that they ever feared the atrocities that were in their future; who could fathom such an unthinkable fate. They packed their bags for the ghettos and the camps; filling their suitcases with their favorite things and they were killed, just for being a Jewish woman, just for being me. They were the suburban housewives of their time, busy days raising children and cooking dinner; they never imagined that anything terrible could happen to them ...but it did. This will stay with me, this I will remember, and for now, that's a good place to start.

Next Stop Krakow?

2011-11-29T12:55:00.001-05:00

I'm buckled in and cruising down the runway, 9 hours from Warsaw. With any luck, and some borrowed pharmaceuticals, I will sleep for at least a portion of this flight. So far, so good with this adventure, although I am barely 8 hours into the experience.

Anticipating thanksgiving traffic and extensive security lines, we (going forward all mentions of "we" unless otherwise specified, are me and my boss, I'll call him DJ) leave Hartford at 10:30 am for a 6:40 pm flight. Perhaps a bit over cautious, but we agreed better safe than sorry. Worst case scenario we have some extra time to shop duty-free in the international terminal. The ride is quite pleasant, we are being driven in a BMW 750 something (I am not a car person, but it was nice ) and arrive in record time by 1:00 pm, maybe earlier. So quickly in fact that we have 2 plus hours until we can even check our luggage; the $5 investment in the luggage cart is well worth it. We do many laps around the food and shopping concourse, visit the restrooms, stop and chat with other travelers from our group, grab a fast lunch and repeat the whole process, minus the lunch, multiple times. Check in time finally arrives and I end up being that person at the airport (who we all make fun of) whose luggage is overweight and have to shamefully open and redistribute in front of the mocking crowd. To be fair, it was my carry on that was the culprit, and I intentionally overloaded it. When was the last time someone weighed your carry on? Doesn't make me feel all that secure when the counter agent instructs me to put the overage in my larger checked luggage, because "she already weighed that one, and it was good." Good reasoning, I'm sure that the 6 kilos that I moved from the overhead compartment to the luggage bay made all the difference in overall flying weight. Oh well, Lot Airlines, the official airline of the Polish people, their rules, I am just a passenger.

After checking our individual seat assignments, one row behind each other, we decide to request new seats to share a two-seater section of the 2 - 3 - 2 configuration. Success, or so we thought, until we realized that our new location was in row 34, out of the possible 37. I decide to focus on the bright side, for a 9 hour flight it's not a bad idea to be close to the restroom. Settling in at the gate I start the process of getting to know my traveling companions; DJ has been a part of this professional circle for a longtime and it seems like one big reunion for him. I am not shy, but I'm feeling a little less confidant than usual, perhaps a bit tired. Slowly but surely I ease into introductions and small talk. I go easy on the "Jewish geography"; sometimes I can be a slightly annoying with an endless barrage of "do you know so and so, I went to (fill in the blank) with them?" If you are currently nodding your head in agreement with my previous statement, keep it to yourself, I am very self aware. I am certain that I committed less than 25% of the names to memory, let alone what JCC they are from, but give me a day or so and I will have it down (including assorted extraneous details of their lives). More than likely I will discover less than six degrees of separation with most, less than challenging in the already narrow demographic of JCC professionals.

The flight, (at this point I am about 1:15 minutes from landing in Warsaw) has been relatively uneventful. No crying babies (strike that, screams currently developing on my left), no awkward seatmate (only DJ), and no white knuckle turbulence. We were served two hot meals, the first of which was something called "dumplings", with an unidentifiable brown filling, accompanied by the ingredients for a minimalist make-your-own sandwich and the second was some sort of a ham and cheese breakfast sub. I preferred the latter, but wouldn't order it in a restaurant. We watched a movie, Legends of the Fall, together (the head phone splitter jack was a useful gadget) which took care of close to 3 hours of flying time. I attempted sleep with a Tylenol PM (chickened out on the prescription option) and failed other than a glorified nap. I'm sensing a VERY long day ahead.

Picking up where I left off, it is now Tuesday morning and I most definitely understated the "length" of Monday. We arrived in Warsaw around 9:30 am and did not check in at our hotel until roughly 9 pm. In between we spent 80% of the day outside exploring the rich and powerful history of Warsaw. The cold wind and freezing temperatures as the early sunshine faded to grey and then black made a difficult day even more raw. More than once, I was sure that if I closed my eyes, even while standing, I would simply drift off and fall to the ground. I did my best not to be a baby, but I felt like crying like a 10-year old on a long family car trip, "how much longer?" I did my best to stay focused, but the exhaustion was overwhelming. (Details of the days events can be found on a new "work" blog, www.postcardfromthemandelljcc.blogspot.com). Within minutes of checking in to our Warsaw hotel I am rewarded with a long hot shower. Afterwards, I visit the lobby to take advantage of the free wi-fi and have a nightcap (Polish Beer) with DJ and a new friend. Sleep comes quickly after that, as does the wake up call at 5:45 am. I arrived on time for breakfast at 6:30 (not surprising, I love hotel breakfast) and fortify with fruit, yogurt and strong coffee.

I'm back on the bus, sitting with the "cool" people in the back, facing another physical and emotional marathon. When night falls I will be in Krakow; never expected those words would come out of my mouth. Apparently the itinerary of my personal "journey" still has a few surprises in store for me. I'm enjoying the diversion, as long as all roads still lead me back home.

Procrastination, Writer's Block and other Excuses...

2011-11-21T21:55:00.000-05:00

Not sure if anyone is still out there, but I'm here and trying to figure out where the last 12 days or so have gone. I'd love to say that there was some overwhelming issue which prevented me from writing. It would be so much easier to blame my absence on Internet connectivity, stolen computers or abduction by hostile forces, but in reality the blame lies solely on my shoulders. Let me back track to where I fell off the wagon, which would land me on November 10th, the day after my "Daddy" blog. I gave myself the next day off to regroup and recover, fully intending to return with something lighthearted on the 11th. Unfortunately, that was the day that Scott requested my presence in Arlington, Virginia with the balance of his belongings for his new apartment. If you remember back to storm Alfred, he left for his new job in the midst of our "powerlessness" with just a suitcase of clothing to get him thought the first week or so. Shortly thereafter he signed a lease for a new apartment, first one without parental co-signing, and made plans to get off his friends couch as soon as possible. All of which required immediate transport of his "stuff" to his new home and the quick purchase of a bed and all other household necessities; please let this be the last bed I purchase for him. Because I am such a good Mom or more likely because I love to see him so happy (translation: he's so nice to me when he's not cranky), I was in my Honda pilot and on the road to Virginia within 24 hours of his newly signed lease. The car was filled with all his worldly goods, clothing, flat-screen TV, and the XBOX. The remaining space held all the stuff that I thought he would need or want, bedding, towels, pots & pans (again, please let this be the last trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond for him) and the most important food items to get him started, cocoa kripsies, cinnamon toast crunch, pasta and sauce and wheat thins. I happily included laundry detergent and bounce and bid farewell to the dirty clothing I would no longer be washing. I managed to squeeze in a few random furniture items from the basement and a stolen street sign from his last college address (I got big points for that inclusion). So back to my excuses ... that Friday was a full-on road trip with an extended stay waiting to go over the GW Bridge and a lovely rush hour trip through DC into Virginia. We unloaded the car at 7 pm, had a quick dinner together, did some more shopping and I was back at my hotel by 9 pm. I could have spent the night writing, after all the hotel bar was not the least bit "hopping" and drinking alone at a hotel bar is not really my style (only seemed exciting with George Clooney in Up in the Air), but I was easily distracted with television, a magazine or two and good old Facebook. Saturday morning I was back on the road by 7:30 for a relatively easy trip home, pulling in my driveway in record time at 1:30 (including 3 stops - 7-11 for coffee, refueling and an Annie's pretzel on the Jersey Turnpike and a bathroom stop). Did I take the afternoon to write about my travels? No I did not, although there were some interesting observations, which I will get back to in the future. Why, well that evening we were headed to a Children's Hospital fundraiser and I had some prep work to do. Showering, nails, and rest occupied the remainder of my day and the evening was a good time with friends and a little too much alcohol. You would think that Sunday would be the perfect day to sleep off the Patron Cafe nightcap, enjoy my Sunday paper, morning coffee and write, but that my friends, was not the case. I had a gallery exhibit opening at 3 pm and had left the details unfinished because of my impromptu trip to Scott. Thus, there was no lazy sleep, breakfast was Advil and chugged coffee, there was no CBS or Charles Osgood and the paper was left untouched on the island. It was already dark when I left work and although I can't remember exactly, I'm pretty sure my next stop was my pillow.

Moving on, Monday November 14th, back to work, no time or energy to write before I got there. Busy day still catching up on the ten days out of the office from the storm and a Webinar in the middle of the day about my upcoming trip to Poland and Israel. This segment was a somber installment about Auschwitz; not exactly the topic that gets me in the mood for lighthearted blogging. No down time in the afternoon, just enough to go home, change my clothes and head back to work for a book event with Senator Joseph Lieberman. My work day ended at 10 pm and sleep was my only priority. Tuesday morning arrived and it was hair color day; sorry too busy chatting with the technician about the Real Housewives of New Jersey to focus on posting, and then back to work for the afternoon. Any down time was occupied with sending David a 21st birthday package of love from home (its contents: alcohol, bagels, sour patch kids, gummy bears and $100, every 21-year olds fantasy package - the iPhone arrived a few weeks earlier ). I have no excuse for Wednesday and Thursday except that I didn't feel like it, too tired - not inspired. I will say that I did reintroduce myself to the lonely elliptical in my basement and had some very enjoyable workouts instead of writing, so all was not lost. Friday finally arrived, my much needed day off, and yet no words made the page. I wish I could say the hours were filled with important, productive activities, but I would be lying; I have no idea what I accomplished besides a few loads of laundry. Friday night was a thought provoking evening at the Connecticut Forum, a pseudo-intellectual series we have been attending for almost 15 years. This segment was called "Creative Minds" and the panelists included Lyle Lovett, Dave Eggars, Jonah Lehrer and Miranda July, moderated by Randy Cohen. Other than Lyle, I had no idea who any of them were prior to the event, but all were brilliant and interesting. We were treated to a beautiful performance by Lovett and unique insights about creativity from the others. A quote from Lehrer quickly typed into my iPhone, "Creativity is the residue of wasted time" , left me feeling good about all the time I had wasted, creative genius was surely just around the corner. I was sure that I left inspired to write on Saturday; even drafting an outline in my head through most of the car ride home. But alas, Saturday came and went with random errands during the day and concluded with a family Bat Mitzvah in the evening and too much Bacardi. Now we're in the homestretch ... Sunday started at 10 am after sleeping off the Rum and excessive stage-dancing (it's the fun side of the family) and continued with a full closet cleaning (this was an absolute necessity, there was no visible carpet space), laundry and dinner with friends. No explanation for last night, just being rebellious, and a long walk with the dog (another procrastination technique discovered of late).

So here we are, Monday, November 21st, and this will get posted tonight (even though it is now 6:19 and I have meeting at work from 7 - 8:30). It may not be my best work, take it as a peace offering. To sum up my MIA days I would have to say that I did enjoy being a little lazy, I only felt guilty occasionally, and the dog walking and the elliptical were both positive outcomes. I played a lot of solitaire on my computer (my version of electronic doodling) which according the creative geniuses of the Connecticut Forum, it is necessary to engage in mindless activities to refocus the brain. At this point, I am hoping I am sufficiently un-blocked for a while. There are bound to be some dry patches ahead with Thanksgiving and my trip, but I'll do my best to post something just to let you know I'm still here. I hope you haven't found another blogger who is more interesting or consistent (even though I was threatened with defection by some of my most loyal, you know who you are). No more excuses, I simply had to handle the journey alone for a bit. My passenger seat is available again, if you're ready, hop in and buckle up.

Deep Breath, Tissue, Proceed ...

2011-11-09T19:26:00.000-05:00

November 9th, 1998 is the dividing line, everything before has since been categorized as "before my father died." This is going to be harder than I thought; one sentence and I'm crying. Deep Breath, Tissue, Proceed. 13 years without him; all 3 of the boys Bar Mitzvahs, 2 high school graduations, one college graduation and every happy and sad moment in between, all without Papa Burt, all without my Daddy. Seems strange to use that word, Daddy, I don't think I have referred to him that way since he's been gone (except alone, when I whisper my thoughts to him). I was 36 years old when he died and spent every last second until then as "Daddy's little girl," certainly helps when you have two brothers. After that day, it’s always my Dad or my Father; never thought about how much I miss just saying Daddy. Deep Breath, Tissue, Proceed.

It was a Monday; Believe it or not, I start most Mondays thinking about that. Mostly because it was just a regular day, like all the Mondays before it, and yet by 3 pm the world as I knew it ceased to exist. I woke up with a healthy, 61-year-old father that lived a mile away and went to bed that night without one. He went to work, just a regular Monday, went to court (lawyer, not criminal), came back to the office, had a heart attack and died, just like that. No lingering illness, no long good-byes, no hospital visits, no passing go, no second chances, no joke; he was just gone in an instant. I remember almost every moment of November 9th, 1998; snippets play out in slow motion far too often even after 13 years. Certain parts I can't piece together no matter how hard I try. I know I was driving Hebrew school carpool and went to my then sister-in-laws house to pick up my nephews. I was standing in her driveway when she told me that he had a heart attack but no other details; his office had called my brother who worked nearby. I remember slumping down on the asphalt and that she took my car to drop the kids at temple. I have no idea how I got back home, only 3 doors away so I suppose I walked. I sat on my front step and looked at the bright blue sky, much the same as the one I am looking at today, and my heart already knew what I hadn't yet been told, he was gone. I felt it deep inside my soul; a part of me was already missing. My mom didn't know anything yet and unfortunately I was the one who had to somehow find the words to tell her. I don't know how I found her, did she have a cell phone then? Must have, because I got her on the phone and asked her to come to my house because I needed help with the kids. She knew something was wrong, heard it in my voice, but didn't press me for details. As soon as I hung up, I knew I didn't have the strength to do this alone and called old friends of my parents, the two people who I knew could get both of us through this. They arrived within minutes, not sure if it was before or after my mom, that whole part is a giant blur. I have no recollection of the words I used to tell her that her husband of 40 years was gone; at some point before that my brother called to confirm what I already knew. More fuzzy memories of a trip to the hospital to say goodbye, wish I hadn't done that part, but I couldn't let my mom do it alone. Luckily my brain has mostly eliminated that visual and replaced it with the one I see every time I think of him, sparkling blue eyes and a giant smile. Jeffrey must have met me at the hospital and I know I spoke to RW within minutes of when I found out. The rest of the night is also spotty, telling the kids, my younger brother arriving (his own wedding, just 6 days away, is suddenly not what this week was about). Friends and family in and out all night, I can’t let my mother out of my sight, afraid she will slip away from the sadness. We spent that night together in my bed, not a lot of sleeping or talking, just two broken people trying to make sense of the last 12 hours and how we would face all the hours ahead without him.

It’s not necessary to go into detail about the days immediately following, obviously a funeral (Suddenly I can’t remember if I spoke, I know my mother wrote something and had a friend read it when she could not). There were days of Shiva, hundreds and hundreds of people sharing their stories of my father. The laughter made me angry but the stories made me happy, if that makes any sense. Every morning I woke up and tried to imagine that it was all a very bad nightmare and if I called him at the office he would answer. For a while, I called just to hear his voice in the message, and then at some point the message and the extension were gone. Weeks and months went by and I felt like I would never be happy again. I cried in the car, I cried at night in the dark, I cried in the shower; I tried not to cry when I spoke to my mother. There is a strange phenomenon that happens when you lose a parent, and I’ve discussed this with many friends who have unfortunately shared my experience, in some ways you lose the other parent too. As the only daughter, we switched roles for a long while as I “mothered” her. My mom is a remarkable woman who faced every day since with her head up, refusing to let most of the world see her grief. The bulk of it was saved for me, at the end of the day in long, sad phone calls. In June of 2010, she married another wonderful man from Yale who gives her all the love and joy and happiness that she deserves. On that beautiful day, I finally stopped worrying about her and we returned to mother and daughter, the way it’s supposed to be.

I became a different person that day 13 years ago, a little broken but a little stronger. I take less for granted and most things less seriously. Every happy moment is a little bittersweet without him, but I share the details when I quietly talk to him when I’m alone. Today I went to the cemetery, actually wrote part of this sitting in my car, still hard to see his name on that stone. I used to visit more often; it was my hiding spot when I needed a place to think things through (still running to daddy for help I guess), but I’ve gone less and less in the last few years. I’m hoping its because I don’t need to run away as much or maybe my heart knows he’s with me all the time if I need him. I take comfort in the fact that he never suffered, and my memories will always be of my handsome young father. I’m glad that all of my boys have real memories of their Papa Burt; he loved being a grandfather most of all. We tell stories all the time, and as they grow from boys to men I see pieces of him in what they do and who they are.

I was blessed to have lived most of my life within minutes of his front door. I see his face staring back at me in the mirror every day, a more feminine version I hope and without the blue eyes, but I am my father’s daughter. I have missed him every hour of every day for the last 13 years. The pain never goes away, it just gets a little bit duller with the passing of time. He was the smartest man I ever knew; he made me laugh and occasionally he made me angry, but most of all, I never doubted, not even for a second, how much he loved me. In the end, even at 49 years old, I am just a little girl who misses her Daddy. Deep Breath, Tissue, Proceed ...

Let There Be Light...

2011-11-08T17:33:00.000-05:00

It is Tuesday morning, November 8th and I would estimate that I am at a 95% personal restoration rate. Let me explain, I last sat at this island enjoying my morning coffee on Saturday, October 29th, blissfully unaware of what Storm Alfred and the days ahead would hold in store for me. You were introduced to the historic October snowstorm in my regretfully mocking blog written as the first few flakes fell and quickly finished as the lights went dark. It was posted at some point during the last 10 days (I honestly lost track of the individual days, with no markers to distinguish them), and even then, as I acknowledged my underestimation of Alfred's power, I had yet to grasp the magnitude of his impact. I am going to offer a condensed version of what happened during the 10+ days of what many have labeled "Snowmageddon." The highlights will certainly paint a clear enough picture and so many of you were right there in the trenches with me that the details are not necessary.

Quickly rolling back to the beginning, that first Saturday night (inconceivable that this spanned 2 of them) was dark and cold, but certainly manageable. We had a wok-cooked dinner (gas stove) and made a nice fire. Scott gave up early with no TV or Internet, and went to bed at 7pm. I spent a good part of the evening in my car, charging my cell phone and my iPad. As I posted at that time on Facebook, I wasn't sure if that was pathetic or smart, I will now confirm it was most definitely the latter. Those two devices were my connection to the outside world and my full tank of gas and car charger kept them alive. We crawled into bed at 10 pm, plenty warm but missing my television. The overnight hours were a symphony of cracking tree limbs and howling winds. Sunday morning revealed the eerie details of the devastation right outside my own front door. We were literally trapped in our house, fallen trees blocking the street on either side of our driveway. These were not branches, to my left was a toppled 100-year old willow tree; a white Lexus oddly stuck in the hole left by the roots ripped from the earth (further investigation revealed a late night driver attempted to "go around" the blockage; I am fairly certain there was alcohol involved). To my right, another set of giant limbs; an unsuccessful attempt at movement by a snowplow was somewhat entertaining. Downed power lines dangled eerily in the middle of the street, which was now a maze of trees and archways created by the haphazard falls of trunks and limbs. The blue sky of late morning brought out most of the neighbors to share in the curiosity of what looked like a snow coved war zone. Soon enough the hum of chain saws cut a pathway out on the right and kids in snow suits explored the neighborhood while nervous parents kept them away from the black wires cutting through the snow. I ingeniously (ok, Jeffrey gave me the idea) poured water boiled on the stove through the coffee maker and enjoyed my morning Joe as usual. I made Andrew a great breakfast of scrambled eggs and cheese on a skillet grilled English muffin and Scott stayed cocooned in his bed until at least midday. Jeffrey happily spent his morning with the snow blower and the chain saw; he is the unique breed of Jewish husband who loves his power tools. I made contact with my "girls," hiding out at the house with the generator and planned our first escape to warmth and companionship. We packed up what we needed for a possible night out, not expecting much would be repaired on a Sunday, and still relatively unaware of the storms statewide powerlessness. The journey to LFL's house was a tricky passage under wires and trees scraping the roof of my car, but we arrived safely and settled in for the day. 9 of us hung out all day, treated to a delicious hot lunch "thrown together" by my friend who somehow manages to elevate pantry basics to gourmet with zero stress or effort. Dessert was Halloween candy, already assuming that trick or treating was not likely for the following day. Slowly but surely we learned that our town, and nearly 60% of the state was without power and this was looking to be a long-term situation. Hotels were unavailable almost immediately, and not really an option with a 13-year old Golden Retriever that couldn't be left home in our cold, dark house. Late Sunday afternoon the four of us and Boola moved in with the Z's, old friends who have been there for us through all of life's "storms," this one more literal than the rest, for what was unexpectedly a week long stay. Much more than a warm bed and a warm house, we were treated to spectacular meals, satellite TV and individual bathrooms (yes, I was living better in storm life than real life). Our more than gracious hosts opened their doors and their hearts to countless others during the course of the week; providing cell phone charging, a hot shower and a full house at the dinner table many nights in a row. Although it is never easy to be displaced from your home, I can't complain about afternoons filled with warm cookies from the oven, two playmates for my dog (who did not even get evicted after multiple "accidents" on the kitchen floor), and long days and nights spent with best friends who never tired from a houseful of guests. When the worst of times brings out the best in people, you know you have been blessed with the right people in your life. This week just confirmed what we have known all along, and we will be forever grateful that J & E have always been our safe harbor.

In reality, outside of the anger and resentment towards Connecticut Light & Power, most of the community rose to the occasion with respect and caring for their fellow storm refugees. Crowded gas stations and supermarkets fostered friendship and conversation, Facebook posts (seemingly the only communication with the world for most) offered "open invitations" to houses with power and long distance friends and family from near and far welcomed anyone who needed a place to sleep or just getaway for the day. Busy intersections without traffic lights provided a timely lesson to my soon to be new driver in courtesy and rules of the road. Restaurants and bookstores welcomed long-lingering patrons to "charge and warm”, many of them nursing the same cup of coffee for hours. Neighbors helped neighbors clean yards and drag branches to the street and kept watch on the houses whose residents had fled for power in other states. The local Laundromat (found out on Facebook it was owned by a friend and headed over immediately with bags from 4 households) washed and folded load after load every day, with the manager even offering to stay late and finish Scott's clothes so he could leave for his new job in Washington the next day. Mother nature served up a historic mess for October and I have to say, my community responded with mostly high marks.

On the lighter side (and I suppose that can be taken literally at this point), it wasn't so bad having a week off from work (spent mostly in Uggs and sweatpants) and Andrew wasn't unhappy about missing over a week of school either (not sure how he will feel about that in late June). I did feel the most sympathy for the parents of younger kids whose days were filled with endless field trips and "power less" activities; teenagers are generally happy to be left alone with their smart phones and a PS 3 in my case. I can't remember another event causing this much damage and disruption to my normal routine, but in the end we fared better than the thousands who suffered the wrath of Katrina or Irene. We mostly have intact homes to return to and other than the loss of perishable food (and my fridge looks as clean as the day it arrived) and some landscaping, life will continue as usual tomorrow when school is finally in session and power is fully restored statewide.

This brings me back to my original statement of 95% restoration. For the last 10 or 11 days (but who's counting) we received daily updates on power restoration estimates; who would have power and when. The goal of 100% restoration was shifted day after day until the numbers offered neither truth nor hope. It became almost laughable as the outage stretched beyond a week, schools closed for 7 days, and wires and trees still littered streets long after the snow had melted and the autumn sun returned. Days of "assessment" led to minimal impact on repairs and the sighting of electrical crews became a game of sport. I am thankful that exasperation led mostly to bad jokes and not extensive outbreaks of “power rage” (although there was a random murder reported in the midst of the chaos, doubtful however that this was a crime caused by lack of lights and cable). For the most part this will be a funny memory, a situation so far out of anyone's control, that laughter was the only remedy. Jeffrey may disagree based on a few outbreaks at his expense, but even in a power outage I am entitled to a few short circuits. I am happily back in my own house (I do miss the cookies and the cleaning lady though) with lights, cable TV and a home phone. I am still without Internet (thus the missing 5%, I might be underestimating its importance, but I still have 3G service on the iPad). I have obviously been "blogless" for many days now, but I have come to realize that writing is a luxury that didn't have its place during my displacement. I felt a bit selfish trying to find a quiet spot to share my thoughts when there always seemed to be something else I should be doing. I've fallen into a routine on this journey; places and times that I write which give me the space and freedom to let the words flow naturally. Losing my corner of the world, for even a short time, left me without an opportunity to think things through. The quiet of another home feels different than the empty hum of a night in my own room or the background noise of the news with my morning coffee. My words are used to their own environment and they have quietly snuck back into my head today. It feels good to talk to you again; hopefully you still want to listen. I woke up this morning, for the first time in a great while, with things I wanted to say and the free time to say them. As it happens, tomorrow's post will be my hardest, glad I got the chance to sneak one out before I tackle the one in front of me. I have emerged out of the darkness and into the light and learned that with family, good friends, laughter, a Laundromat, occasional liquor, and a charged iPhone, I can survive almost anything.

Bring It On, Alfred ...

2011-11-02T10:06:00.001-04:00

Snowstorm in October, well I guess I have no excuse for not writing today. As far as the last few days, just not enough hours in the day. Starting from Wednesday, a non-stop day at work followed by a four-hour Board/Staff meeting, arrived home at 10 pm. Thursday was almost entirely dedicated to a funeral for the 108 year old matriarch of lifelong family friends. More a celebration of life at that age, but to her 75 year old son who visited her every day, the sadness over her loss was palpable. By Friday I was more than a little ready for a quiet day off and spent it mostly at home relaxing and doing laundry. Should have written then, but to be honest, I was happily thoughtless for a change. Good news on the child front capped off my day, Scott will be headed back to DC this week to start a new job. It was just the Friday I needed to prepare for what was supposed to be an over-scheduled weekend. And then came Alfred, Storm Alfred.

It's now Saturday at 4:25 pm and the fact that I am sitting in my bed writing is about as unexpected as the accumulating snow out my window. Today was supposed to be a back-to-back day of preparation for tomorrow's two work events ending with a charity concert tonight. I wasn't even expecting time to sit down, let alone write, so my current horizontal position is even more enjoyable than usual. My morning began with phone calls that started at 9 and culminated at 11 with the decision that tomorrow morning's event would be cancelled due to the impending storm. Too many "ifs" with an author flying in from out of state and potential driving and power issues for the morning. I was disappointed to have to make that decision before the first flake fell, but it was the right choice based on what I am seeing now. The next few hours were filled with logistical details of the cancellation, but those could be done from the comfort of home in my sweatpants. By midday I received the news that tonight's plan was also a no-go, and alas, my "too-full" day was completely free. I had a to make a quick trip to work, but otherwise this Saturday is suddenly sedentary.

Perhaps I underestimated this historical October snowstorm, but my quiet afternoon of writing is now subject to the dim light of the iPad. Its 4:47 and the power is out, a few on and offs preceded this long stretch, and I have a feeling this time it's out for the night. I have 49% power on my iPad and no computer, so let's hope this gets posted before I power down completely. I did hear them say multiple times on the news that widespread outages were expected, but they said the same thing for Hurricane Irene. I assumed they were "crying wolf" again and made no preparations for possible darkness. I'm sure I have few candles lying around (FYI, Jewish yahrzeit candles burn continuously for 24 hours), probably a flashlight or two from camp and enough food in the house that we won't starve. I have no interest in going to the store to participate in storm madness. Why is it that people suddenly feel as if they can't survive without milk, eggs, white bread and Doritos. If I'm lucky, Jeffrey will offer a trip to the store on the way home from his game and take care of the provisions. Dinner is easy on a gas cooktop and if I have the makings for a s'more in the fireplace I could be happy for a few days. There is plenty of liquor in the house if friends come over to ride out the storm or if I need to drink myself into a warm slumber.

All in all, I would say I am in fairly good shape for whatever comes my way. A bit earlier than expected, but a good snowstorm is usually fun, hard to understand if you've never lived in New England. Everyone is forced to stay home and hang out together, usually in the room with the fireplace. Games and puzzles replace television and all food is calorie free. The boys bundle up to shovel, which leads to a dangerous snow assault on whoever wants it least. Sooner or later they arrive in the mudroom red faced and soaked through multiple layers and I serve up mugs of warm hot chocolate. No matter how old they get, that part never changes. All of the sudden I'm kind of looking forward to October's attempt at a snowstorm. Hopefully I'll be able to check in soon and let you know how it went. Stay safe and warm if you are in Alfred's Path and I'll catch you on the other side.

To be continued ...

My Dirty Little Secret

2011-10-25T20:57:00.002-04:00

My office is very clean, at the moment. This is in direct response to the directive from my boss that all staff members must present a professional office space to visitors. There will be inspections on Monday. Apparently there will be prizes for most improved, best Feng shui, even least improved. Gifts were not the incentive for me, if so I might have done nothing and been the obvious winner of the booby prize for "no change." I instead took this an opportunity to organize my environment and to prepare myself for a few messy months ahead. Heading in to the insanity of November and December with a clean desktop has to be a good thing.

I have to come clean and tell you that I am messy. To those of you who have moved assorted boxes just to sit across from me, this is not a surprise. I usually blame the clutter on my co-workers who leave anything and everything behind my office door. As the Visual Arts director and ad-hoc party planner, almost anything seems to fall into the "give it to Jill" category. My work space is the last stop for everything from party supplies to holiday decorations; every morning offers a potential discovery of a new pile of "what do I do with that?" Little by little I let things accumulate until I am out of desk top, counter top, even the floor. I do have access to an art closet, but I recently relinquished half to another department and it is also home to various electrical supplies, so there is not an abundance of storage space available. It is also down the hall from my actual office (used to be right next door until I moved) and somehow those extra few steps prolong the amount of time something collects dust in my office vs. the storage shelves. All of this is really just a rationalization for the fact that I am more than a little organizationally challenged. I feel better and work better in a clutter free world, but I have trouble maintaining the management of the mess. Even now, as members walk by my newly sparkling space, opening even one desk drawer would expose my secret sloppy side. My colleagues are well aware that all my drawers are "junk drawers", just ask me for a pencil or a tape measure and you'll witness the chaos within. I dream about the day when a pull on the handle releases a desk tray with clearly identifiable supplies and files with visible color coded tabs, but it won't be this week. The edict was to clean what members’ see, not what they don't, can't change the rules now. My office is also one of the first you see when entering the executive wing, and the doorway that unfamiliar visitors stop to ask for directions, thus my impression is often the first impression. My door is almost never closed, without a window I feel like I'm locked in a closet when it is, and I am not one to shy away from random conversations with whoever walks by. It could be that the whole idea behind the center wide clean up could be just for me, but I've seen a few others that could use some work.

My office is unfortunately indicative of most of my other personal spaces. My closet is something that only a select few get to see, it is my dirty little secret. In my old house I blamed it on a shared space with Jeffrey that wasn't big enough for either of us, and he is no neatnik. When we built the new house I reconfigured the original blue prints to accommodate my plan for a perfectly organized home for my clothes. Jeffrey got his own space, a fraction of mine, but he was happy to be free of my closet madness. It's probably the size of a small bedroom, no fancy wood built-ins, I'm not sure I'm deserving based on past performance. I vowed that when I kept it clean for a while I would reward myself with finer accoutrements. So far I'm still working with white wire shelving, haven't been able to justify the investment yet. Every month or so I dig in and it looks ok for a while, but one bad day of "can't decide what to wear" can lead to a slippery slope of piles and empty hangers. I have even started to infringe on the unclaimed closet space in the other bedrooms in an effort to manage the overload, but it doesn't seem to have an impact. I have trouble eliminating any excess. Perhaps I have an unnatural attachment to my clothing, but I can't seem to say goodbye to much. I have distinct memories of where I wore each dress, or where I bought every top, which outfits were "feel good" choices, and which ones looked good in pictures. They don't just live there for the flashbacks, I actually wear most of what hangs there, if not this year then next. I do get rid of obvious fashion no-no's (excessive pleats, too high waists, sizes that are way too small or way too big), but the rest is fair game for future use. I've been holding pretty steady at the same weight for a while now, so there are virtually no "when I lose 5 pounds" items and I made a conscious effort to toss the "fat" clothes when I decided I would not let myself need them again. I have tried every closet organizational method, but I can't pare down to the essentials; I will always need more than one pair of black pants. The rest of my house is generally in better shape, or at least what any guest would see. My closet is my own cross to bear, and unlike my office, only I have to suffer its consequences.

I am not a slob in my personal appearance, in fact I am pretty meticulous in that regard. I am not a messy eater; hate to have a dirty face or hands. I hide my messy underneath a fairly well kept exterior; most people would never suspect the disaster within. I think that makes me a "closet" slob, both literally and figuratively. My parents were fastidious, both in our house and their personal appearance. I guess neatness must skip a generation, or two, judging by my boys housekeeping skills. I figure that in the realm of character flaws, messy is one I'm willing to live with, and to quote Albert Einstein, if a cluttered desk signs a cluttered mind, Of what, then, is an empty desk a sign? We all know my mind is not an empty place, so I vote for clutter.

Newer research even suggests a few piles here and there may be beneficial. Authors Eric Abrahamson and David H. Freedman's book, A Perfect Mess: The Hidden Benefits of Disorder - How Crammed Closets, Cluttered Offices, and on-the-Fly Planning Make the World a Better Place, illustrate through various case studies the useful role mess can play in business and personal lives. Abrahamson and Freedman demonstrate that the moderately messy use resources more efficiently and often yield better more creative solutions. I think I have reached the perfect compromise at work and at home: neat desk and messy drawers, tidy house and sloppy closet; my personal Ying and Yang of organization. I may in fact win the prize for "most improved" office, but the trophy won't stay on the shelf for long. Give it a few months and it will be lost amidst new piles and un-filed paperwork.

Can I Take Your Order?

2011-10-23T22:08:00.000-04:00

Earlier this month I read the sad news that Friendly's was in bankruptcy and closing all their restaurants. I have to say, I was a little sad. Besides the fact that I don't know another place that serves a burger on toast, or has a butter crunch ice cream that got me through 3 pregnancies, it was also the home of my first waitressing job. It was not my finest fashion moment, blue and white polyester dress, tied with a bow at the back, and completed with a pair of white nursing shoes, but for some reason I didn't care. I ended each shift covered to my elbows in ice cream and nauseous from French fry eating (not from the customer’s plates, just the ones that "fell off" the customer’s plates). My friends didn't complain either when I handed "complimentary" cones and snacks out the takeout window. Did I just admit to low-level embezzlement? If so, I'm hoping the statute of limitations has run out on my petty theft.

I had part-time jobs all through high school and college. It was never a parental requirement; I just liked making my own money and the camaraderie that came with the territory. I did stints in the retail world as well, an inaugural employee when Loehmann's opened nearby, but waitressing was much more fun. As much as I love clothing, picking up someone else cast offs from the floor was not the best occupation for a girl whose own closet was littered with unhung garments. I also felt the need to give customers an honest opinion on potential purchases; they should have thanked me but apparently many were not ready to take fashion and fit advice from an 18 year old. The biggest problem with my retail career was that by the end of the week it was essentially a volunteer job, my paycheck went right back to the register, week after week. At least as a waitress it was nearly impossible to "eat" my pay.

In college I did a short run in a coffee shop beneath the dorm. I primarily served Bran muffins and Sanka freezes (think coffee milkshake) to BU girls on a high fiber, caffeine free diet. The tips weren't great and I moved on to a full service restaurant. The checks were bigger, but so were the hassles of food cooked improperly, rude customers and overly friendly bosses. This particular job taught me to not piss off the wait staff; bad things do happen in the kitchen, and to tip well. The server often pays the price for any screw up behind the scene, and in this place it was a nightly occurrence, so off I went. Next stop, the local college bar, Fathers Too. Every campus has a place just like it; this one was down a few stairs, dark and narrow, music courtesy of a jukebox upfront and filled over capacity most nights. I sold mostly pitchers and long island ice teas and rarely took a credit card. The money was good; college kids get progressively more generous and forgetful with each round served. Boys try and impress with big tips until an unhappy girlfriend pipes in, and girls, well, I wasn't counting on them for a big payday. It was fun and easy, no menus, no food, no cranky kitchen staff and the bartenders were like a row of big brothers watching over me from behind the counter. There was one in particular that I watched back; the best part of every shift. At the end of the night, when the last of the “stumblers” made it out the door, the staff would grab a stool and finish the night with a round or two. I know my parents were never very happy that this was my chosen place of employment, but I don't think they ever asked me to quit, and I don't think I would have anyway. It ended with graduation, never waitressed anywhere after that, but for a long time I missed the easy pattern that came with long nights at the bar and the sleepy days that followed.

Waitressing, in theory, requires all of the same character traits that I continue to use professionally, even now. You have to be friendly and able to make conversation with anyone and everyone, to think on your feet, to react quickly, to occasionally be thick-skinned, to sell more than a person intended to buy, to be kind and respectful to the people who support you behind the scenes, and to make sure that each and every customer interaction ensures repeat business. For the ten years I sold residential real estate, those were skills I used every day and in my current position in the non-profit world, customer satisfaction is essential for survival. All in all, I would say all those years carrying a tray was time well spent.

I'm not sure when Friendly's will close its final door in my town, but I'll be sure and have one last visit before they do. I can't say I’ll miss it all that much, haven't been there in years, just feels like the end of an era. I’ll have a burger on toast, fries, and a Fribble, and say good-bye with a butter crunch hot fudge sundae. Maybe if I'm nice they'll let me scoop a cone or two for old time’s sake; I wonder if my right arm still has the skill? The waitress will not be wearing blue and white polyester, they got cooler uniforms after I left, but she will probably have ice cream stuck to her arm and smell like French fries, and I will make sure and leave her a big tip.

Save The Date

2011-10-22T22:57:00.000-04:00

I am in an excellent mood today. I have slept soundly the last two nights; which I could attribute to how tired I was from the days prior or to the fact that my thoughts are once again making it from my brain to the page. Either way, the end result is a better rested and happier Jill. In actuality it has been a pretty good week overall, other than the few sleepy days in the middle. I had a great time in New York (Tevya crowd this time, sorry BU girls), I saw two old friends, got the VIP tour (from my VIP friend) at ABC and hung out backstage at The Chew. I met Clinton Kelly (What Not to Wear) again, who actually remembered meeting me before (not sure I believe him, but felt good anyway). I talked for a few minutes each with Mario Batali and Michael Symon, both warm and friendly. I tasted the Lobster Thermador they made on the show, delicious even at 10 am. I literally bumped into the second friend on the street (we had plans to meet, but hadn't picked a time or place, so this was totally random). We had the best and longest coffee date I've had in a long time and caught up on the last decade or so. Other than not being able to fall asleep, I enjoyed the quiet, alone time in my mom's NY apartment (nice to have a hideaway sometimes). I had quality phone time with an old friend and a cousin I've been meaning to connect with and an easy, rain-free drive home late Thursday. I didn't leave the house until 4:30 on Friday when I picked up Scott at the airport. Jeffrey was working a night game so dinner was delivery for me and Andrew. A last minute plan for a late evening drink with friends was just what I needed to start the weekend. An ice cold beer, no makeup, no pretense; just good conversation and a few laughs.

Today was another easy one; coffee, the paper and laundry filled the morning. I think there may have been a 5-minute period where there was actually no dirty laundry in my house. Jeffrey left midday to Ref a game and I ventured out to do a few things. On that drive I spent time reflecting on the past few days and that's when the happy wave washed over me. My disposition was further lifted with the accompanying sound of Andrea Bocelli serenading me with "Canto Della Terra" (I have no idea what he is saying, but I am sure he is singing directly to me) which was immediately followed by Cheryl Lynn's disco hit, "Got to be Real". If you were driving anywhere near me you would have (a) cursed me out for having the volume so high, car shaking ghetto loud and (b) made fun of me for both singing along to an Italian aria and dancing while driving (probably not a good idea to use the brake or gas pedals to keep the beat). Besides the obvious concern, that the person who chooses these two consecutive songs must be a bit schizophrenic. Judge if you want to, but my soul was smiling.

Next stop on the happiness tour, Pinkberry lunch, and the joy continues. After which, I decide, why not share the love and surprise Jeffrey at his game. I take a nice drive out to the "country" (only a few miles away, but looks and feels further) and show up for the last quarter. The smile on his face when he spots me confirms that I have succeeded in making it a great day for the referee too. Currently, I am minutes away from a sushi dinner with the four of us, which will close out this picture perfect Saturday. A day full of nothing, and everything.

At some point during my travels a thought occurred to me. I have no idea why, but I started to think about how I wanted to celebrate 50, when I get there. From the beginning I told Jeffrey I only wanted to be with the kids, maybe a family trip. I definitely didn't need or want jewelry or presents; I have enough stuff. I want something I can hold in my heart, not around my neck or on my finger (not that I am opposed to any of those things, just not what I want at this point in my life). And then today, out of nowhere, I figured it out. I want to throw a party, for myself. I have hosted 3 big Bar-Mitzvahs, planned large-scale events for work, a few parties for assorted friends and family, but never a night just for me. This whole concept surprised me, threw Jeffrey for a loop too, it is completely outside my comfort zone. As much as I like to be the center of attention, after all I am the girl who has invited all of you to share every moment of the 365 days until I turn 50, I am not a person who has ever thought about throwing a party that is all about me. This event, as I envision it, is all about you. With every post and every story I tell, you meet the people who fill my life. The thought of bringing all my people together for one night, in one place, is the way I want to mark my passage to 50. As it happens the big day is a Monday, and no one wants to party on a Monday. So, mark the calendar for Saturday, August 11th - time and place to be determined (but I'm thinking NYC). If you're reading, you're invited, but the details will come to you more personally in the months ahead. I figure if I start to celebrate on Saturday night, I could easily (with a few naps in between) celebrate right until I really hit 50 on Monday. In my fantasy world, there could be a flight to Vegas involved if you're interested. By August I will be finished with 2 out of 3 tuitions and we get a year off before Andrew, so it's my turn to have some fun and I want you there. I'm committed to making this happen, so Save the Date, I intend to make 50 unforgettable.

It's now 9:57 and the bliss is still holding; excellent dinner, ice cream in bed and no second thoughts about the big event. I'm hoping for another night of peaceful slumber (if I can manage not to dwell on party details all night) and a Sunday as simple and satisfying as today.

What's the Problem with Balls?

2011-10-21T20:52:00.000-04:00

Two things struck me in the news today; more than likely completely unrelated, but time will tell. First off, radio evangelist Harold Camping who wrongly predicted doomsday back in May, thinks the real end of the world could be today. Secondly, the much anticipated new Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavor, Schweddy Balls, is causing uproar in the supermarket world. Is it even remotely possible that fudge covered rum balls buried deep in Vanilla ice cream could lead to the end of the world? At least for now we appear to be safe, the doomsday moment has once again come and gone. As long as we are all still here, I’m going to go back to the “Balls.” Seems the Mississippi based One Million Moms (OMM) group is putting the pressure on supermarket chains not to carry the elicit flavor, even asking consumers to write to Ben and Jerry and ask them to stop production. The Moms feel the product name is “nothing but locker room humor that's not appropriate for young children.” I needed to know why the “One Million Moms” found this to be a worthy cause for concern, so I did a little research.

One Million Moms, is a ministry of the American Family Association, and are working hard to rid the world of numerous “threats” to America’s youth other than offensive ice cream flavors. Another recent target of OMM was Dancing with the Stars, the ABC Network and all product sponsors. What was the problem you might ask? The Dance competition “had the audacity” to air a definition of "transgendered” while showing a childhood picture of Chas Bono. Even the child friendly Sesame Street has not escaped the watchful eye of the Mississippi Moms. They recently urged their members to “Sign a petition to the Public Broadcast Service encouraging them to keep Bert and Ernie's relationship as it has been since 1969 (I’m assuming they mean in the closet). "The characters should remain just friends, and PBS should not even consider a gay wedding on Sesame Street or adding a transgender character to the show.” And Ben and Jerry aren’t the only ones having their “Balls” attacked; OMM is also taking aim at Unilever, the makers of AXE body spray for their ad campaign. The AXE commercial has two females discussing how men clean their balls. One replies that they can have more fun with clean balls. “The commercial is aimed at cleaning sports balls, but s*xual innuendo is obvious," states OMM, the anti-ball organization. They go on to complain that the entire advertisement “alludes to men's g*nitalia while the females have smirks on their faces and handle and play with sports balls. One female asks the other, "Go ahead and play with these clean balls." The other responds with, "I could play with these balls all day.” The best part is that with each “issue” the OMM include a direct link to the offensive material and often describes in graphic detail the content which disgusts them. I would even go out on a limb and say that their website may in fact be dangerous for young children. I could literally go on and on with this, but I will assume that you can Google it on your own and peruse their top 26 issues.

I should move on before the Moms decide to find me and boycott my Journey,although I am pretty sure they would have numerous other reasons not to “follow” me. I’d rather talk about the “Balls” anyway. Ben & Jerry’s newest flavor references a 1998 Saturday Night Live skit featuring Alec Baldwin as baker Pete Schweddy, who promises, "No one can resist my Schweddy Balls." Alec’s character is being interviewed in a spoof of NPR radio show “Delicious Dish” about holiday treats. Baldwin arrives with his specialty Rum Balls for the hosts to sample. The entire 5-minute parody is full of ball humor; not only are they “Schweddy”, they are also misshapen and they smell good. If I remember correctly there was a similar skit dedicated to muffins with Betty White, which the female hosts discuss in great deal their desire to eat muffins, how great they taste and their aversion to dry or yeasty muffins. I don’t recall a similar public outcry against muffin production; maybe that one slipped by the ladies from Mississippi? (Shoot, did I go back to them again). As long as I’m here, I hope that none of the southern Belles has a husband named “Dick” or he’s got some explaining to do. I also would like to know if it’s just “balls” that they have a problem with or if “salty nuts” and “cocktails” are also off their menu. I can safely assume that their children are never allowed to order the chicken “breast” at a restaurant and that the roosters on their farms have been trained to start the day with a simple “...A Doodle Do.”

I am going to be as open-minded as I can at the moment and accept that people are entitled to their own opinions and are free to fight for the causes that they believe in. But, you knew there was one coming, I have to believe that even the narrowest minds have something better to be focused on than the name of an ice cream. If anyone is overly concerned that "Shweddy Balls”" or apparently any ball related euphemism is going to corrupt young children, than they should take it upon themselves to safeguard their boys and girls against balls of any kind and let the rest of us enjoy any flavor we want. It’s a free country and some nights I might want "Chubby Hubby" and others "Karamel Sutra", if it’s been a particularly bad day I might head right for the "What a Cluster". This is just the kind of ridiculousness that, combined with a few drinks, could provide an entire evening of laughter. After which I would go in search of a progressive grocer who would be bold and brave enough to sell me some ice-cold "Schweddy Balls" to take back home to my bed.

Back on Track

2011-10-21T00:04:00.000-04:00

I'm back. Which naturally leads to the question of where have I been? My best possible explanation is everywhere and nowhere. I am at the end of two short work weeks; which should have provided plenty of time to get my thoughts on paper, but the extra hours left me with too much time to think. Scatterbrained is not an adjective that I would generally use to describe myself, just the opposite would be more likely, and yet in the last two weeks I have lost my car keys twice, lost the claim ticket for a New York City garage, misplaced clothing in my own house, said goodbye to all the photos on my iPhone after I forgot to back up, and on more than one of those occasions, thought I was losing my mind. Each of the last few days when I attempted to write I could not find my way to a clear thought and abandoned the process. Tonight I am going to push through, because maybe it’s what I need to do to get out of this cycle. I am committed to reigning in the chaos in my head, so bear with me while I attempt to sort it out.

I am a planner, not in the organized, detailed, checklist way, it's more about controlling a situation or an outcome. A person like me, who is so busy over thinking everything, has what-if scenarios for almost everything in my life. Not just the big stuff, even day to day activities can play out a thousand different ways in my brain. I run through conversations I haven't had yet, I deal with issues and obstacles that have yet to occur and play out full-scale outcomes for each of them. Some people might find this to be a useful personality trait, but lately I'm finding that I'm so busy anticipating what could happen, that I am preventing life from unfolding on its own. On the small scale, like a blog post, I have always started with an idea and let my words take me where they naturally want to go. Most days I mentally write the opener, sometimes the title will help me define my direction, but I leave the bulk of the word count to happen organically. This week, I wrestled with every word; what story am I trying to tell, what am I trying to say, where do I want to end? I was so focused on the finish line that I could not get out of the starting gate. In the bigger picture, as I encounter new opportunities and challenges I am paralyzed by the all-consuming need to imagine how they will play out and where they will leave me on the other side. Until now, I felt that if I covered all the bases I could control the desired outcome or at least be prepared for the undesired ones. I envision the end result, I work through the road blocks, and I give myself the best chance to get what I want. Or so I thought; my plan is apparently not the only one and I'm seeing that more and more these days. I cannot control or predict all the variables, and I have to stop trying to.

The funny thing is that, at the moment, nothing in my life is terribly off kilter. Life, in the grand scheme of things, is pretty good. With no major dilemmas to dwell on, that leaves the field wide open to contemplate just about anything. I think I was on the right track back in the beginning when I said that blogging was helping me sleep because it gave me an outlet for the stuff that kept me up at night. Somehow I've returned to sleepless nights, unable to turn off the valve when it's time to rest. It’s as if this blog has opened Pandora’s Box and I can't get the unwanted thoughts back to a safe place. This week in particular, probably because I had excess down time, I was so caught up in contemplation that I barely slept. My days were spent in a hazy focus, which would probably account for the aforementioned “scattered” brain activity. Some nights I jump from thought to thought, others I focus so intently on a single thing that I force myself to stay awake to reach a conclusion. There are nights I have fought the urge to wake up and write, just to stay in my bed and attempt to commit my words to memory so that I can transcribe them in the morning. This method never works out the way I planned, my mental shorthand is apparently pretty inaccurate. I have never been the type of person who skips ahead in a book to see what happens, the joy of reading is getting lost in the story and letting the ending unfold naturally. And yet when it comes to the book of my life, I can't stop thinking about what's in store in the chapters to come. Life has certainly given me plenty of examples to prove that you can't always plan for the future and just as many to illustrate that the happiest moments are usually the ones that show up completely unexpected or anticipated. Even when facing a real live problem, hours of evaluation never guarantees a clear solution, sometimes there just isn't an answer. Other times the answer is obvious,but unwanted, and the extra time is spent inventing more favorable options that rarely exist.

I need to start to accept the peace that can come with the unplanned. If I have no expectation of the outcome, maybe the highs will be more exciting and the lows less disappointing. Life can't always be tied up in a neat little package that I wrap up in a sleepless night or a well thought out dream. So I am going to try and let go a little and enjoy the unplanned or at least attempt to take things one day at a time instead of mapping out an itinerary for the foreseeable future. The best parts of even the last few months were not in any game plan I had prepared. Somehow I got off track this week, my mind running in a million directions, none of them heading anywhere. I want to get back to the place where this blog gave me an outlet to say whatever was on my mind. Here's hoping that I've turned the corner; one day, one thought. No need to turn over every stone every day, some days its best to just deal with the pebbles.

In the Middle of the Night...

2011-10-16T23:08:00.000-04:00

Andrew didn't feel well last night. At 5 AM we woke up and heard him throwing up in his bathroom; stomach bug, not alcohol. We both got up and went to see if he was OK, Jeffrey moved a little quicker than I did, vomit is not really my thing. Why didn't he wake us up for help if he was sick? When did he get so grown up? Jeffrey did the up-close assistance, as he always has in this case, I handle the aftercare. A bit later I took him back to his bed, put a wet washcloth on his forehead (my mom always did it for me and it still feels good when I'm sick), turned off the lights and sat on the edge of his bed. For the first time in a very long time, I sat there and rubbed his arm and he didn't push me away or tell me to stop. It could also be that he was falling back to sleep, but I'm going to stick with the thought that he needed a little mothering. I asked him if he wanted to come and sleep with us, I already knew the answer, but I thought I'd give it a try. As I walked back down the hall to my bed, without him, I realized that those days are now just memories of a long gone era.

Obviously, I know that this is supposed to happen, it would be odd to have my 6 ft.tall 16-year-old son get in bed between us, but I'm still sad that it's over. Funny how time changes our perspective on things; for so many years I wished that I could get a good night’s sleep without a child crawling in and keeping us up half the night. I was always a softie when it came to bedtime and middle-of-the-night wake-ups. Partially because I was usually too exhausted to care; easier to let them fall asleep in here and move them to their room later, and also because I loved feeling the warmth of their bodies next to mine and listening to the easy rhythm of their breathing. When they were really little I would sneak my hand under the pillow and hold on to one of their little fingers for as long as they would let me. I'm sure I complained plenty the next day and I know Jeffrey and I spent too much time arguing about it, but sooner or later each boy spent less and less time between us. I guess now that I think about it, it's been at least a few years since Andrew has slept in the middle, but until last night I had forgotten how much I missed it.

All three boys had their share of sleep challenged years, some definitely more than others, but the specifics will stay locked in the mother vault. Sometimes stomach aches and sometime bad dreams mixed in with the basic "I can't sleep." Whatever the reason, moments after taking a pillow in the center, they would sleep peacefully until morning (or until one of us couldn't sleep and would gently carry them back to their bed). I'm so grateful that I traded all those nights for the sweet memories bringing a smile to my face tonight. How is it that even though that phase ended so long ago, it wasn't until last night that I was struck with the reality that they didn't need "middle-of-the-night mommy" anymore.

I wonder if my Mom felt the same way when I stopped crying out her name in the middle of the night and crawling in between my parents after a bad dream or a stomach ache. I remember every second of my routine, I'd wake up scared, too scared to even get out of bed and walk down the hall to their room. I had a sing-song cry of "mommy, daddy" that I'd repeat over and over until someone came to get me. Usually they'd offer a glass of water or rub my back as an incentive to see if I'd stay in my own bed, but I was not easily convinced, there was only one place I wanted to be. Just like my boys, I fell happily back to sleep between the warm bodies of my parents. I'm sure it stopped on its own eventually, or more than likely when I got my own phone line and would stay up late and talk under the covers. But, even as a grown up I've spent a few nights sleeping happily next to my mother, that must be a girl thing.

I don't know what it is about that feeling, but it is without a doubt what I miss most now that the boys are all grown. In my bed or in my arms, the synchronicity of our breathing and the feeling of their skin touching mine; it was intoxicating and I was addicted. I let countless loads of laundry go undone and too many dishes in the sink, just to steal a few minutes lying next to them. If I had known how quickly it would all be gone, I would have done it even more. When I listen to the tired young moms still in the middle of the "middle-of-the-night years" I always try and console them with the knowledge that this too will pass. Now, as the experienced mom imparting the wisdom of time, I tell the sleepy parents that sooner than you think that screaming toddler will put themselves to sleep and stay that way long after you do. Not sure I would have believed me either when every night is a struggle of getting them to sleep and staying that way; back then the light at the end of that tunnel seemed far, far away.

Tonight, around 11 or so, Andrew will walk down the hall and kiss us goodnight; thankfully that still happens with all 3. He doesn't need me to take him to bed, or tuck him in, or turn off the light. He'll set his own alarm and we will meet again at the island at 6:45 am before he leaves for school. I guess that means I did what I was supposed to do; he's an independent, young man who doesn't need his mommy as much as he used to. Unfortunately, she wasn't quite ready to give up that role.

No Greater Love ... or Loss

2011-10-15T17:32:00.000-04:00

This is going to be a hard one, could actually be the reason I've been unable to write the last few days, too consumed with what I had to tell you today. For those of you who don't know, Jeffrey is an identical twin, I say that in the present tense, even though for the last 7 years he has lived without his biological other half. Jeffrey and Howard, Beffie and Bowie, Zip and Zap, The Boys, The Twins; for 44 years he was a twosome, a shared identity and a shared life. On October 15, 2004, cancer took Howard away from Jeffrey, and left him what is often called a "twinless twin." The way I've come to see it, Howard now exists within Jeffrey, instead of beside him.

Like any great loss, there are days when it seems unfathomable that 7 years have passed; the details as fresh and sharp as if it were yesterday and other times when it feels like it’s been a lifetime since I heard their laughter in stereo (if you knew them, you know exactly what I mean). If you ever need a reason not take a single day for granted, this would be a good story to hold with you. November 15, 2003, my son David's Bar Mitzvah, perfect in every way, except for the cough. Howard had a cough, a little one, almost a tickle, but it had been lingering. He had a doctor’s visit scheduled, but no one was overly concerned. Fast forward through a few weeks of tests and scans and hospitals and Howard was diagnosed with Kidney Cancer. In December he had surgery to remove the kidney and learned that it had already spread to his lungs. Everyone was hopeful, he was a 43-year-old healthy male, and he would be a survivor. What we soon learned was that kidney cancer does not generally respond to chemotherapy and because of the metastasis he was not a viable candidate for possible new treatment studies. He fought back and found new doctors and new drugs and gave it everything he had until he decided that it couldn't have him. If it wasn't helping (and it wasn't), Howard refused to let the cancer take the last few months he would have with his family. Jeffrey struggled knowing that Howard would be leaving him soon; I think those were the worst months of all. At least while he was getting treatment there was hope, but then there was just counting, the days or months they had left. I can't tell you how often they were together, other than those months were about his brother and I took care of things at home. Jeffrey took whatever time he needed with Howard and we did our best to comfort him when he was here. If I lost him for a little while it was OK, sadly I knew it was only short term. For me and the boys the hardest part was not only witnessing Jeffrey's unbearable sadness, but also watching Howard, his mirror image, start to look less and less like his twin. As it was written in a college essay a few years later, this was a preview for a movie you never want to see.

They went fishing, something they both loved and didn't do often enough. Jeffrey chartered a boat and they spent a day on Long Island Sound laughing and crying and talking. I have no idea if they caught any fish. I also have no idea what they talked about; I knew that when I married a twin there were parts of my husband that would always belong only to his brother. I do know that they picked a secret word that would be the "code" if Howard ever "visited" him from the other side, and no, he hasn't and never will share it with me (not that I would ask either). I also know that Howard gave Jeffrey the eulogy he had written for himself and asked Jeffrey to read it when the time came. Jeffrey held that sealed envelope in a lockbox in his closet, never once thought about looking inside; those were words he did not want to read one second sooner than he had to.

When that day came, just 11 months from the "cough" to the "coffin" - before you think, "Jill, that's awful," I will tell you that (a) Jeffrey heard it first and laughed, and (b) dark humor got us through a lot of this. If you can manage to laugh through the worst of what life throws at you, it leaves less time and space for the tears. And as long as I am looking at the "lighter side”, imagine arriving for a funeral and not knowing that the deceased had an identical twin (the accompanying photo shows you how much so), pretty unnerving for a few people when Jeffrey took his place to read Howard's words. You may be wondering how he managed to read his brothers goodbye, and I will tell you he had two secrets. The first one was a safety pin in his hand that used throughout to lightly stab his other hand in an attempt to feel a different kind of pain and the second, he chose this day to lay to rest their lifelong "brotherly" competition of which twin had the bigger ...., for once Howard couldn't answer back and yes, Jeffrey really ad-libbed that at the funeral. Humor was his protective armor to defend against the worst of the hurt.

In the years since, Jeffrey continues to laugh and cry whenever we talk about Howard. Birthdays are the hardest, they spent them all together. I am always careful to not "celebrate" the day when he misses him most, they are bittersweet at best. Remarkably the loss of his shared soul, did not leave Jeffrey missing anything, it may have even made him stronger. In his words, "I'm living life for him too”, and he continues to live it to the fullest for the both of them. He tries to be there for Howard's children whenever possible, but worries it may be hard for them to see a face that is so much like the one they are missing. I would never share any part of their story, but I do want to say that my niece and nephew, barely teenagers when they lost their father, are happy and thriving. Their mother, courageous and brave and stronger than she thought, continued the life and family they had spent twenty years building. Those children, now young adults, are the result of two parents who gave them love and life and support, both still there, guiding them along in one way or another.

I'm going to back-up a bit and tell you that I grew up with "the twins", (friends of my older brother) no romance then, I was the "little sister." It was after college, Howard got married first, then Jeffrey and I tied the knot, and then we became a foursome. I can't explain what it was like when we were together, but obviously I loved Howard for many of the same reasons I loved my own husband and the same held true for each of us. We were four people bound together through life and genetics. Our kids were the same way, they marveled in the uniqueness of their shared fathers. We always wondered if they could tell them apart when they were babies, it was hard for most adults. I had a pretty good handle on who was who, except if they were walking in front of me, but face to face there was never a question. We had our moments of family conflict, but they always ended with group hugs, until the one that didn't.

In December of 2000, my father-in-law passed away and the Jewish tradition of Shiva was at our home. This usually one-week long period is a time for mourners to visit with friends and family. It is comforting and stressful all at the same time. Anyway, Howard and his family were obviously here (their home was a few hours away), sleeping at my mother-in-laws house. The kids slept here, so we had 5 kids under 12 and no less than 100 visitors every day, in and out, all day long. This followed a difficult few months while he was sick and we all know that the family who lives closest carries the daily burden (we also get the daily benefits). Good or bad, it's just the way it is. I hope I've properly illustrated my potential stress level, because this is when I made a very costly mistake. It is the single biggest regret of my life thus far; an off-handed (bitchy) comment to Howard and my sister-in-law about the "balance" of family responsibility. It set off a verbal showdown between Howard and Jeffrey, and ended with them packing up and leaving. Eventually we made peace, but something changed that day. By the time cancer entered the picture we were back to a better place, but I have always felt that my words took parts of those last years away from Jeffrey and Howard. We have talked about it countless times, obviously today, and I know Jeffrey doesn't blame me; this is a burden I put on myself. In a way I'm glad it still hurts, it reminds me every day to think before reacting. Words that flow so easily out of our mouths in times of anger are the most dangerous and unfortunately, the ones that stick. There was certainly know way to know that this silly fight would take away so much, and that is exactly the point. I've learned that what I say can hurt me and others long after the words have been spoken. If only I had learned that lesson a bit earlier, today would be a tiny bit less sad.

For Jeffrey, today is no different than any other day. He cried when I read him this blog, but for him every day is a day without his brother, makes no real difference that this is the day he died. For me, this was a chance to share a painful story and a painful lesson and to make a silent wish, like I've done every morning for the last 7 years, to keep the other twin healthy. I have witnessed the other side in high definition, and haven't taken a single moment for granted since.

Rainy Day Off

2011-10-13T21:59:00.000-04:00

I am taking a blog day off. I also had the day off from work; The JCC is closed for Sukkot. I spent a good part of this rainy Thursday at home, except for a hair color, which I could not miss. For whatever reason, maybe the unrelenting mist and grey skies, I am at a loss for words tonight. As I think I mentioned the other day, I can't force it or neither of us will enjoy what I write. Tomorrow is another day, and with any luck Friday will bring with it something I want to talk about. I'm hoping that 2 months into my journey (today is 10 months from 50) I haven't run out of things I want to say, but something tells me that's not the case. For the sake of my psyche I might not be able to do this every day for the duration, sometimes too much thinking can be a dangerous thing. I won't worry about a "writers block" just yet (if that even exists in a blog world); let's just take it one post at a time.

Stay tuned and stay with me, I think I just have a little case of the rainy day blues. Let's hope for sunny skies and inspiration tomorrow.

LOST?

2011-10-12T22:05:00.000-04:00

I've been lost in Rome, lost in New York, and lost in my thoughts, but I have never been lost in a corn maze. I'm sure there are more details to this event which warranted Today show coverage, and to be fair I will do a bit more research, but I have completed a few mazes of maize and they are designed with completion in mind. Wrong turns yes, but 911 assistance, not part of the plan. This is a Saturday Night Live sketch waiting to happen; a young family hopelessly wandering among the stalks, forced to survive on raw kernels until help arrives. I see Andy Sandberg as the Dad and Kristen Wiig as the Mom.

Details researched, ABC news confirmed that this event took place in Danvers, Mass and not surprisingly the family has declined to be identified. Thankfully, emergency response teams found the family in distress in 9 minutes and no one suffered any injuries, except for the Scarecrow who was punched repeatedly by the father after he “brainlessly” kept offering incorrect directions. Miraculously, they were only 25 feet from the exit, but the family wisely decided not to venture from their "safe" location in search of help. Really, I can be directionally challenged, but even without a GPS I think I could find my way out of this one, even without the "clearly designated trail." I'm hoping that this family can find their way to a state without corn or mazes and hopefully they will never tell their children the truth about the frightening ordeal in the labyrinth of potentially deadly stalks.

It is scary to be lost, can’t say I haven't had a few sweaty-palmed trips in the car, even with the mechanical navigator. I think even with the GPS you have to have some sense of where you are headed, or the chosen road may lead you to dangerous territory. As far as I know there are options to avoid traffic or highways, but my unit is missing the one that keeps me away from neighborhoods that I shouldn't travel through alone at night. Maybe there should be a setting that says "Probably not a good choice" or "Wouldn't get out of your car to ask for help here." I like using the GPS even when I know exactly where I'm going just to see if I can beat the projected time of arrival or if I am in a particularly playful mood I will choose an alternate itinerary just to irritate my female co-pilot and make her tell me to make a U-turn over and over again. Occasionally, I will get punished in return when I encounter unexpected traffic and watch my arrival time click forward minute by minute in a silent gesture of "I told you so, should have taken my route." All is well that ends well, and reaching the final destination is infinitely sweeter with the verbal confirmation of "you have arrived."

Even worse than being lost on your own, is losing someone else. Only once in my 22+ years as a parent have I ever experienced the heart stopping panic when you can't find your child. I think David was around 6, we were at a beach with family somewhere on Long Island. Somehow he wandered out of sight, and for however many minutes passed until I found him, I don't remember breathing. We were in a semi-private "beach club" area, but every kid looked the same; I didn't even know which direction to look, let alone contemplate the ocean in front of me. An army of parents scrambled to their feet screaming his name, each one equally aware that this could be their kid. When he was finally back in my arms I wasn't sure I would ever let him go and I'm not sure he wanted me to either. Even now, so many years later, my heart races even thinking about it; and I say a silent Thank You to whoever is listening.

I've been personally or professionally lost on multiple occasions, most frustrating because directions don't exist. I suppose I've found my way using much the same tools I use when I'm in my car. If I can't find my way, or don't know which road to take, I stop, re-group, and evaluate my options. Sometimes I ask for help, sometimes I rely on technology, and more often than not it's a process of trial and error. Just like the corn maze, if one way doesn't get me where I need to go, I turn around and try another. It takes a lot longer this way, but I’m pretty proud of myself when I find the right course. Can’t offer directions to others who strays off course either; without knowing exactly where they are, you can't help them find the right road. As a parent, this is a hard one, you want to take your children by the hand and show them the way, but it almost never gets them to the place they wanted or needed to go. Much like sitting in the passenger seat when Jeffrey is driving; sometimes I just have to let him get lost and wait patiently until he asks me for help. I am not always successful, with Jeffrey or my children.

I get lost in my mind more often than I should admit, although by now I'm sure you're not all that surprised. On a long car ride by myself, I'll rely on the Navigation system to handle the highway, and my thoughts take whatever direction they choose. No maps or markers needed, I'm happy to wander around and take the back roads and the scenic routes. Have you ever stopped the car at a journeys end and thought, "wow, how did I get here?" like you can't even remember the drive? Please somebody say yes, happens all the time for me.

I don't have the best sense of direction, but I can read a map and follow road signs. I'm sure the corn maze family believed they were in danger, again not really sure how, but they had children with them and something must have switched them to panic mode; and that I understand. Moral of the story, wherever you find yourself lost; follow directions if they are given to you, don't be afraid to try a different path if you can't find your way, ask for help (although try and avoid 911 unless it's a real emergency), follow the Yellow Brick Road if you see one and stay away from corn mazes at night.