My 3 Sons

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

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

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?

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...

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 ...

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...

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 ...

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

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?

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

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?

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.