For Nana P

Six years ago today, the world lost a great lady; a mom, nana, sister, mother-in-law, friend, wife, and maker of possibly the world’s finest roasted turkey. Nana Phyllis, as she was known for the last 17 years of her life, was Jeffrey's mom and she was one of a kind. She was 70-years old when she died on August 31st, 2005. Random thought, why is it that we celebrate birthdays throughout our life but for eternity we are remembered on the day we die?  The birthday seems more like an afterthought (March 14, 1935), when it certainly should have top billing over the "other" day. Cancer was her final battle, but she never let it get in the way of living so I won't focus on it either. Life threw her some nasty curveballs; she buried a husband and a son before she said good-bye, but she was stubborn and strong (admittedly, qualities I didn't always appreciate) and forged ahead when most of us would have surrendered.

Nana P, the shortened moniker the kids created as they got older, was the quintessential grandma. All she wanted was to feed them, buy presents, babysit and take pictures. Didn't matter if the parents objected (“Mom, they don't need more brownies or Legos”) or if the kids balked (“Nana, no more pictures”), she got her way because there was no other way. Not letting her feed you was like telling her not to love you, and that was not possible. To be honest, it was some pretty good eating. A fairly consistent repertoire, but her refrigerator and her dining room table were legendary (friends and family fought for the leftovers at our house). To this day there are foods that keep her name on everyone's lips (and stomachs); Phyllis's chocolate chip cake, Kugel and re-stuffed potatoes are on the menu at every holiday. I do not make any of them; my sister-in-law is the keeper of the recipes. The food was her calling card, but it was more about the meal. A full house at the table was her greatest joy; the aromas welcomed you at the front door (when she moved to an apartment, the trail started in the lobby). All attempts at dieting were thwarted at a Phyllis repast; I was powerless against the overflowing platters that passed back and forth amid the laughter, good-natured insults and an occasional food fight. After dessert, which came without asking at breakfast, lunch and dinner, her 5 grandchildren would dig through the closets of toys (she had her own stash) , put on an impromptu show or work on a puzzle that was always in process on the card table. It was never just a lunch or dinner, it was a whole day. If her calendar (marked carefully in pen) showed we had gone too many weeks without seeing each other, it was a command appearance. I have to be honest, when the phone rang with that "invitation”, there were more than a few arguments in our house after we hung up. Again with the hindsight, but now that most of the family dinners are in my dining room, I wish that I didn't put up such a fight. In the power struggle between our parents and our own new families, most of us resent being treated like children or told what to do. Nowadays, it would be nice to be the child every now and then. If you are still lucky enough to have someone who wants to “mother" you; my advice, let them. Before you know it the generations shift and you're the one making the phone calls and doing the dishes.

When life was good, she shared her bounty with all of us (also marked in pen in a notebook, years later she could refer back and see what a 10-year birthday was worth or what she gave someone for their bar mitzvah), and when life was lean, she still gave more than she should have. She never missed a birthday, anniversary or any other hallmark holiday. Her cards arrived with long personal messages written in loopy cursive which most of us could not read (but pretended we could). My cards were never designated to daughter-in-law and I called her "Mom" because she treated me like a daughter. I hope my future daughter-in-laws do the same, it doesn't take the place of your own Mom, but it feels good in both directions.

I struggled with this post all day because I wanted to remember her the way she would have wanted and hopefully share some of the lessons I learned from her and without her. All she ever wanted was to be with us and take care of us (sounds a lot like what we all want from our children), not so much to ask for and should be so easy to give. Seems hard to imagine at this moment (easier for me with children in their 20’s than some of you) but soon it may be our turn to be grandparents. The way that we treat our parents and in-laws is the model that our kids will use when we are the Nana’s and the Papa’s. I think Jeffrey and I did a pretty good job most of the time, but there will be moments in the years ahead, when my calls go direct to voicemail and someone is too busy to come for dinner. It stings a little to think about that, but we gave them “permission” to do that a long time ago. We all think we’ll do it differently, but we can’t really know that until it’s our turn not to be the parent. It’s hard enough as the mother of young adults to feel extraneous sometimes; add a spouse and another generation and we get pushed further and further away. The grandparent dynamic is never easy; we all laugh and complain about the same things, it’s just different shades of gray. Grandparents are a gift that we don't get to keep forever, enjoy yours while you can. More than once or twice we have all muttered to our spouse, “When are they going to leave us alone? When the day comes that they do, you’ll miss them, like we miss Nana P.  I hope she knows.

Hakuna Matata

My Monday was excellent. Not because it was particularly eventful, but because it wasn't.  I woke up to beautiful blue skies, warm sunshine and no humidity (generally a precursor for excellent). I finished Alyssa's post with my morning coffee (and Matt Lauer), showered, dressed and went off to work without a hitch. It's still too quiet over there, nice to be productive, but I miss my friends and the commotion. A midafternoon conversation about a possibly delayed project leaves me thinking about today's post. "Don’t worry; I'm sure we'll have it next week,” I am told. My response, "Not worrying, no point," and I meant it. I am subjected to a few blog-related jabs at my "Zen" like calm, but I actually I gave up unnecessary worrying pre-blog.

Cue the music:
Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase
Hakuna Matata! Ain't no passing craze
It means no worries, for the rest of your days
It's our problem-free philosophy, Hakuna Matata!

It’s 1994 and Disney's The Lion King is our family favorite. The cheery theme song, "Hakuna Matata" is played over and over in the car and its' happy mantra quickly became a family catchphrase. (Hakuna Matata is a Swahili phrase that is literally translated as "There are no worries.") It was our comeback to everything those days. A tag line for the daily issues, problems solved. Secretly, it never seemed to do the trick for me; I wasted too much time worrying,(little did I know that the real worry years had yet to arrive on my doorstep). Funny looking back from this vantage point; I was 32, David and Scott were 4 and 5, and I was pregnant with Andrew. We lived in our first house, a 3-bedroom split that I never liked (but we made it work), we had great neighbors, 4 healthy parents within a mile, I was $elling houses(real estate was my thing back them), and Jeffrey was nearing Partnership. Life was pretty good, what was I stressing about?

Flash forward: Last night, close to 11, Jeffrey and I take the dog out on a surprisingly chilly August night (feels good for a change). We sat on the front steps and I shared with him the words that had started to fill the lines of my virtual yellow legal pad. He remembered the "Hakuna Matata" days (even reminded me exactly where we first saw The Lion King - amazing considering I'm not sure he could recall what we did last week) and we enjoyed a bittersweet laugh about the silly fights and daily woes of our early 30's. Money (pre-school tuition looks pretty good right now), getting the kids to sleep, whose parents saw the kids more, which one we would see for Sunday dinner, and more than a few discussions about the lack of "Jill and Jeffrey" time. Too bad the wisdom of the future didn't clue me in until years later to let go of the little struggles, worrying doesn't fix anything and only leaves wrinkles in its wake.

I'm not suggesting that we should skip through our days in some Pollyanna haze, I'm just saying that if an unavoidable speed bump gets in our way, and there's no other way around it, we just have to slow down and get over it. Thinking about it, evaluating all the related issues, all the "what-if" scenarios; guess what, still only one way to go. Worry or not, most situations result in an outcome somewhere between best-case and doomsday scenarios. If our eyes are open, we can adjust our actions accordingly, it's the other parts of the plan that we can't control. I think I was just procrastinating back then, a few simple changes (cutting up the credit cards would have been a good one) and we wouldn't have had much to worry about. Even the life and death problems, those are the ones we really can't control, and the ones where time is most wasted.  My father used to say, "If there's no solution, there's no problem." I wish he took some of his own advice; unfortunately I think he kept all his worrying trapped in his heart. Lesson learned.

Here we are, 17 years after the Disney days, and a familiar phrase keeps showing up in my conversations with the under-30 set (although maybe I should be a trendsetter and reintroduce Timon & Pumba's lyrics). It's a fresh version (apparently the ad-hoc motto of Australia), simply "No Worries." According to Wikipedia (talk like a young person, research like a young person), “No Worries” is an Australian English expression, meaning "do not worry about that", "that's alright", or "sure thing". It is similar to the American English, “no problem." I think maybe those Aussies got it right; we are so focused on eradicating the "problem" when we really just need to do away with the "worry".

Whichever expression works for you, it's the message that we should take seriously. Life is moving forward, despite our best efforts for a few seconds to think it through (a "pause" button would be nice though). Try it just once today; here's the scenario, someone will tell you something you didn't want to hear and wait for your response, reply simply with "No Worries".

I know; you feel better already.

Alyssa's Journey

Sisterly Love - Lily & Alyssa

I made a deliberate decision when I embarked on this journey, that my words, and the stories they told, would be only my own. I very rarely use first names, so far only my husband and my children, and I have no intention of using my last name. Certainly anyone who knows me (and most of you landed here from my Facebook page) will immediately identify people or initials or events; that is intentional as well. If my recollections bring a smile to your face, then I'm winking at you to share that moment with me. In the days and months ahead, these posts will tell most of my tales, comedy and tragedy, and everything in between. Today, with the permission of a remarkable friend, I'm going to share someone else's story. Today I'll tell you about Alyssa's Journey.

Alyssa is a typical, happy 6-year-old kid with one exception. She was born with a rare Jewish genetic disease called Glycogen Storage Disease Type 1a*, one which requires lifelong management.  Alyssa relies on her parent’s round-the-clock tube feedings every 90 minutes. GSD Type 1a is Alyssa's illness, but for this family, it’s woven deep in the fabric of their lives. Imagine, just for a minute, your life in 90-minute increments, 24 hours a day, every day.  Add to that a parents’ promise to give your children (in this case, 2 beautiful daughters, one afflicted with GSD) a normal, go to school, play date, Disney birthday party kind of childhood. Alyssa's parents refuse to let this disease put boundaries on their family; they adapt so the girls don't have to. I'm writing this at 2:25 am (couldn't stop thinking about it, got out of bed) and I guarantee you that before I make it back to bed, Alyssa's mom will have been up and back to bed more than once. She will do this all night long, every 90 minutes. Let me also clarify (for those of you who don’t know this special mom); if she wanted to have help, she could. Let me also tell you that tomorrow morning I'll be cranky and tired; Alyssa’s mom will get 2 little girls dressed (in possibly matching pink outfits - note:I wrote this before I saw the photo), in the car and out the door for their first day of school, and all of them will be smiling. Mom will be close by all day; not in the classroom, (because in there Alyssa is like all the other 6-year-olds). After school will be more activities or a visit to the JCC on the way home. Alyssa and I are bonding over a puzzle game on my iPad, last week I got a hug and I'm pretty sure we're good friends now (and I don’t have a lot of experience with little girls).

This schedule will continue, every 90 minutes, every single day, until Alyssa and her family find a cure for GSD 1a.  This routine would test the best of us, but Alyssa is a princess (and a big fan of Ariel) who smiles all day (I'm sure she has her moments, all princesses do) and her parents see only the joy their girls bring to their lives and not their personal struggle (I'm sure they have their moments too). They fight not just for Alyssa, but also for all the families who fight this battle with them.  Gayle and Steven, Alyssa’s parents, established Alyssa’s Angel Fund to provide financial assistance to OTHER GSD families worldwide who would otherwise be unable to receive the life-saving specialized medical care by Dr. David Weinstein and his team at the University of Florida in Gainesville.  This University of Florida practice, handles more GSD cases than any other in the world. Dr. Weinstein is at the forefront of both treatment and Gene therapy research. The answers are within reach and Alyssa’s family (and countless others) will not "rest" until a cure is found.

Here's where you and I come in. This Sunday, September 4th, the Mandell JCC’s Family Room Parenting Center and the PJ Library** host the 3rd Annual Big Wheel Derby to support Alyssa's Angel Fund at 9:30 a.m.(rain or shine) at The Mandell JCC. Bring your family, your Big Wheel, your trikes or bikes and cruise around the Derby racetrack; or just come for the smiles, no wheels or kids needed. Special guests Brad Drazen and Yvonne Nava of NBC Connecticut (I have my first cup of coffee with Brad before Matt Lauer arrives on screen at 7 a.m.) will host activities including crafts, face-painting, a bounce house, lemonade and snack stand and a birthday party for The PJ Library. If you live nearby (details and address below) don't miss it. If you know people who live nearby, tell them not to miss it. If neither applies, use the power of Facebook or twitter or whatever you use to connect and share this post (which I’ve never before asked you to do), because someone you know may know someone else.... and so on.

I'm going to repost this blog entry every 90 minutes, at every interval I'll be thinking about Alyssa. I hope you will too.

******

Click on the links below to learn more about the Big Wheel Derby, The University of Florida Glycogen Storage Disease Program and to donate directly to Alyssa's Angel Fund.

Big Wheel Derby  - Registration fees for the event are $18 per family and payable to the Mandell JCC. Donations of all amounts, payable to the Alyssa’s Angel Fund, are welcome. For more information about the Mandell JCC Big Wheel Derby, or to registration, call 860-236-4571, or visit www.mandelljcc.org. To learn more about Alyssa’s Angel Fund, contact Jane Pasternak, 860-231-6342, jpasternak@mandelljcc.org.

If you are unable to attend but would like to make a donation to help GSD families, please make checks payable to:

"Alyssa's Angel Fund"

C/O Mandell JCC

Jane Pasternak

335 Bloomfield Avenue

West Hartford, CT 06117

The University of Florida Glycogen Storage Disease Program - http://www.gsd.peds.ufl.edu/

Alyssa's Angel Fund - http://bit.ly/opZE5x

*Glycogen Storage Disease Type 1a (glucose-6-phosphatase deficiency, von Gierkes disease,) is a rare genetic metabolic disorder centered in the liver. In children afflicted with GSD1a, a specific enzyme that breaks down certain carbohydrates, including glycogen (a stored form of sugar,) is either missing or not functioning properly.

** A program of The Harold Grinspoon Foundation that provides free Jewish books to families raising Jewish children. (PJ Library is funded locally by the Zachs Family and is a program of the Mandell JCC)

Inspiration Point

I am completely uninspired this morning. Most posts, just in case you were wondering, come to me like a thought bubble as I go through my day (Hmmmm...I need to write about that) or as my head hits the pillow at night (I prefer the former as pillow thoughts lead to long nights of mental note taking). You would think, as I did when I fell asleep still “thoughtless” last night, that Hurricane Irene would be a logical topic for today. I can say that although the idea of a flooded basement (been there, done that, twice) was not at all appealing, I was sort of hoping for a few hours of no power and howling winds. I was looking forward to hunkering down (don't hear that one much anymore, felt appropriate here) for a mother-nature-enforced, electricity-free, lazy day. Dirty laundry and messy closets can remain untouched (no power, no guilt) and food has no calories. Irene has brought me no such day, she was a tease, and nobody likes a tease.

From my living room window (writing from the couch in there this morning) I see a steady rain and some basic tree swaying. It feels more like a rainy morning at camp than anything else (“indoor activities and raincoats today”). I am enjoying the quiet; even Jeffrey (who normally jumps from project to project) has joined me in the living room (on the other couch), happily tapping away on his laptop. I'm sure he is doing work (definitely not blogging or on Facebook) but it’s nice to have the company even if the only conversation is the chatter of fingers on keyboards. The living room, almost never occupied without company present, (and even then I need food as a lure to move people out of the kitchen), is one of my favorite spots in the house. Specifically, the window-facing couch where I curl up with my legs tucked behind me on most nights between 5 and 6 pm to relish the calm before the nighttime hustle of dinner and dishes. This couch, as opposed to the leather seating in the family room, is soft chenille and stuffed to just the right comfort level (forgiving but not enveloped).  Almost every item in this room, (just did a quick survey, every item excluding the couches) holds the memory of someplace else. Our parents’ houses are both here, our grandparents, my great-aunts and even my great-grandmother. This furniture is not hand-me-down, it’s passed down, and I am privileged to hold it until it travels again to another generation.  On the furniture are Wooden boxes, glass objects and silk embroidered pillow covers, all found in tiny street shops and carried home in the luggage from all our vacations. Paintings that can be spotted in the background of old family photos, the needlepoint chair and footrest I remember from my Nana's house, and the grandfather clock from Jeffrey's Poppa Lou's, all add beauty and history to my retreat. There is a piano (a relative of my fathers cherished baby grand) that I wish I could play (other than my better than expected versions of Moonlight Sonata and Fur Elise, still hiding in my fingertips from childhood lessons).  There is no TV, no phone and no other houses in view out the window. This spot relaxes me, restores me, and reminds me.

It's 12:39 pm and Irene is still more bark than bite. Television crews are busy finding evidence of tragedy (If you can physically count the number of trees down in an entire town, and it's 29, not sure that's newsworthy) and the unlucky “location” reporters are steady on their feet against the “hurricane force winds.”  I just received an automated emergency phone call informing me that my town has declared “a state of emergency.”  From my now reclining position on the comfy couch, surrounded by lights, air conditioning, television, washing machine, X-Box and oven all in use; this part of town has apparently been spared. I'm finding it hard to rationalize the anticipated gorging on storm provisions purchased in yesterday's preparedness mission. Will PB & J on Wonder Bread be as perfect with power? Can Jeffrey's slow-simmered chili be as tasty if not eaten by candlelight? I decide to bond with my townsfolk – if they are in “a state of emergency”  then I will stand with them and stay home safe, not do laundry and eat with abandon for preservation.  Irene, you have disappointed me like a snow day without snow, but at least you did give me something to talk about.

The Other Jill

Yesterday, on the way home from the not-to-be-mentioned-again destination, my conversation with Andrew focused on my usually hidden alter-ego, "Bitch Jill," (going forward let's just call her B, dropping the J for obvious reasons). We both realized that I had just spent hours in a less than desirable location, requiring multiple customer service interactions, yet I had stayed calm and relaxed.  Regardless of the idiocy of the process or the personnel, I smiled and said thank you at every stage.  I didn't pace the floor, find a manager or mumble snide comments intentionally loud enough for people to hear. Jill triumphed over her B. I was happy that he noticed, and sad that he had to.

I'm not proud that my kids are pretty familiar with B, but at times she has gotten us out of some bad situations. She has been successful in getting a better hotel room (not happy near an elevator, service closet or the ice machine) and getting cable installed on a holiday (with a long term discount) when they did not show up on the assigned day.  However, it has become clear to me that she is less powerful in most other situations. I do have a temper, and a low threshold for incompetence and indifference, but history has shown that anger only gets me angrier, embarrasses my kids, and makes the offender want to be more offensive. I do have boundaries, I am always patient in a restaurant (I spent enough years as a waitress to know better), in a hospital, on an airplane, or at school (except one incident with a gym teacher who totally deserved it).  Just to be clear, I am not a public screamer; B does her damage with a condescending tone and relentless badgering. She usually runs through the ranks of available staff until ultimately finding the person in charge or whoever is unlucky enough to wear the name tag that shift. Sometimes the desired outcome is reached through logical reasoning (usually helps when nice Jill visits and apologizes; management is caught off guard) and more often than not because she wears them down and they want her to go away. Over the past few years, she wore me out as well.  I hope most of you have never seen her in action, or worse, been her victim. Unfortunately, my family usually has a front row seat to "B Theater”; I have done a fairly good job of hiding her from everyone else.  It's a two-act play; Act One: situation occurs, tension builds, opposing party is indifferent or obstinate, B arrives, and battle ensues. Act Two: Kids scatter and Jeffrey swoops in to play "nice customer”, apologies for his B wife and befriends the wounded party (who could resist that Jeffrey laugh), B softens, uncrosses her arms, releases her furrowed brow (not a good look regardless and costs me a fortune in Botox), manages a smile, attitude adjusts, kids return, leave happy and remorseful.  B has shown up at work only once or twice. She was completely ineffective and not popular with other the staff members. I’m proud she's mostly gone for now. I can't promise she won't appear on a phone call with random "customer service" operators (especially the "outsourced" workforce reading from a prepared script, "I'm sorry you feel that way Jill, we are doing our best to solve your problem." Nope, don't think you are) or when a teenage store clerk can't look up from her cell phone to acknowledge a line of customers. In this case the verbal assault from B brings smiles to the faces of those around her; she bravely says what they are thinking.

This discovery of a kinder, gentler Jill in the face of dissatisfaction is not blog-related; I've been working on her for a while now. I like her much better than B and she gets the job done with lower blood-pressure and maybe a few less gray hairs. The blog does provide a perfect format to voice my frustrations and disparaging commentary when necessary (reference:  yesterday) and the damages are far less when the attack is in hindsight. Most issues are not caused by the direct action of the person behind the counter and most can't be solved by them either. They're just doing their best to get through the day, go home and complain about the “Bitch” they had to deal with at work. If I can help it, they won’t be talking about me.

Take a Seat...



Social Security card: check
Mail addressed to applicant: check
Passport or birth certificate: check

All items in place for Andrew’s trip to the DMV for a permit test.

What did I forget to bring? A pen, patience, a positive attitude and maybe a folding chair.

In the old days, and I'm referring to the permit tests for Scott and David, this involved a trip to the driving school, a clipboard and ten questions. Ok, maybe that was too easy, but this is more complicated than international airport security (if potential terrorists had to clear this labyrinth we would have no air security issues). The state of CT has also decided it only needs 4 offices to handle all the testing in the state (good choice, something tells me that all of the decision makers had long passed the driving test years). We choose the closest and maybe the oldest location, Wethersfield, the place where Fridays-off go to die.

We arrive shortly after 9 a.m., I figure, let’s get there after the people trying to “get in /get out” before work, and save ourselves some time. Bad theory, plenty of folks here in no rush to get to work. I am even hopeful that Hurricane Irene hysteria will force all the crazies to the market in search of bottled water or Home Depot to fight for a generator, wrong again. The 2nd floor public room awaits and the odyssey begins. This process is a mathematical equation; line 3, to line 5 times 3 (divide time spent in each line by 2 (no one comes alone - parent, baby, girlfriend, spouse, guardian, hostage). Then divide that again by the available service windows, and again by how many employees are working, and once again by how many people they take before they go "on break."  There are additional variables for applicants who have the wrong paperwork, too much paperwork (2 forms of ID, 1 piece of mail - choose before you come, not at the counter) or don't speak English.  I am lulled into a false sense of hope as we pass through the line 5 maze faster than expected, 50 minutes isn't so bad. Until I learn that we had just crossed the threshold to hell. "Take a seat and we'll call you for the test," says Satan's messenger.

And here we sit in Americas melting pot. First time ever I wish I carried one of those paper Germaphobe masks; some of these coughs should definitely be hospitalized. Almost as scary, the lady behind us who says she has been here since they opened (7:45 a.m.). Andrew and I are "LF ing" this at the same time (LF is our family code for Listening Factor - a gentler term for eavesdropping), we are simultaneously horrified until she tells her new best friend in the next seat that she came with none of the required paperwork, went home and returned with a "pass" to reclaim her place in line. I say no second chances; stupidity should not be given a "pass." I settle in and try to enjoy the full people watching experience. Not that one needs to dress for the DMV, but is deodorant and toothpaste asking too much? The clothing landscape is the stuff reserved for the worst of "Glamour Don't" offenders. I am surrounded by hot pink thong strings emerging from too-tight acid-washed jeans. These ladies (and I use the term loosely) have way more than a "muffin top," we are talking the whole bakery spilling over. There are hairstyles I have not seen since Dynasty ruled ABC's primetime line up (bangs that totally spent some time in hot rollers this morning), lots of gray-haired studs in pony tails (and just in case I wasn't sure, their t-shirts proclaim how hot, bad-ass, or babe-proficient they are). Short-shorts are not a good idea for anyone at the DMV. First off, these seats are dirty; why would you want that much skin contact. And Second, see above reference to "muffins", point made. Just occurred to me, I left my "filter" at home too, no worries, I'm going to safely assume that none of my seat mates are blogmates.

I think perhaps I got sidetracked by fashion commentary, it happens, back to the story. 1 hour and 25 minutes in the holding tank and he is called to the testing cubicle, almost missed our name being called, lost in the fog of boredom.  On that note, there are flat screens televisions everywhere I look (excellent use of my tax dollars); is there a reason they can't put a name on a screen instead of butchering every single one being called out from all 6 stations? Andrew passes and returns within minutes, but this is not over. Good thing I didn't get up to hug him (besides the fact the he would have killed me), these disease infected chairs are a hot commodity. 20-minute wait before someone ill-pronounces our name again, pay $19 (already paid $40 at the 1st window visit) and wait to be called for a photo (which I am certain they already took in Kiosk 1 in line 3). More waiting, more thongs, add crying babies and someone who had curry for lunch to the party. Called for photo, SMILE!, back to waiting. A new chair neighbor, badly in need of a dentist, asks me how long this takes (he has just entered the pit from line 5), I intentionally crush his spirit and tell him we've been here since 8. Finally, the gates to heaven open and Andrew receives his new, laminated, vertical learner’s permit (more wasted $'s, this will be useless in 6 months or less, paper was good enough). We are out the door in a record-breaking 2 hours and 40 minutes.  Thank you iPad (did you think I would go this alone) and blog for keeping me busy.

Follow up advice for the DMV (pass it on if you know anyone in charge):
Not that I am saying it's a good idea (or politically correct) to separate the “haves” from the “have-nots,” but, How about an "express line”?  Charge me a premium, and get me out in a 1/2 hour or less, budget crisis solved.

Lost and Found

While doing some blog research (a little like the blind leading the blind when "blog" help sites are written by "bloggers"), I came across a term I have certainly heard before but it suddenly seemed both relevant and personal. IRL, Internet slang for "in real life", as opposed to what happens in the virtual world. The idea of a virtual world used to conjure up gamers obsessed with Worlds of Warcraft or The Sims, living vicariously through cyber versions of their alter egos. Now I come to find out that I (and probably you too if you are here) have both a "real life" and a virtual one.  The latter encompasses all of our interactions and relationships that don't happen "face to face"(FTF). If your "real life" is anything like mine, we are both enjoying a full virtual life. Before you disagree, think for a minute about the people in your world; how many of those friendships are sustained "on-line"? If the "cord" were cut, how long would it be before you made contact and would you even know how?

I will be the first to admit that Facebook is part of my daily life, and I'm glad. I could live without the "status philosophers"(sorry) and the Farmville requests, but I don't want to live without my "friends." Facebook, in my "almost-fifty" perspective, has been a personal "Lost and Found.” Of course, not all of my 468 friends were lost and certainly they all didn’t need to be found. I'm thankful for the needles that emerged from the haystack. It started with my camp family (yes, Tevya again), like a Rubber Band ball, we found each other one by one and each layer binds us closer together. I found my BU classmates much the same way, one friend request after another until it seemed entire dorms were re-assembled. In some cases, names and faces were less than familiar, but "tagged" flashback photos connected 80's hairstyles with current profile names.  Out of this larger group came a core of six, my BU girls, a Facebook gift. We keep up with the basics courtesy of the news feed, but also connect "live” every few months. We are only weeks away from our next dinner (Who knows how many days? I know you are reading.), so you'll hear about them again soon. The childhood friendships are not as Facebook dependent; small-town roots run deep and most of us have never lost touch. Family photos and personal updates fill in the blanks for those who are no longer in the "neighborhood." I won't deny the guilty pleasure of viewing profiles and photos of high school's finest (in their opinion) only to discover that they peaked in 1980.  It's like a virtual reunion without the need for small talk. Admit it, you've dabbled in FB stalking, and it's fun. We've all done the old boyfriend/girlfriend search, sometimes more successfully than others, but occasionally old emotions can morph into a cherished friendship. I have discovered relatives I never knew and may never meet, and found relatives I grew up with that I miss seeing "in real life." My virtual life feels very "real" to me and I'm certain without it, my universe would be incomplete. (Think Tom Cruise, "You complete me.")

Good or bad, we are all living a bit of a "double life." Nothing can replace the “FTF" bonds “IRL."(see above if you don't remember). A virtual hug and kiss (xoxo) will never substitute for the real thing and looking in someone's eyes will always tell us more than a photograph. In my experience, each one sustains the other; all the people that got me to today remind me how grateful I am to be here. Life does not often give us a "do-over”, but in this case we do get the chance to rebuild or even repair what was once important. When we are really lucky, the best parts of our past become part of our future, and in my case, I am very lucky.

Rock My World

Tuesday was supposed to be a perfectly uncomplicated day. After all, it was iPhone day, it wasn't Monday, and Bob Maxon (my local NBC weatherman) proclaimed it a "best weather day" of the summer. It's a quiet time at the JCC; the early childhood center is preparing for a new crop of crying moms with toddlers clinging tightly to their legs (or maybe it's the other way around), the indoor pool is closed for cleaning and repair and many on the management team are squeezing in a few last vacation days before fall fills the parking lot again. The executive offices(sounds impressive that this is where you find me),are usually a manageable chaos, today they are eerily quiet. The steady stream of members and their children, staff and assorted visitors has slowed to a trickle and no one has to close their door to make a phone call. This feels unfamiliar; a full-house is what makes this building tick. I take advantage of the calm and the morning hours are productive and uneventful. The “J” Cafe is also closed this week(no egg salad on rye today),but I resist the urge to go out(too tempting to stay out). I'm not that hungry anyway and find popcorn someone left in the lunchroom. As a rule I try to avoid "lunchroom leftovers"(which are too frequently available and not frequently a “healthy choice”).The day continues; emails, spreadsheets and an unexpected lesson in American Flags. I am often assigned the tasks that don't readily fit in other departments. Flags are visual (part of my business card title) and the JCC needs one for a 9/11 memorial in the gallery(key word: gallery), and that is essentially the thought process that lands this project in my inbox. It's 1:50 pm and I am in the zone.

It's 1:51 and my ceiling shakes; what are they doing on the roof today? Seconds later, more shaking, maintenance is getting a little aggressive. And again, something is definitely not right. I see a Facebook post (HR department look away) from a friend in New Jersey who says her building just shook and she thinks it's an earthquake. Now it's time to get up from my chair. The lonely 4 left in the office congregate and discuss the possibility, could it really be an earthquake? I panic, my typical "imagine the worst" neurosis contemplates a terrorist attack (in my defense, earthquakes are not the first thought around here).  I need to call Andrew, he’s home alone. Back to my office, dial home ..."I'm sorry that number is not in service,” did I dial incorrectly? Not sticking around to find out, I head to the car and continue to dial through parking lot, nothing. My overactive imagination is in full swing; cell towers are down, Andrew is home scared, trees have crushed the house....I check the iPad from the car; earthquake confirmed on Yahoo!  I know, why am I not driving home yet? Car in drive, I call Jeffrey on the way home (guess the cell towers are safe). He has no clue what I am talking about, didn't feel a thing. Head clears for a second and I try Andrews’s cell phone, "Hi, what’s up?" Like his father, he has no clue what I am talking about and is a little mad he didn't feel it. Now I'm back in the driveway, no trees on the house either. Tragedy averted, I finish the emails I left in limbo during the "quake," and close out the work day from my iPad.

I almost forgot, it's iPhone day, so glad I survived to enjoy it. I arrive at Verizon and sign in as instructed. What is the reason for my visit? Upgrade of course. My name is on the screen, Jill Z. has 3 people before her, which could mean anything from 3 minutes to infinity. It ends up to be something in between. iPad is with me and I stay busy reading Facebook quake posts from my East Coast friends. We are not used to this; the deal was the West Coast gets the beautiful weather, the Pacific Ocean and the earthquakes. If the plan is changing we should get the chance to renegotiate.  Soon it's my turn, upgrade complete, and I'm back in the car iPhone in hand. Staying true to my promise of "full disclosure," my first few calls leave me frustrated and convinced my phone is defective, I can't hear a thing. Andrew saves me the embarrassment of a return visit to Verizon when he removes the plastic film covering the front of the phone (and the speaker).

The rest of my day and well into the night (Thank You Jeffrey for going to the store and cooking dinner) is dedicated to the needs of my newly blended iFamily. This is much more complicated than I thought; synching does not solve all problems. I vow to clean up my contacts and my inboxes tomorrow, and go to sleep. It was a day to remember, earthquake and iPhone, and I have to admit, neither was as exciting as I had hoped.

Tonight I'll remember to turn off "alerts and ringers" and my newborn iPhone will sleep through the night. Something I wish I remembered last night.

i Am Ready

Today is the day that my iPad gets a sibling. Yes, it's upgrade day for me at Verizon Wireless and I am finally going to take the leap to a Smartphone (feeling badly that all these years I have had a dumb phone). My usual learning curve with a cell phone involves how to make a call, how to answer a call, how to check voicemail and most recently utilizing full keyboard texting. Other than that I never figure out how to use any other features and I can’t say that I’ve missed them. I tried to add individual ringtones for frequent callers but the pressure to choose appropriate tunes and the requirement to remember who they belonged to, proved way too complicated and I went the low-tech route and looked at the screen to identify callers. My cell phone, unlike those belonging to almost everyone I know (excluding maybe my mother who is just getting up to speed on voice mail and texting), spends way more time in my car or lost in my pocketbook than it does in my hand.  It seems most users under 25 are unable to perform any daily functions without the phone appendage; sleeping, eating, using the bathroom, showering (left on the counter) and even sleeping (tucked safely next to their heads on the pillow). I am not that tethered to my mobile device – except in cases where I am waiting for a specific call or am traveling away from home. I had a Bluetooth at one point – also more than likely somewhere in my car – but it was never comfortable and I didn’t want to be one of those people with a flashing blue ear who appears to be talking to themselves in the car or worse, at the supermarket (I’m sure that I’ve just insulted more than a few people I know, sorry, not my style to hold back). As a result, I again take the low-tech approach (unfortunately illegal) and am not hands-free while driving. When I see a police car, I drop the phone and like magic I am “hands-free.” I do not text while driving because I can barely see the keyboard when I am stationary and even a moment with my eyes diverted would impact my less than stellar driving skills. I also have a simple system to avoid missing calls while driving with loud music; with the ringer on “vibrate” and the phone in my lap I rarely miss an inbound “ring.“  I’ve adapted to my phone world and it works for me, but I’ve decided to take it to the next level, inspired by my iPad and all the joy it has brought me.

Where I lack in phone skills, I am like an idiot savant with my iPad, unlocking all of its secrets in the year we have been together. Jeffrey refers to it as “the best present he ever gave me” (which is not far from the truth and 100% true if you exclude major pieces of jewelry). The kids refer to it as the iDad; named as such because it gets in bed with me every night (it also spends the day with me, which my other bedmate does not). It kept me from getting lost in the Tuscan countryside and it holds my photos and my thoughts (much of this blog was written on its bright yellow virtual legal pad). I’ve converted many friends and family to be iBelievers and am flattered when they come to me for help and support. I had a moment of jealousy when my iPad was devalued by its slimmer sibling, complete with camera and impressive cover, but I stayed true and did not trade it in for a “trophy Pad”. When it suffered a minor fall and received a life-threatening crack, I worked some “Jill magic” at the Apple Store and received a shiny new replacement, but there were some very tense moments while I waited for the diagnosis. If this all seems unusual to you, you probably don’t have an iPad or I may be a tiny bit iCrazy.

Like a mother awaiting the birth of her 2nd child, I hope I can love iPhone the same way I love iPad. I feel like I already know my phone in so many ways. When we met at the Verizon store its features did not scare me because they felt like family, iFamily. I’m sure the three of us are going to get along great and iPad will understand if Facetime is something I share with just iPhone (I don’t love iPad less because it is without camera). iPhone will surely understand if my writing stays on iPad, I’ll use its smaller screen for Facebook commentary and quick emails. Together they will share all my apps in harmony and my iLife will be synched together in virtual bliss.

 

Give me a day for us to get to know each other ... then call me, text me, email me ... i will be waiting.

The Final Countdown

It's going to be a long week. School starts September 1st; between now and then young minds will spend countless hours doing nothing. There seems to be too much time on the calendar between the end of summer activities and the first night of homework. In my case, the end of summer camp should be followed by 1 week of lazy television watching, 1 trip to the mall for sneakers and 1 haircut (which in our house happens on the back deck with a number 2 trimmer). Every family has their own summer plan; vacation, beach, pool, day camp, overnight camp, tennis camp, circus camp, but by now most of us are done. Done with sunscreen and wet towels, done with cookouts and mosquito bites and (back to my world), done coming home from work to find your child in the same clothes, in the same place you left them in the morning. I want to go to Staples, sharpen the pencils and finally have the house to myself again at 7:10 AM.

Starting in early June, I'm doing a similar countdown to the end of "school nights." I'm ready to let go of the schedule; tired of monitoring bedtime, morning wake-up and getting dinner on the table at 6:30 PM. Each school year takes its toll and summer is the gift we get for making it through. I have long admitted to suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), self-diagnosed and a good rationalization for visiting the tanning salon (I am well aware that this is bad for me, duly added to my list of vices). I have no idea if this is clinical, but when the days get shorter and darker and colder, I get crankier and sleepier and sadder. On frigid January days my bed has a magnetic force pulling me under the covers long before bedtime. Layers of fleece are no match for my inner chill, due in part to Jeffrey’s insistence that the thermostat be set at “arctic.” (A middle of the night trip to the bathroom requires a 5-minute mental pep talk and a sudden interest in Depends). And yet I survive year after year until the days get longer and my insides thaw. I continue to changeover my closet at the first coatless day and refuse to resurrect the wool despite the cruel tricks of early spring. April vacation means May is just around the corner and the finish line to summer is clearly in view. The constant of New England life, the next season always in the chute ready to change the scenery, the temperature and the mood.

So here we are again, soon backpacks will come out of hiding and beach bags will return to the closet. Too much time on the couch will be replaced with not enough time for anything. Before long a Sunday will come that requires a sweater and these last days of summer will be a distant memory. Perhaps this long week needs a fresh perspective, nothing wrong with a few more late nights and lazy days. I resolve to stop counting how many more days until school starts and enjoy the summer ones we have left.

New attitude in place, I left for work. Backing out of the driveway I take a second to enjoy the view. The grass is green and full, the impatience is grazing the base of the mailbox in full pink and purple bloom, the sky is bright blue and the air is dry. On second thought, maybe this week isn’t long enough?

Sunday with Charles

Sunday morning again, I'm at the island, drinking coffee, reading the paper (you've heard this part before) and watching CBS Sunday morning. Every other morning it is The Today Show (admitted crush on Matt Lauer) but Sunday's are for Charles (currently Osgood, but he's no Kuralt - crush on neither). The correspondents share a soothing quality to their voices, a certain rhythm or timbre, perfect for Sunday (excluding Ben Stein).  The range of topics usually includes at least one segment of marginal interest to me (wolves in the wild or storm chasers - both of which will have Jeffrey mesmerized), a perfect time to check my email or focus on the newspaper.  Lazy morning in bed, we miss the first few segments, not complaining (was that TMI?), and I take my first sip of coffee at 9:34 and turn on CBS. Update on the Martin Luther King Memorial provides the email/newspaper time - not being disrespectful - I can listen without watching and still absorb the message.  Next up, eyes on the TV, there's Barbra, Streisand that is. Those songs, that voice, are a surefire trigger for a good cry. Today’s example, lovely Sunday, slept late, blah, blah, blah ....." Memories, Light the corners of my mind, Misty watercolor memories, of the way we were" (eyes are watering).  "Papa, papa can you hear me" (faucet opens); women everywhere (maybe a few emotionally secure men) are reaching for a tissue.

Music has that power, an emotional time machine; both happy and sad notes taking us somewhere.  In my world it works like this; cue the music, “Hello world, hear the song that we're singin', C'mon get happy!" (No idea why the theme song from The Partridge Family popped into my head, but I promised honesty), I’m in 6th grade, lying on the brown corduroy couch in the den. I’m captivated by Keith Partridge and think its way cool that I have the same birthday as Danny Bonaduce (not nearly as cool these days).  Let’s try again, "I would give anything I own, Give up my life, my heart, my home. I would give ev'rything I own, Just to have you back again." Now I’m in 8th grade locked in my room, Bread’s 1972 tearjerker accompanied a pretty rough patch when my Papa Saul died in 1976. The Peaches and Herb classic "Reunited" will always take me back to Hall High 1978, me and RW in my Oldsmobile.  I’m “chauffeuring” some classmates (“Jill, drive us home”), they’re in the backseat belting out the chorus. Almost anything from Flashdance, The Police or Cyndi Lauper, and I'm cutting my sweatshirt, putting on legwarmers, and heading to Landsdowne Street or Father’s Too (Geographic references for my BU girls). “Always and Forever,” (which up until about 30 seconds ago, I had no clue was a Heatwave song) brings sweet memories of my Wedding Day, even though to this day Jeffrey confuses it with “What a Wonderful World”.  This particular mix-up proved unfortunate when he serenaded me with the wrong choice in an otherwise perfectly orchestrated 25th Anniversary moment in Venice.  Right about now, if I haven’t bored you enough to stop reading, you are thinking “boy, she has terrible taste in music” or “wow, she really is old.” In either case, you’re probably right. Thank you CBS Sunday morning for providing us with this musical interlude.

I can’t sign off without a quick discussion about the piece after Barbra, which Jeffrey unfortunately missed when he did the bagel run. Bill Geist did a fascinating piece on suburban moms and pole dancing, guess I missed it when it first aired in May. So many thoughts racing through my head; who are these women, their teenage sons and daughters probably just entered the witness protection program, who do you call to get a pole installed in your bedroom, that would make me dizzy and last but not least I feel sorry for the girl who happily explains that she is the “pole cleaner” at the state competition. I apologize if I have offended any secret pole-dancers in my life.

10:30 AM, the familiar trumpets play, time for Face the Nation and my laundry.

Weekend Update

My blog is one week old today and I have already learned a few things. At the onset, I never mentioned how often these posts would occur and honestly I had no idea if I would have enough to say on a daily basis. I have been told on more than one occasion this week (by the people who seem to know me best) “there is a lot going on in there.” The “there” being my head and yes, it is a pretty noisy place. I have always been keenly aware of the constant narrative in the background. Not in the creepy “I hear voices” kind of way, just an inner dialogue. Curse or blessing, depending on how you see it, I have a tendency (a strong one) to overthink things. For whatever reason I don’t take much at face value, there are always lines to read between. I am forever looking beneath the surface. Even if there isn’t a second layer, I will attempt to uncover it. I need to accept that not everyone is an "overthinker." So here I am 7 days in, and so far I have enough to say and enough people who want to hear it.

I have also realized that I have much more free time than I thought. Apparently, when you really feel strongly about something, you find the time to do it. Evidently I did not feel strongly enough about Pilates (made and cancelled 6 appointments with the trainer) or Spinning – both of which happen within steps of my office at the JCC. A mental workout seems to motivate me in ways a physical one ever could. I think you get the point; we make time for what's important, for everything else we make excuses. I have to admit that I have played far less solitaire and done almost no online shopping.

Spontaneity, I have learned, produces the best posts (I would also suggest the same holds true for most other activities). Part of what makes this easy for me is the pure regurgitation of my thoughts, not saying there isn’t always a period of review and revise, but “stream of consciousness” keeps it honest. In some ways this goes against my opening premise of “over thinking,” kind of funny that my best writing happens when I do just the opposite. Your comments to me, both in person and on line, reassure me that you like it that way.

This brings me to my next lesson, one that is not entirely new (and surely not surprising to most of you). I do like the attention, not in a need for approval kind of way, more in a Sally Field “you like me” kind of way. This has led to a slight obsession with the blog "stats" page. Post visits are tracked without identifying the visitors (just in case you were wondering). Can’t lie, even I am surprised that I was visited over 700 times this week (excluding my own). Equally as cool (and baffling) is the geographic distribution, no surprise that most are from the US, but who is checking me out from Australia, Bahamas, Canada, Germany and The Netherlands? Jeffrey, the usual recipient of the thoughts in my head (without the review and revise period) is equally pleased that I have another audience. So thanks for the positive reinforcement; I have to admit that it feels good.

One last thing, and maybe the one that matters most. Although this is "all about me", it connects me to you. Whenever you came into my life or how much of it we spent together, it’s nice to know you’re still there. With every word I write I'm thinking of someone or some moment I spent with you. Come to find out, I am not taking this journey2fifty alone, and it's nice to have company.

A Bedtime Story.

I had something completely different on my blog agenda today, almost entirely written in fact, and then I had a thought (big surprise I know).  Jeffrey kissed me goodbye at 7, I stayed in bed (it's Friday, my weekend begins today). Downstairs at 8, coffee started, seat at the island, Today show on, and then the “thought”, not necessarily the first one of the day, but the one I wanted to share.

I have been sleeping very well. In fact, since I started writing this blog I am feeling quite rested. I'm not talking about a completely uninterrupted 8 hours a night, 20 something's still live here and I have a 49 year old bladder. What seem to be changing are the middle-of-the-night internal conversations that have plagued me for years. I've always fallen asleep without much trouble (if timed appropriately with you know who's snoring), it's the 2 or 3 am wakeup (dog, child, strange noise, bathroom) that starts the torturous process. Whatever is on my mind is evaluated and re-evaluated, problems get solved, questions get answered (I'm a genius in the dark). I tell myself to go to sleep (not out loud, in my head) but I don't listen, there's so much more to think about. Strangely I don't get up and accept insomnia, I stay there and watch the neon digits turn to 3 and then 4. On occasion I've reached for the iPad (this past year anyway) always within arm’s reach, and written an email.  Not the best idea (sort of like drunk dialing and equally as dangerous). My advice if you attempt it, "save as draft”, enough said. To make matters worse, my brilliance seems to lose much of its sparkle in the light of day. End Result, sleepy days same issues.

Pharmacuetical solutions have been offered for years (Ambien, TylenolPM, Xanax), but I like to control the process and don't enjoy the groggy, drug induced snooze. If this was a daily problem I would be more inclined to investigate other options, but it ebbed and flowed with my life. Good or bad can spark the process; what should I pack for vacation, what's up with that child or that friend. I am usually spared from work thoughts, although I have hung a few exhibits in my head over the years. Just when I think I have reached my breaking point, one perfect slumber will save me.

Which brings me back to this morning’s thought. I have not only slept through Scott's last 2 late night check-ins (I still need to know they got home safely), but Jeffrey has also had to wake me when he left in the morning. Both situations are highly unusual. I'm never been fully REM until I know everyone who is supposed to be sleeping home is sleeping home. My mornings have always started when Jeffrey wakes up at 6 (regardless of whether he remembers to turn off the louder than necessary alarm); he's up so I'm up. These recent changes got me thinking, could all this daytime reflection be taking the place of my nocturnal analysis? I'm going to give it a few more weeks and see if the theory holds, but if it rings true I may be taking this journey way beyond 50.

Amid Verdant Woodlands ...

Tevya campers everywhere will follow the 3 words above with the following 4, “beneath pure azure skies.” Some thought it, some said it and some (you know who you are) began to sway and sang our alma mater in it's entirety. Most certainly we are all smiling, this single verse transports us to the magical place on Lake Potanipo that connected us for life.

Yesterday morning when I approached the blinking light and made the right turn to Mason Road it occurred to me that I have taken this drive close to 50 times in the last 12 years.  12 first days of camp, 12 visiting days, 12 pick-ups – extra round trips the Israel summers, Alumni Shabbats, Reunions and an unfortunate “swirly” incident requiring an unplanned departure (some things are better left unexplained).  As a camper and counselor I made the same pilgrimage in my parent’s car for 7 summers. Here to pick up Andrew from his CIT summer, it hits me that this could be the last time.

I was 12 my fist summer at camp and 18 when I left. In between I had my first kiss (recently contacted by the other pair of lips on FB), my theatrical debut (Little Mary sunshine - Mary, of course) and my first love (or so I thought at the time). Those years are so deeply rooted in my psyche that if "stairway to heaven" starts to play I'm still terrified no one will ask me to slow dance. I was the shortest camper in my age group, president of the IBTC (itty,bitty,t---y,committee -late bloomer apparently) and jealous of the girls with straight hair (present day locks chemically assisted). I wasn't a Color War Captain or Camper of the Year (don't think they award that one anymore), but I was happy (and nervous) the first day of every summer and sad to leave when the August nights turned cold.

Scott and David brought me back to Tevya in 2000, Andrew waited until they would take him at 7 (don't judge, his brothers were there). Those summers were my gift to them and my unique bond with them. We shared traditions untouched by time and something called "Tevya Spirit." They were bunkmates with the 2nd generation of my friendships, our children together in cabins still marked with our fading names on the ceiling. In turn, my boys gave me the chance to go back to camp again with the very people who created my memories. First days and visiting days involved a lot of parent to parent hugging and kissing, both men and women (here the man-hug is routine and the "When Harry Met Sally" theory does not apply). There are non-seasonal get togethers whenever possible. Sometimes a drink (or two) is required to snap back to camp mode, and occasionally we could use a little "counselor" supervision. We have been called a cult, defined in this case : Obsessive, especially faddish, devotion to or veneration for a person, principle, or thing. I say the shoe fits. Our secret, eternal youth, in their presence I am forever a teenager.

In the end,  regardless of the next time I turn onto Mason Road, welcomed by the familiar green and white sign, a part of me will always spend the summer amid the verdant woodlands, beneath pure azure skies.

courtesy of "the kiss." Thanks JK

Ready for Takeoff...

8:30 Tuesday morning and I'm holding my breath. David is at Bradley Airport ready for takeoff. I refresh the delta flight status page for the next 6 hours until he safely lands in Tucson to begin his senior year in college. I'm not sure if either of us is ready for that reality. Seems like yesterday when we arrived for the 105-degree freshman move-in amidst Terra Cotta Mountains and turquoise skies. The parent hustle, Target to Best Buy to Bed, Bath & Beyond, was close to enjoyable against this movie-like backdrop. I was almost (accent on the almost) inspired to hike up the nearest peak and commune with nature. In the 3 years since, that has not happened, hiker I'm not.  Adding to the Arizona appeal is the fact that this state, completely devoid of humidity, is a Jewish girl’s best friend - this is a frizz- free zone. (Note to self: plan retirement in dry heat). A little sad that I can’t stay longer at this college resort with Jamba Juice and swimming pools. David is not sad that I can't stay longer, and I leave him in this new world without the need for fleece or down jackets.

 He chose the University of Arizona for reasons beyond the warm climate and beautiful barely dressed women (although if you visited you would be hard pressed to come up with other reasons). David has had a singular vision of his future for as long as I can remember. No fireman or football player fantasies, television and film were his destiny. He wrote and performed improv comedy, watched every movie he could, read books about screen plays, stayed up all night writing scripts, and ultimately found a university program that would take him the rest of the way. Fast forward to now, he has stayed true to his dreams and college has hopefully provided the necessary skills and confidence. This is not to say that the road hasn’t been bumpy at times (can’t say I know a parent of a college kid who wouldn’t say the same) but when he moves the tassel from right to left only the joy will remain.

 
Of all the things we want for our children as they grow there are some things that we can't, no matter how hard we try, provide for them. The inspiration that makes them tick and boldly chase their dreams has to come from inside them. I take no credit for David’s steadfast pursuit of his goals, other than the mystery of genetics.  At 19 he spent his first summer in New York City interning at ABC (be jealous if you are a fan of One Life to Live), living alone in a 5th floor non-air-conditioned walk up (don’t ask me how much this palace cost). He persevered and returned this summer in an air-conditioned 2 bedroom with friends (worth every $) and worked a 40 hour week at MTV (be jealous if you, and guilty in my case, are a fan of Jersey Shores and The Real World). He has procured an impressive resume for a 20 year old, through hard work and persistence along with the help of good friends who opened  some doors (note to parents: it's a competitive world out there, don't be afraid to use your contacts, our help can only unlock the gate, what they do after that is up to them. I hope someday I can return the favor to someone else's child, they all deserve a shot). I can’t wait to see where he goes from here. My only wish is that he continues his journey to professional success, defined as the opportunity to wake up every day and do something that you love.

12:30 p.m., text message from David, "landed in Tucson 143" ...and finally, exhale.  Classes begin on Monday and surely the next 2 semesters will go by faster than he hopes (sadly todays graduates are far more fearful than excited about graduation). But time can't stand still, parents and families will arrive, Pomp & Circumstance will play, tears and Dom Pérignon will flow, and I will again hold my breath as David gets ready for takeoff....

On a side note: I'm not playing parental favorites, Scott and Andrew will have their blog moments. It's all a matter of their lives intersecting with my mental roadmap, bound to happen soon.