For a Sweet New Year

 As the sun sets this evening my family will welcome a new Jewish Year, 5772 in the Hebrew Calendar. I don’t want to profess to be a Torah scholar (although I am learning more daily at the JCC), so I researched the following explanation on line. (About.com/Judaism - no commentary on my sources, I was looking for simple and straightforward.) Rosh Hashanah, Together with Yom Kippur (next week), are known as the Yamin Nora' im, translated as Days of Awe, or more commonly known, the High Holy Days. Jewish tradition teaches that during the High Holy Days God decides who will live and who will die during the coming year. As a result, during Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (and in the days leading up to them) Jews embark upon the serious task of examining their lives and repenting for any wrongs they have committed during the previous year.

I like to think that I take this process seriously, pretty risky not to. I would certainly think that this "Journey" qualifies as reflection and occasionally repentance. I know that I have asked for your forgiveness on multiple occasions, and privately I ask for a divine pass more frequently (not taking any chances with the one who sees all). It's not that I think I "sin" more than the average person, but if I had to be judged against the biblical model, my time in Temple will be well spent. I do believe in the power of goodness over evil, and take comfort in knowing that my heart is one of good intention and good deeds, but sometimes my brain or my mouth react before my heart has a chance to protect me. I also believe that if g-d lives within us, then it is most important that I be my own judge.  If I can make peace with my actions or my thoughts, then I can face the New Year with a clear conscience and a peaceful soul. I don't believe that perfection is expected, that would leave no room for improvement; I think we should strive to be the best version of ourselves, flaws and all.

Tomorrow when I put on my stockings (no bare legs in Temple), I will take stock in the year behind me and hope for another good one ahead. I will take my seat under the stained glass dome at roughly 10 am; the Rabbi and the much more dedicated arrive many hours before. This time gap will prevent me from sitting in the soft sanctuary seats (only my parents used to get there early enough) and I will take my seat in the folding chairs in the rear. Oddly enough, Temple seems to be the only place where my "people" obey the "no saving seats" rule. Really, this is serious business, no one taking any chances in there. Occasionally, there is a prayer book, or Tallis bag, maybe a Tory Burch clutch, left casually on the seat next to a spouse waiting for their other-half who hasn't arrived; this is acceptable, but unspoken. It's the blatant row of empties that will get you scolded by the ushers (and they are obviously "you know who's" messengers). I seem to always end up in the same region of the folding chairs, surrounded by the other latecomers, mostly my friends. On my approach to Temple's answer to the “bleacher seats”, I scan the crowd looking for my spot. My time here should be focused on prayer and my location should be irrelevant, but we all know that's not the case. There's a lot of unintended down time (sometimes I finish my silent prayer early) and it is often filled with whispered conversations with my neighbors (I will not call out the other participants) until Jeffrey "shushes" me or I get a shameful look from a less irreverent congregant. I don't mean to be disrespectful, and I do love the service, but the High Holy Days are ripe with things to talk about and forgiveness is built in to the system. After all these years I have managed to behave slightly better and have developed a method of non-verbal communication with other offenders; there are looks and eyebrows raises that can speak volumes. On a good year, Temple can almost be too much stimulation for a girl like me, always something to look at with people moving in and out of view at all times. Traditionally it's a good fashion show, but the weather can have a disastrous effect if the new outfit is not suited for the day’s weather. I made this mistake many, many years ago when a new wool suit was unveiled regardless of the Indian summer temperature, and I was called out by a male friend. It has scarred me to this day, and my choice for tomorrow's garment (which will require some closet time today) will definitely be weather appropriate. Others are not as concerned and thus the abundance of eye candy to keep me entertained (I get the feeling that this paragraph is in direct conflict with my previous desires to be a good person, but honesty is virtuous too). I love the women who do the hat thing (however, not when they sit in front of me), the lady answer to the traditional male yarmulke.  It’s not quite the "Kentucky Derby”, but some of them are interesting. The modern woman wears a lady yarmulke, lacy or pastel colors bobby-pinned discreetly to their hair; a nod to feminism I like, but not one I've ever entertained (except for the few minutes required during the boys Bar Mitzvahs). The last thing I need is another item to coordinate with my outfit. The men have it relatively easy, Jeffrey will put on the same suit he would any other day, and I will get tie selection approval. Their only accessory is the Tallis worn draped over their shoulders and the usually mother needlepointed bag they carry it in. There are a few standouts with brightly colored bands, but generally they are all similar and don't need much commentary. When I was little I would sit next to my father and make elaborate braids with the Tallis strings (not sure if that's sacrilegious) and I have to admit, it still happens occasionally with Jeffrey's.

When I was in high school (and admittedly maybe for many years after) I would join the exodus from the sanctuary when the rabbi casually lets you know it's time to set aside your prayer books. This indicates it's time for the sermon; for the teenagers and twenty-something's this is time to gather in the hallways and bathrooms (outside if it's good weather) and socialize. My own children used to sneak off to a nearby house of a friend and play video games, the resident was also on temple recess. Nowadays, the Rabbi’s thoughts are one of my favorite parts of the day. My spiritual leader is a relatable family man when he’s not on the Bimah (temple stage) and his words are both reflective and inspirational. He speaks to the fears and hopes of our community and the world, sprinkled with humorous anecdotes or his own life experiences. It usually leaves me feeling especially moved or empowered, although sometimes I get lost in my own thoughts and miss a few minutes until a chuckle from the crowd snaps me back to reality. I often wonder how long it takes him to write the powerful sermons of the High Holiday season; is it like blogging; writing, editing, reading aloud? Does he practice with his family or colleagues (sometimes I do make Jeffrey listen to my words before you see them), or do we all hear them for the first time together? I'm curious if there is a moment when he decides on a topic; if he wakes up one August or September morning inspired or if it is carefully researched or discussed in a secret Rabbi forum? The nice part is, if I really wanted the answer, I know he would be more than willing to talk to about it, and I would be more than comfortable asking. My childhood Rabbi, same Temple but he retired, was a more formidable figure. He spoke in bellows and whispers during his sermons, sprinkled with Hebrew text and ominous warnings; honestly he scared me a little. In person he was warm and “Rabbi-like”, but it felt like he was one step away from g-d and I was always nervous in his presence. Tomorrow’s service will conclude with my favorite prayers still sung in the traditional tunes (many synagogues have switched it up a bit with popular rhythms). I know them by heart and can still hear my father’s voice singing next to me (he had a beautiful one). I will be crying when I leave; I think I miss him most and see him clearest in those walls.

Melancholy will be replaced with hugging, kissing and New Year’s wishes as I exit to the parking lot. If it’s nice weather there will be extended visitation with friends and family on the way to our cars. If it’s raining (which is predicted for tomorrow) it will be a fast departure; Jewish hair does not do chatting in the rain, even on the holiest of days. After that, it’s time to eat again at my brother and sister-in-laws house followed by a late afternoon stopover at a friend’s holiday table. It will be a day filled with prayer, good food and people I love.

On Rosh Hashanah it is customary to greet people with "L'Shanah Tovah," translated as "For a Good Year.” This is my hope for all of you who have been with me for the last 43 entries and for everyone else I have or will share my life with. I am blessed to have lived a good life this year and hope to be judged for the fullness of my heart and my desire to give the same to others. I will savor the flavors of apples and honey to symbolize my wish for a "sweet" year ahead on my Journey2Fifty.

*Before I leave you, I ask for one parting favor. I just got off the phone with a close friend of over 20 years whose husband is battling cancer. A finer man with a kinder heart you would be hard-pressed to find. He is spending this holiday back in the hospital and part of me will be there with him. Whether you’ll be in Temple tomorrow or just having an ordinary day, take a moment for me, and say a prayer for my friend HJS; may he and those who love him be granted health and happiness in the coming year.

Talk to you on Saturday, I’ll be with “you know who” until then, making peace and eating brisket.

Hot and Steamy

I had no idea what I would write about today. I arrived home around 11:30 pm last night, without my luggage, which chose to spend the night in Minneapolis and arrived on my doorstep this afternoon. After 7 hours of travel and 3 days of pretending not to be 49, I had a deep, much needed, non-snore interrupted sleep. Jeffrey is away on business, sad to come home to an empty bed, but he did leave me his T-shirt and a note on my pillow so I wouldn’t be lonely. Normally I wake up with an idea or have one bouncing around in my head as I drift off to dreamland, but last night the only things rattling around in my head were the remnants of too many margaritas and too much sun. I woke up still tired, but in a good mood, and made it through Monday better than expected. At 6 pm, I was still blog deficient, at 6:30 pm, I was at the butcher counter at the market, and at 6:35 pm, it hit me, this would be the brisket blog. I wasn’t sure how much I could say or who would be interested, but in my 30 minutes at the Big Y, I had 3 conversations with other shoppers also on a brisket mission. People are obviously passionate about this dish, and so it was decided; why not give this beef its blog.

When the lazy days of summer turn quickly into fall and my High Holiday "tickets" arrive in the mail, it can mean only one thing; it’s Brisket time. Today is “Brisket Day” in my house. Unfortunately, today is also broken air-conditioning day, not the ideal environment to have 10 lbs.of steaming, hot brisket in the oven for 5 hours. But alas, the Rosh Hashanah table will not wait and I will sweat through it like my ancestors did (I’m not sure how many generations back I would have to go to find one without air- conditioning). I am fortunate to not be making the entire meal, this year 18 of us will descend upon Sherri and Ron’s house (a million Thank You’s for that), but I will arrive bearing brisket, because it is my specialty. I can’t take ownership for its perfection, it is a skill acquired through many years of watching my mother and father prepare the holy beef. She did the cooking; he was in charge of the heavy lifting and the slicing. The same roles apply in my house, although this year with Jeffrey away, Andrew will have to assume brisket lifting and Jeffrey will arrive home tomorrow for slicing (it is a multi-day process). On a side note, I will also arrive with Apple Crisp (also excellent, which I will prepare fresh on Wednesday). I didn’t want anyone to think I wasn’t pulling my weight with a single assignment.

Every family has their own brisket ritual and recipe, pretty sure my mom revamped her more labor intensive process for the current (and I think tastier) version. Through my supermarket study this afternoon I can safely assume that many of us are using some variation of the ketchup, onion soup mix, brown sugar combo (mine has a few other secret ingredients). I determined this though a quick perusal of the contents in other brisket filled carts and the sudden empty space where the Lipton onion soup mix used to be (good thing I had an emergency stash in the cabinet). I have no idea of the science involved in how these unrelated staples magically create the tender deliciousness that will materialize from my oven later this evening, but it is time tested and family approved so no explanation needed. My mother-in-law had a totally different approach, heavy on the onions and black peppercorns, I was not a fan. Jeffrey grew up with those flavors and probably misses it a little bit, but, my house, my brisket. Four sweaty hours from now, more if the fork doesn’t glide easily through the center portion, the aluminum pans will emerge from the oven and my house will smell like Bubbe’s kitchen for the next 3 days. The beautiful “first cut” slabs which barely fit in the pans will have shrunk considerably (if my mom were here she would panic that it wasn’t enough) and the empty space will be filled with the potent brisket gravy. I will patiently (maybe not so much at 11 pm) wait for them to cool down enough to be temporarily separated from their gravy bath and wrapped carefully to spend the night in the fridge getting cold enough to slice (which must be done against the grain or it will be tough, a sin against the brisket gods). Jeffrey and I will argue about which direction is “against the grain” (my parents did too) and he will make multiple sample cuts to prove his point. As I write this it occurs to me, this may be a ploy for advance brisket eating. The gravy will spend the next 2 days alone in the fridge in order for the fat to rise and solidify on top (no fatty brisket from this house), the offending disc will be removed, and the brisket and its juices will be happily remarried and reheated in the Pyrex on Wednesday after sundown.

How is it that I have now waxed poetic about brisket for over 800 words, a dish I only cook and serve twice a year? In reality, by Friday, I will not want to look at brisket again for 6 months and even reading this blog will probably make me a little nauseous. But right at this moment (9:52 pm) it smells pretty darn good down stairs and I might even be salivating a little (could also be that I had Rice Krispies for dinner and I’m hungry). What a crazy week this will be; on Friday I was enjoying a margarita by the pool, on Saturday I was playing beer pong (and swished one in), today I am a Jewish mother making brisket, and on Thursday I will put my heels on and do Temple Time in style. The funny thing is, this week will have a little bit of everything, and each one is a little part of me; Pool Girl, Party Girl, Wife, Mother, Fashionista, Brisket Master... Who says you can’t have it all?

Wildcat Weekend

It's been a few days since we last connected, and here I am again, 10,000 feet in the sky with Delta. I'm hoping that absence makes the heart grow fonder or that you'll at least accept my apology for being unusually "quiet" the last few days. My original intention for this trip was to post as frequently as I could, checking in now and then to let you know how things were going. Obviously, that is not what happened. It bothered me at first that I was not making the time to chronicle "David Weekend," but very quickly I decided it was much more important that I simply focus on spending the "Weekend with David." We hung out at the pool, we partied at a "Bar-Mitzvah" for a "non-tribal brother" and the Arizona-Oregon tailgate (we attempted, but did not go to the game), and we talked a lot; for 3 days David had my undivided attention.

It is fairly rare for me to be one-on-one for more than a day with any of the boys. Usually we are together in multiples or it's both parents tag-teaming one child. To be fair, we were not side by side the whole time; David stayed at his house, me at the beautiful JW Marriott Starr Pass Resort with the other parents (never said I'd be slumming it), but the hours in between were mother and son, relaxed and easy. We had almost no plans for the weekend and even the ones we did make were scrapped for an entirely spur of the moment itinerary. It felt strange at the onset without Jeffrey, there were plenty of other "single" parents, but generally not for the same reason. Two years ago I came alone for "Mom's" fraternity weekend, but that weekend produced few meaningful memories. I remember leaving feeling very sad that I didn't really connect with him or the other "Moms," and found the whole experience to be rather forced and unnatural. I was hoping that this weekend would be entirely different, and I was not disappointed.

I have to be honest, I stopped writing after the last two paragraphs; couldn't get a handle on how I wanted to share the rest of the weekend with you. Maybe I haven't had enough time to settle in with my thoughts (after all, I took the weekend off to "not" think so much) or more likely, I've decided that the details don't really matter and I'm going to selfishly keep the stories between David and me (and a few eye witness AEPi parents and brothers). So don't get mad, but this one's gonna stay on the "down low", probably the smart thing to do. I'll tell you how I feel, and If you've been to college or have kids in college or watched a movie about college, you can surely imagine the rest.

The best part of this weekend (outside of the obvious, better than I could have hoped for, weather) were the people I got to know. Of course, I've had the chance to meet most of David's close friends and their parents over the years, but it's usually in the hustle of moving in or out or a quick hello during winter or summer break. I felt a little bit like an outsider in the beginning, many of the other families know each other from home (if home is New York and your commute involves the Long Island Expressway), quite a few have vacationed together, and most have celebrated parents weekend together since freshman year, and this is my first since then. I had some catching up to do; Jill had to be at 110% , this was not a time for insecure or reserved. Empowered by the sunshine and the blue skies above, I was exactly the Jill I needed to be, the real one. I was relaxed and warm, I talked too much and was occasionally judgmental, I was funny (hopefully), but not obnoxious, I was part of the group, but not clingy. I'm not sure how concerned David was about how it would all go, probably a reasonable amount considering I didn't have Jeffrey to lean on, but I can honestly say I did OK in the Mom department, maybe even better than OK. I have a few new Facebook friends (not kids, that he doesn't like), and lots of real ones that felt lifelong by the end of the weekend. I got to know his friends in a "not-Mom" kind of way; not crossing the line, but blurring it enough for both sides to relax. It felt good to like his friends and their parents as much as he does, and equally as positive to know that it was mutual in the other direction. Years after nursery school and play group, it's still nice to make new friends through your kids.

I learned this weekend that college hasn't changed all that much; the details perhaps, but it's essentially the same playbook. They drink as much as we did in college, a little cheaper though, we did it mostly in bars. Fortunately (or not, considering the reasons) this generation is all too familiar with the dangers of drinking and driving, and thankfully take it seriously enough not to take the risk. The boy/girl dynamic is no more promiscuous than previous generations, only the phrasing has changed."Hooking up" is just their version of "going out" or "going steady." MTV makes it seem more rampant and free, but if reality TV existed during Woodstock or the Disco years or BU in the 80's, the only difference would be the wardrobe. I almost get the feeling that these girls are a little smarter; looks like many of them have figured out that they hold the power. It's not about "if" a boy wants them ("if" does not exist in a world of testosterone), it's about who they want and how long they can make them wait. I love meeting the girls, love it even more when they love me back; and I was feeling some reciprocity this weekend. These coeds are undeniably beautiful; add to that the minimal clothing required on year-round 90 degree days, and it's a miracle that any of the male students can focus on anything else.

Same goes for the party scene; frat house, club, bar or disco; different venues, same behavior. Beer pong, quarters, or flip-cup - all excuses to drink crappy beer quickly (although Keg stands were a new one for me). Loud music, intoxicated dancers; only difference is the size of the stereo and the speakers. Shots are timeless, and drugs have always been present on college campuses (although oddly enough I feel like I saw far more dangerous options back at BU). As a parent who's collegiate past was not that long ago and not that different from what I saw this weekend (minus the weather and Greek Life), I'm pretty sure these "almost" graduates will sober up, enjoy successful fulfilled lives, and lie to their children about almost everything they did on campus. If you're smiling, you lied too.

Two more hours and I'm back home, but Tucson will be with me for a long time. David got a peek of who I was before I was a mom (for a change of pace, he might have even been a bit worried about me); not sure if either of us want to do it again, but for a few hours here and there, I got to use the elusive "rewind" button. I had the chance to live in his world for a bit (thankfully, I will never have to live in his house), and not embarrass him in the process (this post included). I made sure he had food in his fridge when I left and cleaned the kitchen from last night's tailgate (although the filth was many days old). I did not wash the floor, or vacuum or do his laundry - I love him, but I'd rather send extra money for a cleaning service. I don't want to leave without offering a peek at parents weekend, the attached photos should tell you all you need to know. There are a few videos, and after I review the evidence, they may be posted on Facebook. After that, what happens in Tucson, stays there.

Nice So Far ...

So far, so good. 8:25 am, waiting for take-off. Thus far, my morning has been spectacular. Out of the house on time at 6, dark and rainy. Arrive at the parking place and smile nicely when the attendant asks if I need help.It works, all three of my bags (1 is all David, 1 is me, 1 large carry on) are carried directly to the shuttle bus and lifted on board. Next stop, Delta terminal, more smiles and thank you's to the driver and my bags are brought all the way to the curbside check-in. Nice again, and bags don't even go on the scale. House to security line: 30 minutes. Heavy lifting: none. Cost: $9 in tips, a few pleases & thank you's and a lot of smiling, worth every penny. I've always been a tipper, learned from my dad and followed suit with Jeffrey, nice to know my kids do it too. The few dollars necessary to thank someone for the extra effort is so inconsequential in the big picture, not sure why everyone doesn't participate. Most people are used to tipping at a restaurant, but not everyone makes the gesture in other venues when a service provider goes the extra step to make an experience more pleasant. The first half-hour of my day could have been much more difficult (I usually have Jeffrey, my personal luggage handler), if it had not been for the assistance of these 3 men. Now I am feeling a little guilty that I went with the $1 a bag rule, I may have to adjust that for inflation.

Joy continues in the security line. I choose the "expert traveler" line; I have an airport system and it works. I wear slip on Puma's, no belt or major jewelry, my lotions and liquids are in their zip-lock bag and they are all under 2-ounces. When I get to the scanner station I am ready to go; shoes off, iPad in the bucket, sweat shirt off, carry on next, walk through, no beeping and done. Shoes are back on before the carry on exits the X-ray and I am at the gate in less than 20 minutes, including a stop at Dunkin for a large black coffee. What happens next was the crowning moment of the trip thus far. When I booked this trip I was unable to get a seat assignment for the Hartford-Tucson portion, which includes two, 3-hour segments, with a stop in Minneapolis. As of a few days ago, I tried again and was able to secure seats, both middle and both in the back of the plane. Not pleased would be an understatement. I don't bother to call, I know the answer, check with the gate agent when you arrive at the airport. Settling in at the gate much earlier than expected, I don't bother the man at the desk just yet. He seems busy, so I relax, drink my coffee and check my email. I seem to be one of the few passengers here this early and "gate agent man" walks by a few times, smiles and says good morning. I return the favor, still basking in the power of nice from my early morning. I do notice that he seems to be very interested in my iPad with each pass by my chair. Shortly thereafter I approach, he greets me warmly and asks if he can help me with anything. The door has been opened and I take my best shot. "Hi Jim (name tags help me make it personal) , I'm Jill. It looks like this flight is pretty full , but I have a middle seat in the back of the plane, anything better available? " Big grin back from my blue-vested Delta friend, "Well Jill, let me take a look, we always hold a few at the airport. Oh, I think you are going to be very happy, but I need a favor." I am momentarily perplexed, what could he possibly want from me? Not sure if I should ask what kind of seat we are talking about or what kind of favor, have to make sure the trade-off is worth it. I throw caution to the wind, been a good morning so far, "Sure, what do you need?" He happily responds, could you help me with the iPad, I just got one and I have some questions. Just like that and I am currently flying high in the bulk head aisle seat with no one next to me, and he relocated me on all other legs as well. In actuality, I am sitting directly behind first class and will confirm that I have far more leg room then my high end neighbors and no seat mate. Would have been pissed if I paid to upgrade, which did cross my mind when I was stuck in the middle. All it took was a few quality minutes with my new best friend and my iPad; he took notes, he thanked me and I have the best seat on this flight. I would also like to point out that in the waiting area for this flight there was a crying baby, a carry on dog, 3 loud tattooed guys that could have come directly from the casino and a lot of people who are obviously native to Minnesota on the way home. Another day, a different attitude and I could have been sitting in front of the restroom with any or all of the above. Thank you nice Jill, and thank you Jim.

Easy flight so far, wi-fi completes the experience, and did I mention that I have two arm rests at my disposal, my legs are crossed and fully extended with plenty of room to spare. Oh Jim, you have made me such a happy woman. Only one issue to speak of so far. As a family we have a tradition of take off and landing hand-holding. whenever we fly, as the plane lifts off or approaches the runway, we reach across the row so that all five of us are touching. I will admit that as the boys got older, even our recent trip to Mexico, we have loosened the ritual to allow hand-touching to replace actual holding. If you were traveling with us now, you may not even notice that we are all "skin to skin" as the wheels lift off. If all 5 are not on board, it adjusts to the number of available hands, even in adjacent rows we have made contact when necessary. With no genetic hand to hold, I did the next best thing, and I doubt anyone even noticed; I held my own hand and made it safely above the clouds. Not as warm and cozy, but effective in a pinch.

I believe we are close to my first stop, thanks for keeping me company the entire way. I'm not sure how the timing is going to work for posting the rest of the day, so this may be part 1 for today and if I am so inclined to write about the rest of my day later (I do get 3 hours of it back in Arizona) then that will be part 2. These first few hours of my trip have confirmed for me, that most of the time, nice begets nice; not always, but I'm going to stick with it for now.

The Last Word

The title is not referring to the final word in an argument, because that, I have a complete handle on. In fact, I am the self-proclaimed master of "that" last word. Used to be my dad, we contested it back and forth for years, I may have been his one worthy opponent. I suppose in the end, he won, I never got the chance for my last rebuttal. Dark humor I know, but typical in this house. He always wanted me to be a lawyer; I was apparently born to cross-examine. Too bad I had zero interest in law school. Just in case you were wondering, this post is not about my dad either. Today, I've been thinking about the end of a virtual conversation; technology has a way of prolonging the "last" word.

Used to be easier to know when an exchange was over, now I am confused more often than not. In person it's fairly obvious, you finish chatting, you walk away. If you're arguing, you stomp away or slam the door, either way the end is clear. Same thing with a phone call, blah, blah, blah, "sounds good, see you later”, in my case it usually concludes with “I love you." Force of habit with the usual suspects (Jeffrey, kids, mom, brothers), can be embarrassing when it slips out professionally (which has actually happened to Jeffrey) or with a customer service rep at Verizon or Comcast. There is really is no gray area with a verbal communication, when it's over, it's over. Of course, there is the rare test of wills to see who is going to hang up first, but that has nothing to do with defining the close of business, that's just a mind game. Certainly the ancient technique of hand written correspondence, has a formal closing, there is no question whatsoever when you have reached the end. I will even extend that courtesy to a formal email, a virtual letter with a clearly defined point of termination. 

It is the vast world of texting; Facebook messaging and one-line quickie emails that causes endless amounts of uncertainty and probably countless unnecessary “back-and-forths.” Each method has its own idiosyncrasies, so maybe it's best to tackle them individually. Texting is only a few years old for me; I finally had to learn how when it became quite clear that it was the primary form of communication with my children. At first it seemed quite nice, they answer quickly, they don't have to let their friends know they are talking to "mom" and it was actually more fulfilling than a mumbled response on a live call. My first sign of trouble was the abbreviations, but I caught on quickly, and frankly with the size of the keyboard and the quality of my “up close" vision, less letters worked to my benefit as well. Just as happy typing "ttyl" than struggling through multiple attempts at "talk to you later." It's after those words, when the confusion sets in. Are we finished or should they respond with “ok”? If so, is it necessary for me to volley again with "great, thanks?" It seems to go on endlessly until someone's phone loses power or is walking in to a movie theater. I have debated this issue with my sons on more than one occasion; they seem to think that any text exchange can end simply with "k", as in "ok”. To me, I feel a little slighted, like they couldn't even bother to type the "o." I do utilize texting with a few of my friends, not my favorite except for a quick question "what's the name of that restaurant" or a quick nasty comment "just saw you know who, looks awful." sometimes more time effective than a whole conversation. My only issue is that, as you could probably guess, my mind works faster than my text fingers and I much prefer talking to a long drawn out Text Fest. 

The casual email is much like the text, but generally with full length words. I am still a bit unclear when to use the formal "Dear so and so" opener and "sincerely" closing, so I tend to go with an in between like "hi" and "thanks”. The same problem exists with identifying the end of the chain. A colleague or friend sends an email with a question or issue, I answer and close. They respond with some form of “thank you” or “sounds good” or “can't wait.” Is it now my turn to say "me too" or "no problem?" Different delivery method, same problem; when is the end the end? Usually someone just stops and after a few minutes I can safely assume we have finished corresponding, but it remains up in the air for a while.

The most perplexing is perhaps the Facebook chatter, it comes in too many forms and each requires a different level of attention. "Liking" is the easy out, if I hit one little button, my "friend" knows I think their child is beautiful or there comment is funny or I'm impressed by their accomplishment. I am generally being truthful, I am not an across the board "liker." If I don't , I won't , and if I assume the same for you,  it feels good when you give me the "thumbs up."  One step further and make a comment, and that takes it up another notch. Once you engage, you have to be prepared to continue engaging, can't post and ditch. I have to be honest; I have written entries and then x'd them out just as quickly when I realized I didn't want to feel obligated to continue. That's when I generally go for the "like."  Then there is the Facebook instant message, some of you are probably terminally "offline", don't want to be bothered with pop up conversations, which I can understand. Sometimes though, it's just what I need to get me through some down time, like a desktop text, but much easier to see the keyboard and I can multi- task and still hold up my end of the conversation. Again, it is never quite clear who pops up the last time, usually someone just fades away into unavailability or does the quick "gtg" (got to go, translation mostly for my mom) and disappears. Every now and then I'm left hanging, uncomfortably waiting for a response that doesn't come, but I'm sure I've done it too (work messaging is a big no-no and if exposed, it requires a fast unexplained exit). The wall post seems to be best and most frequently used for a birthday greetings, only variable here is the expected response of the birthday girl or guy. I am a big believer in the "day after thank you" , I don't think most well-wishers expect a personal response and of course, then the other party would have to determine if they are supposed to respond again. I vote birthdays are a one-way day, too much pressure otherwise; let's just enjoy the attention without having to give back. My sole exception to this rule would be the out of the ordinary or personalized greeting. One friend takes the time to post old camp (Tevya, obviously) photos to honor your big day, and not the ugly, embarrassing ones either (and he could have in my case). Somehow he manages to find something that suits the celebrant perfectly, which always sets off a chain of camp birthday wishes. It's a nice touch JS, appreciated across the board. The Facebook inbox is much the same as a regular email, no specific issues here, so this will be the last word regarding Facebook.

The final virtual frontier would be "Twitter" and although I am a "Tweeter" (if merely having an account qualifies me), I have no idea how to make use of the 140 character limit. I have no clue what the response protocol would be, but in my limited exposure it seems people "follow" and are "followed" and "tweet" and “re-tweet", but none of the tweeting is in a conversational format. I get the feeling that then whole point of twitter is that there is no last word, it is a never-ending conversation with multiple people who move in and out of the dialogue at will and is overheard by anyone who cares to listen. Don't really get it, hate being followed in real life (makes me nervous) not sure I like the idea of it any better in cyberspace. Besides the fact that for a system that has no structure, there are too many secret tools of hatch tags (#) and ats (@), I can barely get a thought out in 140 characters and mixing in hieroglyphics is much more than I can handle. I've dipped my toe in the water,"Zipmom" if you care, but you will be bored; "following me" will lead you nowhere.

I guess I have exhausted my thought for the day, suppose this means I should lead into my final sentences.  I'm still undecided on exactly how it should end? Talk to you later, OK, have a nice night, thanks for listening, no problem. In this case, there is no possibility of me not having the last word, so I want to choose it wisely.  Unless you post a comment ... In which case I will be forced to respond.... It’s my post, and I will have the last word.

Do Over


I’ve always been intrigued by the concept of a “Do Over." I would like to believe that if we aren’t pleased with how something went the first time around, we could at least have a “Do Again.” Imagine for a minute if we had the power to "Pause and Rewind”; which episodes would you like another take? Golfers get them, called a Mulligan, defined as when a player gets a second chance to perform a certain move or action, traditionally at the tee shot. If we stick with this analogy, then "Do Overs" should be allowed when you mess something up initially, and you would not be subject to a penalty for the faulty first attempt. On a side note, many charity golf tournaments (including the one at my workplace) sell “Mulligans” to raise extra dollars, lots of them; corrections are apparently very valuable. Not sure how this would translate to a real-life second chance, but it may be worth some discussion.

I can’t say I would want or even need that many "Re-Do’s" during the course of my lifetime, but it would be nice to have few in my pocket for the bigger screw-ups. Sort of like the fictitious Genie in the Bottle and the Three Wishes; you don’t want to waste them on something stupid, and obviously you can’t use them to get more. But sometimes, when the dust settles and we can see clearer, the chance to do something differently or smarter the second time around would be beneficial to most people. Even colleges are giving some consideration to the idea that a single slip-up should not leave a permanent mark. Grade forgiveness is a trend sweeping college campuses, this program offers undergraduate students the opportunity to repeat a course and have the original grade not calculated in the cumulative grade point average. Can’t say that any of my college students have ever been fortunate enough to take advantage of this opportunity, and it’s not because they couldn’t have used it. I like the idea that one fraternity party which results in a poor test grade would not have a lasting impact on the already impossible post graduate search for employment (just to clarify this is not a specific reference to my own graduate). Most of our early mistakes are unfortunately the result of immaturity or impulsiveness and even the most naive might make a different choice if given another opportunity.

Certainly many a politician has been the recipient of a second-chance, and others who may have deserved one were shamed into seclusion for an offense that had very little impact on their professional life. I am making a very definitive stance to not site any specific examples; this blog will not be a forum for my partisan views. This is largely due to my rather limited understanding of the issues, combined with some, more than likely, non-politically correct opinions.  My point here was simply that there are opportunities for restoration that exist in the public eye. A blunder that is committed in front of millions should be much harder to erase than the ones that only affect a few, and yet that is not usually the case.

Personally, I would have to say that I can only think of a handful of situations in my life thus far that I would like to have another crack at. One of which I won’t get into now, because I know that it is part of another blog topic in the months ahead. Most of the others have to do with parenting missteps that most of us have made, and even if I had the chance to give it another shot, I’m not sure things would have turned out any differently. There are certainly some people I have loved that I let slip through my fingers and relationships that were once important that I have not put enough effort into, both of which I would like have a chance to rebuild someday. Not totally sure if revisiting the past would have any impact on the present, but it would be nice to try and make repairs or at least clear my conscience. I'm not intentionally being vague, but in most cases, these instances involve other people's stories that I don't have the right to share. I will say that I have learned time and again that there are 2 sides to every story (or “pancake” as my mom sometimes says), and maybe I wasn't always willing to see the alternate view, or even if I did, at the time it wouldn’t have made a difference. I guess my best advice, if I am entitled to offer any, is to remember that we don't usually get a second chance, so we should do our best to treat people and situations as carefully as possible the first time around. More succinctly, think before we act, and avoid the damage in the first place.

I wish I could tell you why this particular topic popped into my head today, maybe I’m feeling badly about a conversation I had yesterday or something at work that I didn’t give a 100% attention to, can’t really be sure right about now. I just have this distinct feeling in my gut that I'm handling something wrong or making unintentional errors in action or judgment. Could also be that all this blogging is churning up old emotions and old transgressions that I wasn't quite ready to bring to the surface. Then again, I suppose that was the intent of this "Journey"; I just thought I would be able to control how and when I dealt with the issues. Guess not, so today you are the recipient of a more reflective Jill, and not a totally forthcoming one. Just because I am confronting the past, it doesn't mean I'm ready to share it yet, so be patient, we have many months to go.

For now, I will hope that tomorrow brings better focus and a clearer head. As for today, I suppose I’m looking for some cosmic insurance policy that whatever it is that I feel like I may be screwing up, I want to make sure that it’s fixable. So if by chance I did something to make anyone angry or hurt lately, cut me some slack and give me a “Do Over.”

Counting Down

72-hours from now I will be on a plane to Tucson, Arizona (Thursday morning flight; guess it would help to know that I am writing this at 6:56 am on Monday). With good planning, this could be enough time to get myself ready, but more than likely I will leave the bulk of packing and prep to Wednesday night. I am traveling alone to Parent's weekend at University of Arizona (Jeffrey is too busy at work and Andrew can’t miss school) so in theory, readiness for one should be vastly easier, but that is not always the case. Packing for one means leaving the ones at home equipped for 4 days without me and that requires a different kind of preparedness.

Solo travel is a fairly new experience for me. Other than the occasional night away and a once-a-year trip to Boca for a weekend with mom, I rarely venture out into the world on my own. Pretty sure I already explained that I have only stayed in a hotel room by myself on a handful of occasions and rented a car only twice. I have never done the “girls only” travel thing, a combination of limited opportunity and limited interest. Jeffrey is not a frequent business traveler either, just a few times a year; thus single travel is not a regular thing in our marriage. I am learning to enjoy or at least appreciate the time alone, both when I am away and when he is, so I am excited, not anxious, about this trip. Certainly the fact that I am headed to a beautiful resort with a spectacular pool, lazy river, multiple hot tubs and 90 degree dry heat doesn't hurt. I will also be spending the time with David, his friends and their parents, who all know how to have a good time. This adventure has all the makings of a real vacation and if I am adequately prepared, I could actually relax. I will still be lonely at the end of the day in my king size bed, but after hours of sunning at the pool and David's social calendar, I should be tired enough to sleep well. If not, I'll have to keep busy blogging because if I pick up the phone to chat when I can't sleep at midnight it will be 3 a.m. back home, and even Jeffrey wouldn't be happy to hear my voice. On the other hand, if I hang with the Frat boys and party till 3 a.m. then most of you will just be getting up for work when I get under the covers; but I'm guessing David will send me back to the hotel long before that.

Between now and then there is much work to be done. Luckily, I thought ahead and took care of hair color, nails and hands already, so I can cross those things off the list. I do have to clean my closet enough to dig the summer clothes out of the piles (I have not spoken about my closet in this blog, you don't know me well enough to hear about that yet), and that may take some time. Packing will start with much more clothing than is necessary for even a month away, so I will “edit, edit, edit and make it work” (nod to Tim Gunn, Project Runway) until I get to a few choices for each day. I will still zip the suitcase with vastly more than what I need, but the one thing I leave home will be the exact thing I want to wear. In my opinion, if you are checking a bag, you may as well make complete use of the 50lb. Maximum. I will check the Tucson forecast no less than 10 times a day between now and takeoff; for some reason the few annual days of rain that Tucson gets usually coincides with my visit to the arid state. If I leave the raincoat home, it will pour, I'm hoping if I include it, it will go unused. As of this minute Accuweather shows steady mid 90's temps with partly sunny skies (of course last week it was predicting 102 and clear skies, obviously the rain gods are sensing my arrival). If my bathing suit stays in the suitcase you will be the recipient of some cranky posting. If I can't lie by the pool then I will be doing much more shopping, and that can't be good (when Jeffrey reads this he will say his own prayer for blue skies; he doesn't want me spending any time indoors at the mall either).

Beyond my own wardrobe choices, I will have to make sure that everyone left at home has their laundry done and put away before I depart. Back when they were younger, I would actually have to leave daily outfits for the boys; can't leave anything to chance when Jeffrey was dressing them. Nowadays, I am confident that with clean clothes they can assemble something that matches on their own. Believe me, I consider this a great accomplishment, this was not a skill they were born with (nor their father, but he's learned enough to handle his day to day wardrobe). I take great pride in the fact that all 3 have developed a sense of style and can assemble an outfit I’d be proud of. Jeffrey can handle feeding them without any problem; I am sure all meals will be Asian inspired and wok based, with maybe one night out for sushi or Thai. He will also be responsible for school pick up and after school activities, they are in his calendar and Scott is available for back up.

My to-do list seems fairly manageable at the moment. A few work things to wrap up before I go and I will happily turn on the "out of office" message on Wednesday night. I have reading materials on hand (saving each magazine as they arrive in the mail, waiting for airplane and pool time), and will make sure the ifamily is fully prepared with music, books and chargers. I will remember to bring all the items that David left at home, an entire second suitcase. I will include possible wet weather and cold evening clothing, which I will keep my fingers crossed, stay in the suitcase.

This will be my last parent’s weekend for a while; David is graduating in May and I have 2 more years before Andrew gets to invite us. We haven’t actually been to one in quite some time. The last Arizona weekend we attended (freshman year) was spent almost entirely in the health center and the hotel room (David was sick and soon all of us were sharing his germs). We have visited many times since, but mostly for fraternity weekends and move-in time. The other parent’s weekend events we made sure that David was “adopted” by another family and that he got the requisite nights out for a good meal. So wish me luck in getting myself organized and on the plane Thursday morning with as little tension as possible. I have big plans for some interesting posting ahead; let’s all hope that it does not include rainfall, trips to the health center or lost luggage. This does not mean that I am signing out until then, I’m sure other topics will pop into my head for the next two days, and that will give me another reason to put off the packing until Wednesday night. We can revisit my suitcase and my trip on Thursday when I buckle my seatbelt and hope for a seat mate that does not want to talk or share my arm rest, unless they are interesting enough to be blog-worthy … let's hope for the best.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

At first glance (and all others following), I do not look like my mother. Regardless of the fact that she is not a natural blonde (already established in an earlier post), we did not look related when she was a brunette either. I am 5'6” (for anyone that hasn't seen me since my teens, shocking I’m sure), I’m going to be generous and say she is 5'2”. In the accompanying photo I am in flats and she is in at least 3 inch heels and I still have few inches on her. She is fair skinned with a God-given perfect, tiny nose; I am much darker, even with my summer tan mostly gone, and have the nose from my father’s side of the family. Unfortunately, I was not the recipient of my dad’s crystal blue eyes (would have been nice, but my brother got those), so my hazel eyes are closer to hers. She has great legs and walks in heels with no difficulty; mine are not my best feature and I am less than graceful in dress up shoes. I am long-waisted; all my additional height is located between my belt loops and my underwire; in this case I take the extra point. Some of our other parts are more similar, anatomy my brothers do not have, thanks for passing this gene on to your daughter. She would be described as petite and I spent most of my childhood waiting to be anything but. In the eighth grade when I ran for student council president I was 4'10” and 84 lbs., my slogan was "Good Things Come in Small Packages,” Of course, I won. I was tiny at 13 and through most of high school, which did not result in many (I meant to say, any) prom dates. I assumed my current stature in college; classic "late bloomer.” My mom always told me they bloom the brightest, not sure that's true, she is a little biased. Physically, our connection may not be a dead giveaway for mother and daughter, but hang out with us at a party and there is no question of our genetic bond.

Today’s topic came to the surface last night at an event we attended together; mostly her friends, well, almost entirely her friends. It was a "housewarming" for one of her "Sisters." In truth, my mom is an only child, but she has had the same 5 best friends in her life for the last 50 years (maybe more) and their bond is true sisterhood. Each of them is like another mom to me and as I get older, they feel like my friends too, thus my invitation to the party. Mother and daughter arrive (not together, in our own cars) dressed in similar black ensembles (given, most of the women were in black and we did have a prior phone consult), but we both accessorized with Venetian glass jewelry purchased from the same studio, in Venice (of course she got hers first and I purchased mine when I saw hers and had to have one). Sometimes our fashion "twin ship" occurs when I buy first and she copies, and just as often the other way around. The best way is when she buys for both of us, because that's what moms are for. Secretly, I knew she would be wearing hers tonight and although I had another choice in mind (been wearing the Venice necklace a lot lately) I enjoy the “look alike” moments.

My mother works a room like no one else I know. I am hardly a slouch in the social butterfly department, but I am a few innings away from her league. She makes a stop at every cluster, old friends and new, still making a point to introduce herself to the unfamiliar (they never stay that way for long). I follow suit, as I learned from the master; cover the crowd completely, easier in this case when I have known most of them for decades, reintroduce to the ones that don't recognize me ("Jane's Daughter, of course") , and do my best to make a connection with new faces (a little Jewish geography usually does the trick). We both have a tendency to flirt, and trust me my age gives me no advantage in this department, my mom's still got it. Not the kind of male attention that makes other wives uncomfortable (I don't think so anyway), it's more of a "girl next door" attention, slightly provocative but innocent and harmless. Our own spouses are not neglected; they are used to our party personality, and work the crowd at their own pace. Both appreciate our attention at every "check in", and even refill our drinks and save a place at the table if necessary.

We both buzz about all night, in and out of conversations, drinks with one circle, dinner with another, can’t miss a good story or a good laugh. We are both taking very thorough mental notes throughout; the “post-game” discussion is extensive and I can’t forget any details. We can overhear each other pointing the other one out across the room, “That’s my daughter, have you heard, she’s writing a blog?” Or from my end, “My mom, yes she does look great, very happy.” We are obviously the presidents of each other’s fan clubs. When I decide (in my head, even at a party, wheels always turning) that I would write about the night, I knew I would need a picture. Luckily iPhone is now never far from my hand and I have my “sister” do the honors (actually the daughter-in-law of one of mom’s sisters who became mine in this generation) we have created our own extended version of the name; “JZ” (yes we have the same initials) is my “sister from another mother.” She has 3 of her own biological ones, but that’s ok, and since we are not really related our children can marry (and we do have a plan for that). iCamera in hand, JZ snaps a few; mother and daughter evaluate and are not entirely pleased. I give the phone to Jeffrey, not much better, must be the camera because we know we look better than that (that’s what we are both thinking, I’m sure). We settle for what the camera holds; the party is waiting.

We both move to the lower level for dessert and dancing. Ice cream sundae bar and mini-cupcakes, I’m guessing we both chose the sundaes, mostly just the toppings, specifically hot fudge and whipped cream. I actually did not see her eat dessert; if I’m wrong here and she did not indulge I will apologize publicly. I’m just guessing from previous behavior. I am sure that she participated in the dancing portion of the evening and I most certainly did not. This is the only apparent difference in our social activity; if there is music, she is dancing. I will hit the dance floor at the required times (Bar Mitzvahs, Weddings, large social events), but at a house gathering of less than a 100 people it is doubtful I will be shaking my groove thing. She has significantly more rhythm than me (and most other women her age or mine), my dad did too, and yet their three children have six left feet? She can also be coaxed to the dance floor after a single glass of wine whereas I would need significantly more servings of harder alcohol. It’s not embarrassing though, she really looks good out there. Even as a kid I don’t remember hiding under the table watching them dance, I think it always felt like they were most in love on the dance floor. The dancing never caught on last night so I was never forced to join her, which also pleased Jeffrey.

It was starting to look like this evening was coming to a close and her “sisters” and their other halves took residence in the living room to rest their feet. OK, I’m gonna get in trouble for this one, but at some point in life, the shoes should stay on. No matter how good the rest of your body looks, and honestly most of these 70+ women have pretty good ones, the feet are not keeping up and all those hours at the gym are only making it worse. I hope someone reminds me of this 20 years from now, and if I hurt any feelings, it’s because I love you and I have to be honest. It was barely 11 p.m. and Jeffrey and I left long before they called it a night. Me and my mom, we do know how to have a good time at a party, but sometimes I just can’t keep up with her.

A Perfect Pair

Mind out of the gutter, the title is referring to my freshly manicured and pedicured hands and feet. I spent my afternoon at Grace Nails, and for the moment at least, all of my digits are feeling and looking better than 49. The parts in between are feeling better than yesterday, I’m still in recovery mode, but the last few hours made a huge dent. Speaking of yesterday, not my best post ever (even had some uncorrected typos, (haven't fixed for purposes of authenticity) but I was working at about 60% capacity (and that may be generous). Not my funniest or my deepest or my most truthful, but I suppose I'm allowed an off day. In the future, it may be best if I just take the day off (which I didn't want to do because that would have been 2 in a row). Although, even if it's a posted apology, it's still a post, so in reality, I haven't missed a day. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I can rationalize just about anything.

Oh, did I veer off topic again…returning to my feet soaking in a warm bath at the present time. For now, I am going to enjoy every penny of the $30 I am spending and put my iPad down. I will close my eyes and pretend that someone else is massaging my legs and feet with a hot stone, not the barely legal non-English speaking woman (better than the person next to me who is being serviced by a man who she would never let touch any part of her otherwise). Today must be my lucky day, because usually it is me who has the pleasure of his hands on my legs and then I have to close my eyes really tightly. Maybe this is a new business model, young male models giving pedicures. In that case, I would be willing to pay more than $30. The “happy ending” in both cases would be my rejuvenated toes, but the process would be far more enjoyable in my imaginary salon. If salons charge more for the top hair stylists, then the same should hold true for the feet. In defense of the technicians I also think you should have to pay more if the client has particularly unsavory feet (I believe that this situation had something to do with the little “situation” that occurs later in this post), this system benefits both sides of the equation. So I’ll be back with you in a little while as I drift off to heaven from my knees down.

Back at home, can’t type during the hand portion of the day, but my hands now look fabulous on the keyboard. No worries about a bump or a smudge, I pay for the extended warranty of the gel manicure (another $30) but so worth it, these nails will look salon fresh until they soak it off with something like paint thinner in 2 weeks. Here I sit, happy and polished, 2 hours left to write and post, make a quick visit to wish my 4-year old niece a happy birthday (and deliver her new Missoni Target dress) and get ready for an evening party. Should be plenty of time if I don’t encounter any wardrobe dilemmas, but I’m feeling confident about the outfit in my head.  

Today at Grace Nails was, as usual, a longer than expected adventure. I’m not complaining, if I’m committed to an afternoon of pampering I don’t want it to be rushed, and they don’t disappoint. The pedi-part involves the usual scrubbing, filing and polishing and they add what seems to be some form of Asian reflexology (I am guessing this from the large poster of the foot in front of me carefully noting which parts of my feet correspond to which parts of the rest of me. I figure that at this point my kidneys, my lungs and my small intestine are in good shape, hope she didn’t spend too much time working the gallbladder spot (don’t have one), but maybe she could tell (I’m sure there is some formal training involved). The final step is the hot stone rub, and then hot wax is applied directly to my currently baby soft heel. When it’s time to leave the reclining comfort of my lounger (why can’t I just rest there a little longer?) and give some attention to my fingers I am still a little groggy. The hands are an involved process; if you want a manicure that lasts 2 weeks you have to be willing to do the time. Each layer has to be baked on under the UV light, takes a while but I can search for my keys and money immediately after and my new polish is hard as a rock. The bonus after any manicure, and more than likely the reason this little place is so popular, is the wax hand treatment at the finish. Each client is taken to the wax trough and dipped multiple times in the sweet-smelling (and especially scalding today) hot pink liquid, when you are 3 or 4 layers deep or if you scream in pain, each paraffin covered hand is bound with saran wrap and covered in a hot towel. When you return with your lady boxer hands back to your station a large hot damp towel wrapped in a plastic bag (I think they know better that to put anything wet near the hair of any of these ladies) is placed on your shoulders and for ten glorious minutes (might be 5, but feels like 10) your shoulders, arms, and neck are kneaded and pounded back to life. This little lady has some strong hands and again I am thankful that it is not one of her male colleagues getting awfully close to parts I would not want them near (remember if your arms are at your side and there is massaging happening, it’s possible that you could “accidentally” bump into a non-arm zone – I know this because it has happened, especially in tank top season).I send her mental signals, letting her know her tip will be bigger if she works a bit longer on my knotted muscles and perhaps she heard me, I think I got a few more minutes than the lady in the chair next to me. Finally, my hands are unwrapped and the now solidified pinkness is peeled back to reveal my still warm, silky smooth, reborn hands. This alone is worth the price of admission.

So far, this was exactly as I had imagined my self-indulgent afternoon would be, and little did I know there would be a bit of theater to enhance the experience. From what I can gather, and this is a real stretch being that I speak no Asian languages (but for this reason alone I wish I could) , there was a disagreement between two of the technicians, a young woman and a man who would be considered her “elder.” In my imagination they are having an argument about who had to service the creepy man who came in a little while ago asking for a pedicure and an extended massage (I don't care how much these people make, there is not enough money in the world that would make this guy worth it). A few snippy comments back and forth turned into a verbal showdown right in front of me, louder and louder, faster and faster, hands in the air (damn, why can’t I understand them),until I was a bit worried that nunchucks were coming out. I debated internally if I should risk injury or get out of the chair. I did have my waxy boxing gloves on at the time and thought if need be I could defend myself or at least raise them to take cover. I didn’t want to miss the show, the lady next to me (maybe a bit angry because I got a longer massage) felt differently. “Excuse Me, does anyone speak English? Can you please make them stop, I come here to relax.”  What is wrong with her, I am thoroughly enjoying the sideshow. Of course the man in charge defers to Mrs. Cranky and sends the screamers to argue outside. My nasty neighbor now tries to engage me in conversation to commiserate over the employee scuffle; I punish her and refuse to make small talk. This, in nail world, is a big deal; I normally make manicure chit-chat with anyone in proximity to my voice (which is almost everyone – I know). She felt slighted I’m sure and if by chance she has retold this story to one of you who reads my blog, let her know that she should have kept her mouth shut and let the drama unfold.

Yesterday I struggled to write and today I was inspired by grooming or just drunk on nail polish fumes, either way I hope you enjoyed my day as much as I did. And if you are ever in my neighborhood, or already are and were unfamiliar with this place of polishing, you should book an appointment, clear your afternoon (at least 2 ½ hours of it) and indulge in “mani-pedi" perfection.

Perfectly Imperfect

The problem with getting together with college friends is, we're not in college anymore. How this group of 5(unfortunately, we were minus one this time) even managed to get a date on the calendar is pretty remarkable and yet at 6:30 p.m. we were all present and accounted for. First clue we are not in our 20's anymore: When your evening begins before sundown. We knew from the get-go that "SG" had to be on a train at 9 and "P" had to be back on the Long island Expressway by 10 and "SS" was heading back home to the West Side to walk the dog shortly thereafter. I was staying put, as was our hostess "L", good thing because I was sleeping on her couch. Let me flashback for a minute to earlier in the day when we were down to 4, potentially 3, BU girls. With the missing 6th piece,"SG" had lost her ride and the train in the rain is not much fun (especially when you are looking your BU best), I was sure that without the whole group, one by one they would find a reason not to make the trip. I came the longest distance and was committed regardless; it was L's birthday and I was celebrating with her either way. The individual travels all had their side stories; I had the rainy, slow 2 ½ hour schlep, the hunt for the cheapest overnight parking garage and the ultimate decision that I didn't care how much it cost, because I needed a potty, quickly. There was “P”'s missing cellphone panic; not on the street, just left in the car. “SS” had to deal with an Andrea Bocelli concert in the park, slowing travel from West to East and a cab fare that reflected that musical gridlock. “SG” missed her desired train (can’t leave the kid without a ride home) and had to suffer a less than delicate treatment of her Coccyx bone for the hour train ride into the city (same thing on the way back), must be because she got so skinny there is nothing to protect her tiny derriere. Three stars for making it happen, “SG” arrived, hair intact and ready to assume the Master Pose (she sets the standard for all our pictures). “L” kept me busy while we waited, taking full advantage of my expertise, I hung a giant mirror that had conveniently arrived knowing I would not leave without making sure it was resting safely on the entry wall. I was forewarned that this task would be completed before I rested my head on the couch for the evening and thought it best to tackle it before vodka came into the picture; I even stopped on my way to make sure we had the right hooks (I'm not that awesome, there is a framer on her corner - but I did think ahead). For a city girl, “L” had all the necessary tools and for a girl who is not a math genius, I measured and added and subtracted and hung that damn mirror perfectly centered and at the right height; two hooks, two holes, no mistakes. We did some 30-second redecorating immediately after, evaluated a potential new color palette (turquoise and orange, accenting black& white - stunning), and accessorized with my prize house gift; the Missoni candle, from the Target collection. For those of you who don't think that is a miracle, Google it. I must love “L” a lot; I could have sold that thing on EBay for 10 times its price. In this case, it was priceless, she was thrilled and I was I happy I went to 2 stores to find one ( OK, I also got a good haul for myself, 2 ties for Jeffrey and a birthday gift for my niece). If you see me in zigzags, you'll know why, Target, not Italy and not EBay.
 

Lo and behold, we pulled it together, we missed our other "J", but she was with family and that was more important. We arrived at "L"'s one by one (hurrah, hurrah), we hugged and kissed (real not air), and complimented. We dropped our big pocketbooks on the floor and took of our shoes before stepping on the white shag rug. We had predetermined that this would not be a restaurant night, we have learned not to make the public suffer through our reunions (especially when one of us has to continue living in the neighborhood). Our last dinner night was at “SS”’s place on the West Side and Chef that she is (no kidding, she is), we were treated to a Michelin star meal. Why is it that the 2 years we shared a kitchen her specialty was Stouffers Noodles Romanoff? Our apartment kitchen was also the place where I learned that sinks do not automatically come with a disposal ("what, flip the switch and the food goes away"). NYC born and raised had to teach country girl about apartment living. Getting back on track, that dinner confirmed that this group should stay away from dining where waiters and other patrons are involved. “L” didn't have a chance to throw together a 4-course night, and it was her birthday, so we did Szechuan Garden takeout (which was delicious) and unlike Connecticut, delivery arrives at your door as you hang up the phone. My place, which I would not attempt delivery in any timeframe, has a standard "10 minute" rule for pick up, and that really means 20. No idea how we decided on dish selection (lots of restrictions in place- kosher, sodium, no fried, no meat), pretty sure “L” picked what was good and it all got eaten, even the fried stuff (at least by me). A few bottles of wine were consumed, I stuck with vodka and cranberry juice (wine makes me sleepy and I have to be very attentive for this crew, a lot to take in). My girls can really empty a bottle of Pinot Grigio (think Ramona, Real Housewives NYC). I wish I could tell you what we talked about, but I did not finish a conversation or thought, all night. I feel like maybe we should have raised our hands or passed a talking stick, because it was complete chaos. I do know that we shared many "where are they now" episodes, with Facebook pauses to look up the accompanying photos for the people who didn't remember who that guy was or who the hell his girlfriend was. We discussed some more serious personal issues (which makes me feel bad that we didn't offer more support if needed), we covered home decorating, shopping, and “P” extolled the virtue of roasted beets (she is a healthy blogger). Our other assorted topics are not for blog publication, more like a Today Show segment of "Things women don't want to ask their doctor" and the new phenomenon of "vajazzling" (again, if you don't know, Google it, and no, there were no takers at the table). We spent a good long while discussing potential locations for a combined 50th bday trip. We can barely find 3 hours for dinner and somehow we are contemplating finding 3 days to go away and select, not only an agreed upon destination, but also a guest list of acceptable attendees. I will not start packing my suitcase just yet.


I think the birthday girl cleared the table, and did the dishes, it was done before I realized we were finished eating. Dessert was chocolate deliciousness of NYC infamy from William Greenberg Bakery (Madison Avenue birthday cake, fancy); just occurred to me that we did not light candles or sing, sorry “L”. If you are reading this, and you better be, light a candle (not the Missoni one, that's for show), blow it out and make a wish. As you can imagine, there was plenty of cake leftover, this is not a second slice crowd (and a la mode is out of the question).
 

Seems like minutes later there was talk of "getting going" and we hadn’t snapped a single pose. Second Clue we are not in college: our night ended before my children even shower for a night out. We attempted to gather our inner goddesses, but it just wasn't happening. My self-timer skills are a bit rusty (since the last get together) and one good shot has about 10 out takes (thighs too big, boobs too big, weird face, eyes closed). Can't say we got one good shot and gave up after a few attempts. There is not a Photoshop product on the market that could give us a cover look that would be universally approved. In the end, the few FB comments on our meager selection were regarding the giraffe artwork in the back ground, not the well-preserved 49-year old beauties on the couch. Maybe we shouldn't have worried so much about "shoulders back, chin down, eyes up."
 

Kisses all around again, we said goodbye and promised to text when everyone arrived safely at home. “L” made my bed and we were too tired to even do a post mortem, not that we would have had anything bad to say. We brushed our teeth, washed our faces and put our glasses on and assumed our usual positions; me with my iPad and L with Nancy Grace (she's a little obsessed with Casey Anthony). My couch was comfy but I never get used to the city noise; kept thinking one of those giant NY buses with the accordion extension was making a stop right in her living room and every time I heard a chain unhook, I was sure an unwelcome visitor was at the door. Sleep was not going to happen for me anytime soon. Third Clue I'm not in college anymore: my big "party" night did not end with passing out of any kind and the only trips to the bathroom did not involve anyone holding back my hair. Daylight came with very little sleep and “L” made me coffee before she left for work and I got to wish her Happy Birthday first (today was the actual day). I had planned on spending the day in the city, lunch with Mom and “SS”, but alas this plan fell victim to the Fourth clue that I am not in college anymore: party like 20, still recovers like 49. Kind of like the alcohol equivalent of jet lag, at this age we need one day per alcoholic beverage more than you consume on a regular basis (which for me is usually 0) plus one day per lost hour of sleep (usually 7 hours for me); so if I have this right, I should feel terrific by October.


And I wouldn't change a thing; well, maybe a few things. Next time, I vote we have an agenda or at least one conversation at a time and that we all sleep over, so that if I'm up all night I'll have company. Until then, my BU girls, I Love You.