A Mall Tale

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

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

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

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

The Home Stretch

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

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

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

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

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

A Time for Wisdom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Im Really Here ...

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

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

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

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

My 3 Sons

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

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

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

A Hanukah Story

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

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

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

 

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

Just Like Me

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

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

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