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.

Next Stop Krakow?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deep Breath, Tissue, Proceed ...

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

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

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

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

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